“Forgive me! When one is thirsty, even the golden wine is not too precious and wonderful to drink. It’s all right. I didn’t mean to worry. Go on thinking about the tram-horse.”
He went back to the piano and played more bunches. Presently he asked to be taken to see the vacuum cleaner.
CHAPTER IX
THE UPPER AND THE NETHER STONES
The marsh-meeting was held at Pippin Hall, the principal farm at the head of the bay, standing boldly on the edge of the sand and looking strictly out to sea. From it the Lugg could be seen in all its length, and the full sweep of the tide running between the narrow shores. Willie Holliday held Pippin with his two sons, and for all that they had harboured him as a child, they hadn’t a good word among them for Cousin Brack of Thweng. Brack was always finding mares’ nests and raising alarms, and generally trying to teach his grandmother. It was just like Brack’s cheek to think he knew better than a couple of Lancasters and the whole of the marsh-men put together!
A quiet little tide was washing under the Let as Lanty drew rein at the farmyard gate. In the blurred distance the back of the Lugg rose from the gently-heaving water like some zoological monster wading happily in a tank. It had a drowsy air of good nature and content as the passing wavelets slapped its side. There was no hint anywhere of tragedy or fear. He had taken the matter far too seriously. Probably the farmers thought him a fool for calling the meeting at all.
Certainly, the group in the yard was treating the affair as a huge joke. Men were asking Will Holliday whether he did daily boat-drill with his stock, and there was much laughter when the local wit, Thomas Dennison of Lockholme, produced a life-belt, borrowed from the old Ship Inn, and proceeded solemnly to try it on everybody in turn.
Bluecaster was there already. Lanty could see the black liveries in front of the door. Bluecaster himself, in shabby riding-kit and any sort of a hat, was bravely trying to dispense exactly the same amount of attention to each tenant in turn, and chuckling appreciatively at the trenchant wit of the older men. Yet he did not find the life-belt quite as funny as the rest, Lancaster noticed with surprise. He had had one or two narrow shaves out yachting, and was recounting them with some earnestness when he caught sight of his agent, and came to meet him with a touch of confusion. Lanty wondered a little as he handed Blacker to Willie’s younger son.
There was about a dozen of them all told, including Wolf and Michael from over the sand. Only Brack was missing, and even as they realised it they heard his car on the flat road, and, a minute later, sitting low in his seat, with his hat on one side and a cigarette at the corner of his mouth, he swung gracefully round the stoup. It was a very effective entrance—the pretty curve, the easy pull-up at exactly the right point, the nod and the casual eyelids dropped in general greeting, the flicking of ash with a ringed finger over the glossy door—thoroughly well-staged in every detail. It was a pity that the most important person present should have chosen that particular moment for addressing a miserable barn-cat. Bluecaster had his own methods of conveying his opinions, and he was certainly fronting the right way a minute after, when Denny, carrying the belt like a floral funeral-offering, deposited it mournfully upon Brack’s bonnet. Brack’s temper was slightly on edge as he slid out of the car and stamped on the cigarette.
He was a slim, dark young man, of the type glorified in tailors’ windows, and his neat suit and grey spats carried a suggestion of being still behind plate-glass. He would have been an ordinary person of rather vivid good looks but for his arresting eyes—of a clear, cold gray, with the pupils very black and steady.
He lifted his hat to Bluecaster where his uncle had lifted a finger. Bluecaster acknowledged gravely. To Lanty he nodded. Lancaster—there is a whole code in the action—nodded back. After which they trooped into the house.