“My mother will never claim it,” he had said, sadly enough. For his wife was believed to be dead at that time, and his mother still reigned at Sunstead, pouring out tender love on young Mark. There seemed to be no reason why the Ambletons should not, therefore, regard themselves as located at the old house for all their lives.
When his uncle died, Val had, however, spoken out very plainly to his cousin, and had insisted upon putting matters on a very different footing.
“I want you to remember that the Dower House is a valuable property, Mark,” he had said, in his frank way. “If you were to let it to any outside person you would get a very fair rental for it, and I propose to pay you this rental. Your father was generous beyond all description to let us come here in the beginning, and now he is dead, I don’t want to continue living on that generosity; hence my reason for speaking to you now. I don’t suppose you will be a hard landlord,” Val had added, with his rare smile; “or that you will turn us out in a hurry, but I want you to remember that you are our landlord and of course, if you ever have need of the house, you will let us know.”
Mark Wentworth’s answer had been characteristic.
“Don’t talk rot, Val,” he had remarked, in his strong-worded way. “As if the Dower House could ever belong to anybody but you! I don’t want any rent, and I won’t be your landlord, so you can settle it just whichever way you please.”
So Val had settled it by paying each quarter a certain sum of money into Sir Mark Wentworth’s account in Dynechester Bank, and Grace approved of what he did.
They were not rich, but they had enough. Val was now beginning to earn a fair income, and they inherited, further, the small income which had belonged to their mother. Latterly, too, they had received news of a possible source of good fortune from some property in Russia, which their father had purchased years before in rather a haphazard fashion, and which had lain dormant all these years.
It had been to investigate matters in connection with this property that Val and Grace had gone abroad. Sacha had remained in England, sometimes running down for a few days to Dynechester, but as a rule living in London, in a pet circle of artists.
Sacha somehow never fell in wholly with the life of his brother and sister.
Val had been sorry and glad to go. He had hesitated some time before he did eventually leave home, but, added to the necessity of personal investigation came an offer of work from a firm who employed him a good deal, and who, chancing to hear of his suggested journey to Russia, found this an excellent opportunity to utilize his services.