[CHAPTER VI]
HENRY AT DUNCOMBE
In the late afternoon of Wednesday August 4 Henry found himself standing in the pouring rain on the little wind-driven platform of Salting Marting, the station for Duncombe.
He was trying to whistle as he stood under the eaves of the little hideous roof, his hands deep in his waterproof, his eyes fixed sternly upon a pile of luggage over which he was mounting guard. The car ordered to meet them had not appeared, the ancient Moffatt was staring down the wet road in search of it, Sir Charles was telephoning and Lady Bell-Hall shivering over the simulacrum of a fire in the little waiting-room.
Henry did not feel very cheerful; this was not a happy prelude to a month at Duncombe Hall, and the weather had been during the last few weeks more than even England's reputation could tolerate.
Henry was very susceptible to atmosphere, and now the cold and wet and gathering dusk seem to have been sent towards him from Duncombe and to speak ominously in his ear of what he would find there.
He had seldom in all his young life felt so lonely, and he seemed to be back in the War again waiting in a muddy trench for dawn to break and . . .
"I've succeeded in procuring something," wheezed Moffatt in his ear, "if you'd kindly assist with the luggage, Mr. Blanchard."
(It was one of Moffat's most trying peculiarities that he could not master Henry's name.)
"Why, it's a four-wheeler!" Henry heard Lady Bell-Hall miserably exclaim.