“Yes,” she replied. “Very—very different to Normandale. But when I was at St. Chad’s, I didn’t know that I—that we should ever come to Normandale.”
“And now that you are here?” he asked.
The girl looked out through the big window on the valley which lay in front of the old house, and she shook her head a little.
“It’s very beautiful,” she answered, “but I sometimes wish I was back at St. Chad’s—with something to do. Here—there’s nothing to do but to do nothing.” Collingwood realized that this was not the complaint of the well-to-do young woman who finds time hang heavy—it was rather indicative of a desire for action.
“I understand!” he said. “I think I should feel like that. One wants—I suppose—is it action, movement, what is it?”
“Better call it occupation—that’s a plain term,” she answered. “We’re both suffering from lack of occupation here, my brother and I. And it’s bad for us—especially for him.”
Before Collingwood could think of any suitable reply to this remarkably fresh and candid statement, the door opened, and Mrs. Mallathorpe came in, followed by her son. And the visitor suddenly and immediately noticed the force and meaning of Nesta Mallathorpe’s last remark. Harper Mallathorpe, a good-looking, but not remarkably intelligent appearing young man, of about Collingwood’s own age, gave him the instant impression of being bored to death; the lacklustre eye, the aimless lounge, the hands thrust into the pockets of his Norfolk jacket as if they took refuge there from sheer idleness—all these things told their tale. Here, thought Collingwood, was a fine example of how riches can be a curse—relieved of the necessity of having to earn his daily bread by labour, Harper Mallathorpe was finding life itself laborious.
But there was nothing of aimlessness, idleness, or lack of vigour in Mrs. Mallathorpe. She was a woman of character, energy, of brains—Collingwood saw all that at one glance. A little, neat-figured, compact sort of woman, still very good-looking, still on the right side of fifty, with quick movements and sharp glances out of a pair of shrewd eyes: this, he thought, was one of those women who will readily undertake the control and management of big affairs. He felt, as Mrs. Mallathorpe turned inquiring looks on him, that as long as she was in charge of them the Mallathorpe family fortunes would be safe.
“Mother,” said Nesta, handing Collingwood’s card to Mrs. Mallathorpe, “this gentleman is Mr. Bartle Collingwood. He’s—aren’t you?—yes, a barrister. He wants to see you. Why, I don’t know. I have seen Mr. Collingwood before—but he didn’t remember me. Now he’ll tell you what he wants to see you about.”
“If you’ll allow me to explain why I called on you, Mrs. Mallathorpe,” said Collingwood, “I don’t suppose you ever heard of me—but you know, at any rate, the name of my grandfather, Mr. Antony Bartle, the bookseller, of Barford? My grandfather is dead—he died very suddenly last night.”
Mrs. Mallathorpe and Nesta murmured words of polite sympathy. Harper suddenly spoke—as if mere words were some relief to his obvious boredom.
“I heard that, this morning,” he said, turning to his mother. “Hopkins told me—he was in town last night. I meant to tell you.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Mallathorpe, glancing at some letters which stood on a rack above the mantelpiece. “Why—I had a letter from Mr. Bartle this very morning!”
“It is that letter that I have come to see you about,” said Collingwood. “I only got down here from London at half-past eight this morning, and of course, I have made some inquiries about the circumstances of my grandfather’s sudden death. He died very suddenly indeed at Mr. Eldrick’s office. He had gone there on some business about which nobody knows nothing—he died before he could mention it. And according to his shop-boy, Jabey Naylor, the last thing he did was to write a letter to you. Now—I have reason for asking—would you mind telling me, Mrs. Mallathorpe, what that letter was about?” Mrs. Mallathorpe moved over to the hearth, and took an envelope from the rack. She handed it to Collingwood, indicating that he could open it. And Collingwood drew out one of old Bartle’s memorandum forms, and saw a couple of lines in the familiar crabbed handwriting:
Mrs. Mallathorpe, Normandale Grange.
Madam—If you should drive into town tomorrow, will you kindly give me a call? I want to see you particularly.
Collingwood handed back the letter.
“Have you any idea to what that refers?” he asked.
“Well, I think I have—perhaps,” answered Mrs. Mallathorpe. “Mr. Bartle persuaded us to sell him some books—local books—which my late brother-in-law had at his office in the mill. And since then he has been very anxious to buy more local books and pamphlets about this neighbourhood, and he had some which Mr. Bartle was very anxious indeed to get hold of. I suppose he wanted to see me about that.” Collingwood made no remarks for the moment. He was wondering whether or not to tell what Jabey Naylor had told him about this paper taken from the linen pocket inside the History of Barford. But Mrs. Mallathorpe’s ready explanation had given him a new idea, and he rose from his chair.
“Thank you,” he said. “I suppose that’s it. You may think it odd that I wanted to know what he’d written about, but as it was certainly the last letter he wrote—”
“Oh, I’m quite sure it must have been that!” exclaimed Mrs. Mallathorpe. “And as I am going into Barford this afternoon, in any case, I meant to call at Mr. Bartle’s. I’m sorry to hear of his death, poor old gentleman! But he was very old indeed, wasn’t he?”
“He was well over eighty,” replied Collingwood. “Well, thank you again—and goodbye—I have a motorcar waiting outside there, and I have much to do in Barford when I get back.”
The two young
