“You know who I mean—I haven’t a dozen nieces,” rasped Sir Frederick, is she there?”
Clarissa could surely hear him now.
“She called,” Rollison said.
“And you called here last night. Oh, I know what goes on in my own house. What the devil were you doing here at three o’clock in the morning, closeted with Clarissa? Haven’t I warned you that she’s a heartless baggage and that she can’t be trusted? Are you going to ignore everything I tell you? My God, I didn’t believe you could be such a fool! Keep away from the wench; she’s dangerous.”
Throughout all this Rollison eyed Clarissa and beamed; and Clarissa, after the first shock, forced a smile but did not look gay.
“Do you hear me?” bellowed Arden.
“Yes, and I believe every word you say,” said
Rollison. “I won’t fall for the luscious Clarissa’s wiles. Is that what you rang up about?”
“Isn’t it enough?”
Rollison laughed. “Yes, I suppose it’s plenty. You sound in fine fettle this morning. Keep it up.”
“I’m coming to the conclusion that you’re an insolent young pup,” growled Arden. “Just a moment, Rollison.” His tone altered and was much quieter; Rollison could imagine how his expression had changed too. is there any good news of the boy?”
“He’ll be all right and I am sure we shall get him out of this fix.”
“I want to see that boy, Rollison.”
“You’ll see him,” Rollison said gently. “Goodbye.”
He put down the telephone and Clarissa said: “Home truths,” and left it at that.
Jolly hovered about the door but Rollison motioned him away. Clarissa lit a cigarette and looked as if she wished she need not stay, that she didn’t want to undergo the strain of the next few minutes, the inevitable questioning.
“Why does he feel that way about you, Clarissa?”
“We’ve never got on well,” she answered.
“This isn’t just a question of dislike through getting on each other’s nerves.”
She said: it’s much more than that. He doesn’t approve of what he calls my carryings-on. He’s a Puritan at heart and always will be. He worships money, I worship sensation and the two don’t mix well.” She was earnest now and that was an unaccustomed role for her. It’s deep-rooted animosity because I’ve never listened to his advice. That’s a cardinal sin in my uncle’s eyes. In fact, it’s more. You don’t know him really well—you only know a rather frightened old man who doesn’t like confessing that he’s frightened and knows that I know he is. He resents that. There’s the man I know—the man who hates independence in anyone whom he thinks ought to depend on him. He tried to make a soft fool out of Geoffrey but Geoffrey resisted, and finally revolted, because he had something of the old man in him. That’s why Geoffrey started this slumming; he couldn’t think of anything that his father would hate more. It was the same with his wife, my uncle’s wife. She was a pretty, vapid creature, fifteen years younger than he, lovely to look at but always needing a strong man to cling to. My uncle just can’t stand independence in a woman, and—”
She broke off.
Rollison said slowly: “At heart you hate him, don’t you?”
“That isn’t true. I dislike a lot of the things he does and I resent his contempt for me but he’s not a man to hate, Roily. I can imagine circumstances in which I’d be quite fond of him but that would mean being sorry for him and showing it—and he’d fight against it with all his strength. It’s just a case of relatives of different generations who don’t get on. He’s even sore because I’m financially independent of him—he always thought that my father should have left my money in trust, with him a trustee, instead of leaving it to me without any strings.”
“How wealthy are you?”
“Even by your standards, wealthy,” she replied.
It was difficult not to believe everything she said.
* * *
Before they left, Snub telephoned; all was quiet at the cottage, and Mellor seemed to be on the mend.
* * *
It was a morning of sunshine and cool winds, when the countryside near London had a green loveliness and a peaceful beauty which made both Rollison and Clarissa quiet. The Rolls-Bentley purred along the broad highway, passing most of the traffic on the road, until they came to the by-road where Mrs Begbie’s cottage stood. The road led uphill and the cottage was hidden for some distance by pine, fir and beech trees. The small leaves of the beech had a delicate translucence which contrasted sharply with the furry darkness of the firs and the shapely gloom of the pines.
The cottage stood close to the road, at the end of a small village. It was not a pretty place; box-like, with a grey slate roof and faded red brick walls, a garden that was tidy but where few flowers grew and those as if in defiance of the two small grass lawns. A rambler, covered with pink buds, softened the severe lines of the front door. A narrow gravel path, straight as a die, led from a wooden gate to the porch.
Rollison pulled up just beyond the gate.
“Ever been here before?” he asked.
“I’ve passed near, on the way to the Lodge. Why?”
