Taken at the Flood (6 page)

I

“R
owley, can you let me have five hundred pounds?”

Rowley stared at Lynn. She stood there, out of breath from running, her face pale, her mouth set.

He sat soothingly and rather as he would speak to a horse:

“There, there, ease up, old girl. What's all this about?”

“I want five hundred pounds.”

“I could do with it myself, for that matter.”

“But Rowley, this is
serious.
Can't you lend me five hundred pounds?”

“I'm overdrawn as it is. That new tractor—”

“Yes, yes—” She pushed aside the farming details. “But you could raise money somehow—if you had to, couldn't you?”

“What do you want it for, Lynn? Are you in some kind of a hole?”

“I want it for him—” She jerked her head backwards towards the big square house on the hill.

“Hunter? Why on earth—”

“It's Mums. She's been borrowing from him. She's—she's in a bit of a jam about money.”

“Yes, I expect she is.” Rowley sounded sympathetic. “Damned hard lines on her. I wish I could help a bit—but I can't.”

“I can't stand her borrowing money from David!”

“Hold hard, old girl. It's Rosaleen who actually has to fork out the cash. And after all, why not?”

“Why not? You say, ‘
Why not,
' Rowley?”

“I don't see why Rosaleen shouldn't come to the rescue once in a while. Old Gordon put us all in a spot by pegging out without a will. If the position is put clearly to Rosaleen she must see herself that a spot of help all round is indicated.”

“
You
haven't borrowed from her?”

“No—well—that's different. I can't very well go and ask a woman for money. Sort of thing you don't like doing.”

“Can't you see that I don't like being—being beholden to David Hunter?”

“But you're not. It isn't his money.”

“That's just what it is, actually. Rosaleen's completely under his thumb.”

“Oh, I dare say. But it isn't his legally.”

“And you won't, you can't—lend me some money?”

“Now look here, Lynn—if you were in some real jam—blackmail or debts—I might be able to sell land or stock—but it would be a pretty desperate proceeding. I'm only just keeping my head above water as it is. And what with not knowing what this damned Government is going to do next—hampered at every
turn—snowed under with forms, up to midnight trying to fill them in sometimes—it's too much for one man.”

Lynn said bitterly:

“Oh, I know! If only Johnnie hadn't been killed—”

He shouted out:

“Leave Johnnie out of it! Don't talk about that!”

She stared at him, astonished. His face was red and congested. He seemed beside himself with rage.

Lynn turned away and went slowly back to the White House.

II

“Can't you give it back, Mums?”

“Really, Lynn darling! I went straight to the bank with it. And then I paid Arthurs and Bodgham and Knebworth. Knebworth was getting quite abusive. Oh, my dear, the
relief!
I haven't been able to sleep for nights and nights. Really, Rosaleen was most understanding and nice about it.”

Lynn said bitterly:

“And I suppose you'll go to her again and again now.”

“I hope it won't be necessary, dear. I shall try to be very economical, you know that. But of course everything is so expensive nowadays. And it gets worse and worse.”

“Yes, and
we
shall get worse and worse. Going on cadging.”

Adela flushed.

“I don't think that's a nice way of putting it, Lynn. As I explained to Rosaleen, we had always depended on Gordon.”

“We shouldn't have. That's what's wrong, we shouldn't have,” Lynn added, “He's right to despise us.”

“Who despises us?”

“That odious David Hunter.”

“Really,” said Mrs. Marchmont with dignity, “I don't see that it can matter in the least
what
David Hunter thinks. Fortunately he wasn't at Furrowbank this morning—otherwise I dare say he would have influenced that girl. She's completely under his thumb, of course.”

Lynn shifted from one foot to the other.

“What did you mean, Mums, when you said—that first morning I was home—‘If he
is
her brother?'”

“Oh,
that.
” Mrs. Marchmont looked slightly embarrassed. “Well, there's been a certain amount of gossip, you know.”

Lynn merely waited inquiringly. Mrs. Marchmont coughed.

“That type of young woman—the adventuress type (of course poor Gordon was completely taken in)—they've usually got a—well, a young man of their own in the background. Suppose she says to Gordon she's got a brother—wires to him in Canada or wherever he was. This man turns up. How is
Gordon
to know whether he's her brother or not? Poor Gordon, absolutely infatuated no doubt, and believing everything she said. And so her ‘brother' comes with them to England—poor Gordon quite unsuspecting.”

Lynn said fiercely:

“I don't believe it. I don't
believe
it!”

Mrs. Marchmont raised her eyebrows.

“Really, my dear—”

“He's not like that. And she—she isn't either. She's a fool perhaps, but she's sweet—yes, she's really sweet. It's just people's foul minds. I don't believe it, I tell you.”

Mrs. Marchmont said with dignity:

“There's really no need to
shout.
”

I

I
t was a week later that the 5:20 train drew into Warmsley Heath Station and a tall bronzed man with a knapsack got out.

On the opposite platform a cluster of golfers were waiting for the up train. The tall bearded man with the knapsack gave up his ticket and passed out of the station. He stood uncertainly for a minute or two—then he saw the signpost:
Footpath to Warmsley Vale
—and directed his steps that way with brisk determination.

II

At Long Willows Rowley Cloade had just finished making himself a cup of tea when a shadow falling across the kitchen table made him look up.

If for just a moment he thought the girl standing just inside the door was Lynn, his disappointment turned to surprise when he saw it was Rosaleen Cloade.

She was wearing a frock of some peasant material in bright broad stripes of orange and green—the artificial simplicity of which had run into more money than Rowley could ever have imagined possible.

Up to now he had always seen her dressed in expensive and somewhat towny clothes which she wore with an artificial air—much, he had thought, as a mannequin might display dresses that did not belong to her but to the firm who employed her.

This afternoon in the broad peasant stripes of gay colour, he seemed to see a new Rosaleen Cloade. Her Irish origin was more noticeable, the dark curling hair and the lovely blue eyes put in with the smutty finger. Her voice, too, had a softer Irish sound instead of the careful rather mincing tones in which she usually spoke.

“It's such a lovely afternoon,” she said. “So I came for a walk.”

She added:

“David's gone to London.”

She said it almost guiltily, then flushed and took a cigarette case out of her bag. She offered one to Rowley, who shook his head, then looked round for a match to light Rosaleen's cigarette. But she was flicking unsuccessfully at an expensive-looking small gold lighter. Rowley took it from her and with one sharp movement it lit. As she bent her head towards him to light her cigarette he noticed how long and dark the lashes were that lay on her cheek and he thought to himself:

“Old Gordon knew what he was doing….”

Rosaleen stepped back a pace and said admiringly:

“That's a lovely little heifer you've got in the top field.”

Astonished by her interest, Rowley began to talk to her about the farm. Her interest surprised him, but it was obviously genuine
and not put on, and to his surprise he found that she was quite knowledgeable on farm matters. Butter-making and dairy produce she spoke of with familiarity.

“Why, you might be a farmer's wife, Rosaleen,” he said smiling.

The animation went out of her face.

She said:

“We had a farm—in Ireland—before I came over here—before—”

“Before you went on the stage?”

She said wistfully and a trifle, it seemed to him, guiltily:

“It's not so very long ago…I remember it all very well.” She added with a flash of spirit, “I could milk your cows for you, Rowley, now.”

This was quite a new Rosaleen. Would David Hunter have approved these casual references to a farming past? Rowley thought not. Old Irish landed gentry, that was the impression David tried to put over. Rosaleen's version, he thought, was nearer the truth. Primitive farm life, then the lure of the stage, the touring company to South Africa, marriage—isolation in Central Africa—escape—hiatus—and finally marriage to a millionaire in New York….

Yes, Rosaleen Hunter had travelled a long way since milking a Kerry cow. Yet looking at her, he found it hard to believe that she had ever started. Her face had that innocent, slightly half-witted expression, the face of one who has no history. And she looked so young—much younger than her twenty-six years.

There was something appealing about her, she had the same pathetic quality as the little calves he had driven to the butcher that morning. He looked at her as he had looked at them. Poor little devils, he had thought, a pity that they had to be killed….

A look of alarm came into Rosaleen's eyes. She asked uneasily: “What are you thinking of, Rowley?”

“Would you like to see over the farm and the dairy?”

“Oh, indeed, I would.”

Amused by her interest he took her all over the farm. But when he finally suggested making her a cup of tea, an alarmed expression came into her eyes.

“Oh, no—thank you, Rowley—I'd best be getting home.” She looked down at her watch. “Oh! how late it is! David will be back by the 5:20 train. He'll wonder where I am. I—I must hurry.” She added shyly: “I
have
enjoyed myself, Rowley.”

And that, he thought, was true. She
had
enjoyed herself. She had been able to be natural—to be her own raw unsophisticated self. She was afraid of her brother David, that was clear. David was the brains of the family. Well, for once, she'd had an afternoon out—yes, that was it, an afternoon out just like a servant! The rich Mrs. Gordon Cloade!

He smiled grimly as he stood by the gate watching her hurrying up the hill towards Furrowbank. Just before she reached the stile a man came over it—Rowley wondered if it was David but it was a bigger, heavier man. Rosaleen drew back to let him pass, then skipped lightly over the stile, her pace accentuating almost to a run.

Yes, she'd had an afternoon off—and he, Rowley, had wasted over an hour of valuable time! Well, perhaps it hadn't been wasted. Rosaleen, he thought, had seemed to like him. That might come in useful. A pretty thing—yes, and the calves this morning had been pretty…poor little devils.

Standing there, lost in thought, he was startled by a voice, and raised his head sharply.

A big man in a broad felt hat with a pack slung across his shoulders was standing on the footpath at the other side of the gate.

“Is this the way to Warmsley Vale?”

As Rowley stared he repeated his question. With an effort Rowley recalled his thoughts and answered:

“Yes, keep right along the path—across that next field. Turn to the left when you get to the road and about three minutes takes you right into the village.”

In the self-same words he had answered that particular question several hundred times. People took the footpath on leaving the station, followed it up over the hill, and lost faith in it as they came down the other side and saw no sign of their destination, for Blackwell Copse masked Warmsley Vale from sight. It was tucked away in a hollow there with only the tip of its church tower showing.

The next question was not quite so usual, but Rowley answered it without much thought.

“The Stag or the Bells and Motley. The Stag for choice. They're both equally good—or bad. I should think you'd get a room all right.”

The question made him look more attentively at his interlocutor. Nowadays people usually booked a room beforehand at any place they were going to….

The man was tall, with a bronzed face, a beard, and very blue eyes. He was about forty and not ill-looking in a tough and rather daredevil style. It was not, perhaps, a wholly pleasant face.

Come from overseas somewhere, thought Rowley. Was there or was there not a faint Colonial twang in his accent? Curious, in some way, the face was not unfamiliar….

Where had he seen that face, or a face very like it, before?

Whilst he was puzzling unsuccessfully over that problem, the stranger startled him by asking:

“Can you tell me if there's a house called Furrowbank near here?”

Rowley answered slowly:

“Why, yes. Up there on the hill. You must have passed close by it—that is, if you've come along the footpath from the station.”

“Yes—that's what I did.” He turned, staring up the hill. “So that was it—that big white new-looking house.”

“Yes, that's the one.”

“A big place to run,” said the man. “Must cost a lot to keep up?”

A devil of a lot, thought Rowley. And
our
money…A stirring of anger made him forget for the moment where he was….

With a start he came back to himself to see the stranger staring up the hill with a curious speculative look in his eyes.

“Who lives there?” he said. “Is it—a Mrs. Cloade?”

“That's right,” said Rowley. “Mrs. Gordon Cloade.”

The stranger raised his eyebrows. He seemed gently amused.

“Oh,” he said, “Mrs. Gordon Cloade. Very nice for her!”

Then he gave a short nod.

“Thanks, pal,” he said, and shifting the pack he carried he strode on towards Warmsley Vale.

Rowley turned slowly back into the farmyard. His mind was still puzzling over something.

Where the devil had he seen that fellow before?

III

About nine-thirty that night, Rowley pushed aside a heap of forms that had been littering the kitchen table and got up. He looked absentmindedly at the photograph of Lynn that stood on the mantelpiece, then frowning, he went out of the house.

Ten minutes later he pushed open the door of the Stag Saloon Bar. Beatrice Lippincott, behind the bar counter, smiled welcome at him. Mr. Rowley Cloade, she thought, was a fine figure of a man. Over a pint of bitter Rowley exchanged the usual observations with the company present, unfavourable comment was made upon the Government, the weather, and sundry particular crops.

Presently, moving up a little, Rowley was able to address Beatrice in a quiet voice:

“Got a stranger staying here? Big man? Slouch hat?”

“That's right, Mr. Rowley. Came along about six o'clock. That the one you mean?”

Rowley nodded.

“He passed my place. Asked his way.”

“That's right. Seems a stranger.”

“I wondered,” said Rowley, “who he was.”

He looked at Beatrice and smiled. Beatrice smiled back.

“That's easy, Mr. Rowley, if you'd like to know.”

She dipped under the bar and out to return with a fat leather volume wherein were registered the arrivals.

She opened it at the page showing the most recent entries. The last of these ran as follows: