Twelve
I
“Girl! You, girl! Come in here.”
Lucy turned her head, surprised. Old Mr. Crackenthorpe was
beckoning1
to her fiercely from just inside a door.
“You want me, Mr. Crackenthorpe?”
“Don’t talk so much. Come in here.”
Lucy obeyed the
imperative2 finger. Old Mr. Crackenthorpe took hold of
her arm and pulled her inside the door and shut it.
“Want to show you something,” he said.
Lucy looked round her. They were in a small room evidently designed to
be used as a study, but equally evidently not used as such for a very long
time. There were piles of dusty papers on the desk and cobwebs festooned
from the corners of the ceiling. The air
smelt3 damp and musty.
“Do you want me to clean this room?” she asked.
Old Mr. Crackenthorpe shook his head fiercely.
“No, you don’t! I keep this room locked up. Emma would like to
fiddle4
about in here, but I don’t let her. It’s my room. See these stones? They’re
Lucy looked at a collection of twelve or fourteen lumps of rock, some
polished and some rough.
“Lovely,” she said
kindly6. “Most interesting.”
“You’re quite right. They are interesting. You’re an intelligent girl. I
don’t show them to everybody. I’ll show you some more things.”
“It’s very kind of you, but I ought really to get on with what I was doing.
With six people in the house—”
“Eating me out of house and home… That’s all they do when they come
down here! Eat. They don’t offer to pay for what they eat, either.
Leeches7!
All waiting for me to die. Well, I’m not going to die just yet—I’m not going
to die to please them. I’m a lot stronger than even Emma knows.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“I’m not so old, either. She makes out I’m an old man, treats me as an
old man. You don’t think I’m old, do you?”
“Of course not,” said Lucy.
“Sensible girl. Take a look at this.”
He indicated a large faded chart which hung on the wall. It was, Lucy
saw, a genealogical tree; some of it done so finely that one would have to
have a magnifying glass to read the names. The remote forebears, how-
ever, were written in large proud capitals with crowns over the names.
“Descended from Kings,” said Mr. Crackenthorpe. “My mother’s family
tree, that is — not my father’s. He was a vulgarian! Common old man!
Didn’t like me. I was a cut above him always. Took after my mother’s side.
Had a natural feeling for art and classical sculpture—he couldn’t see any-
thing in it—silly old fool. Don’t remember my mother—died when I was
two. Last of her family. They were sold up and she married my father. But
you look there—Edward the Confessor—Ethelred the Unready—whole lot
of them. And that was before the Normans came. Before the Normans—
that’s something isn’t it?”
“It is indeed.”
“Now I’ll show you something else.” He guided her across the room to
an enormous piece of dark oak furniture. Lucy was rather uneasily con-
scious of the strength of the fingers clutching her arm. There certainly
seemed nothing feeble about old Mr. Crackenthorpe today. “See this?
Came out of Lushington — that was my mother’s people’s place. Eliza-
bethan, this is. Takes four men to move it. You don’t know what I keep in-
side it, do you? Like me to show you?”
“Do show me,” said Lucy politely.
“Curious, aren’t you? All women are curious.” He took a key from his
pocket and unlocked the door of the lower cupboard. From this he took
out a surprisingly new-looking cash box. This, again, he unlocked.
“Take a look here, my dear. Know what these are?”
He lifted out a small paper-wrapped
cylinder8 and pulled away the paper
from one end. Gold coins
trickled9 out into his palm.
“Look at these, young lady. Look at ’em, hold ’em, touch ’em. Know what
they are? Bet you don’t! You’re too young. Sovereigns—that’s what they
are. Good golden sovereigns. What we used before all these dirty bits of
paper came into fashion. Worth a lot more than silly pieces of paper. Col-
lected them a long time back. I’ve got other things in this box, too. Lots of
things put away in here. All ready for the future. Emma doesn’t know—
nobody knows. It’s our secret, see, girl? D’you know why I’m telling you
and showing you?”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to think I’m a played-out sick old man. Lots of
life in the old dog yet. My wife’s been dead a long time. Always objecting
to everything, she was. Didn’t like the names I gave the children—good
Saxon names—no interest in that family tree. I never paid any attention to
what she said, though—and she was a poor-spirited creature—always
gave in. Now you’re a spirited filly—a very nice filly indeed. I’ll give you
some advice. Don’t throw yourself away on a young man. Young men are
fools! You want to take care of your future. You wait…” His fingers pressed
into Lucy’s arm. He leaned to her ear. “I don’t say more than that. Wait.
Those silly fools think I’m going to die soon. I’m not. Shouldn’t be sur-
prised if I outlived the lot of them. And then we’ll see! Oh, yes, then we’ll
see. Harold’s got no children. Cedric and Alfred aren’t married. Emma—
Emma will never marry now. She’s a bit sweet on Quimper—but Quimper
will never think of marrying Emma. There’s Alexander, of course. Yes,
there’s Alexander… But, you know, I’m fond of Alexander… Yes, that’s
awkward. I’m fond of Alexander.”
He paused for a moment, frowning, then said:
“Well, girl, what about it? What about it, eh?”
“Miss Eyelesbarrow….”
Emma’s voice came faintly through the closed study door. Lucy seized
gratefully at the opportunity.
“Miss Crackenthorpe’s calling me. I must go. Thank you so much for all
you have shown me….”
“Don’t forget…our secret….”
“I won’t forget,” said Lucy, and hurried out into the hall not quite cer-
tain as to whether she had or had not just received a
conditional10 proposal
of marriage.
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