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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?
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