Ned Blackborough had been to the Mountains of the Moon; at least so he
told his cousin when he drove her out from the hospital to New Park
the very day of his arrival at home.
"Call it the Mountains of the Moon, my dear," he had said, "it sounds
definite and may mean so much--or so little."
This was about a week before Christmas. It gave promise of being a
hard one, for a slight sprinkling, more of frost than snow, lay on
the roads, and the horses' roughened hoofs echoed cheerfully through
the keen air. It was exhilarating, Helen felt, after those long months
at the hospital broken only by dull constitutionals. She had begun
these by setting her face always to the country; but after a time
the long rows of workmen's houses, the dreary muddiness of gravel
side-walkings, the intolerable admixture of bricks and bakers' carts
had driven her back to wander aimlessly through crowded streets. There
she could at any rate see civilisation, pure and undefiled by attempts
after the Garden of Eden!
So this was joy. The hedgerows were black with unutterable soot, the
sky was grey with smoke, but the birds were twittering among the
smutty hips and haws, and overhead a flight of cawing rooks made the
grey seem light by their blackness.
She looked round for sympathy to Ned, and was struck by his face.
"You're looking awfully well, Ned," she remarked; "What have you been
doing to yourself? You look a perfect boy."
He laughed.
"Having a good time. I found an old man--but that passes. Meanwhile I
expect I shall require some healthful calm. My manager tells me the
business has been going to pot since I've been away. I shall have to
interfere myself, I expect, but that won't be till after Christmas.
How's Ramsay getting on?"
Helen looked a trifle stiff. "You had better ask him yourself, you
will see him when you drive me back; I only know that he has resigned
his appointment."
"So he wrote me. Had a row apparently with the Governing Body--that
was ill advised."
"Very," said Helen coolly, "but then Dr. Ramsay has no tact, and is a
very obstinate person. Is that New Park? You know I have never been
here before."
Ned Blackborough shot a faintly amused glance at her. "It is New Park.
Did you ever see an inheritance more calculated to make a man cut his
throat?"
It was indeed unexpressibly dreary in its long pompous facade of
regularly recessed windows, each with its sham pilasters and heavy
entablature.
"It always seems as if it had a sick headache, and it gives me one to
look at it. It's a fact," added Ned, as Helen laughed. "It is
positively more hideous than--than the Sea View Hotel. I hear, by the
way, they have rebuilt that. Have you heard anything more of Hirsch
since then?"
Helen gave a fine flush. "He comes down to Blackborough on business.
And I have seen him. He is really frightfully distressed because I
will not let him pay back that money. Last time he nearly wept."
"He wept because he could not understand," paraphrased Ned. "It is not
his fault. It is astonishing how little sense of abstract justice
and fairness people have as a rule. They're so set on mercy and
loving-kindness that they forget the eye-for-an-eye, the
tooth-for-a-tooth ideal. Well, here we are. The house is not quite so
bad inside, but it is pretty awful."
It was, though it had been built and upholstered to order regardless
of cost. Still there was a certain comfort in the dull red flock of
its walls, the dull red fleece of its floors, and when once you
reached it, the fire lit up the marvellous expanse of priceless tiles,
and steel, and ormulu, and bronze, cheerfully enough.
"Don't try and sit on any of those chairs," said Ned, "they're screwed
to their places, I believe. Here's a basket one of mine; and will you
pour out tea?"
Yet it was pleasant enough sitting there by the fire in the growing
dusk, and Ned's heart gave a great throb as he thought of Aura in her
blue smock walking unconcernedly over the priceless pile carpets as if
they had been Kidderminster. And she would be right. When she was
there all other things sank into insignificance.
"It's terribly big," said Helen. "You ought to marry, Ned."
"I suppose I ought," he replied solemnly, but his thoughts were simply
running riot over the suggestion; "it is too big for one."
And then he saw a vision of a blue smock held confidingly by a little
toddling child, and something in him seemed to rise up and choke him,
so that he had to get up, and walk away from his cousin's curious
eyes. So to change the subject he began hurriedly--
"I didn't tell you, did I, about that old man I met in the
desert--right away from everybody? I don't believe he was real, but he
was a wonder. If you talked Herbert Spencer with him he replied with
Nietzsche. There wasn't anything he didn't seem to know, and that he
hadn't dismissed as not worth knowing. And yet he knew nothing. If you
hurled an example at him he was floored. It was all pure thought. He
never did anything else but think. You see he was one of their holiest
men, and he had sat in the same place for fifty years."
"You have been back to India, Ned," she exclaimed, "you know you have;
and I sent all my letters to Algiers."
He came over to her and sat on the arm of her chair, as he used to do
when he was a boy.
"They were forwarded--at intervals," he remarked coolly. "Have you
never, Nell, wanted to run away for a bit and find yourself naked, out
in the open?" And then, airily, he began to hum that graceless ditty
of young subalterns at Pekin when the Embassy had been relieved and
the Summer Palace occupied, and the allied army amused itself with
burlesques on the vanished foe:
"'Fancy me, in this frosty weather.
Posing as Venus among the heather;
Fancy me in the altogether,
At my time of life!'"
"Really, Ned!" exclaimed Helen, unable to repress her smiles, "You are
the most ridiculous boy. But if I am to see the domain it is time I
began. I must be back by five o'clock."
They were but just in time when he set her down at the hospital and
sought out Dr. Ramsay.
He found him writing for dear life, his face positively aglow with
vitality and fire.
"Smashing 'em up?" asked Ned, after the first welcome was over and he
had lit a cigarette.
Peter Ramsay shifted the papers a trifle shamefacedly. "Yes!" he
replied; "it isn't a bit of good, of course; but it relieves my
feelings and hurts theirs."
"How did it come about?"
"Didn't Mrs. Tressilian tell you? Well, I suppose I have been a bit of
a fool--and yet, I don't see quite what else I could have done. I tell
you, Blackborough, there isn't a spot in England on which you can
tread firmly without crushing a vested interest. Take, for instance,
that pint of beer business. I suppose you know that every one in this
hospital is entitled to one pint of beer a day--typhoid fever
patients, dying patients--the whole stock, lock, and barrel of nurses,
doctors, porters, and such like. If the beer isn't drunk it's at any
rate paid for. Think of the vested interests that means. So when I
suggested retrenchments, and took the trouble to lay the German and
even the Scotch figures before the governors--it costs a third less at
least to run a patient in Scotland--there was the devil and all to
pay; and--and some one made disparaging remarks about porridge, and
so, of course, there was a row...."
"Then about the operation." Peter Ramsay got up and began to walk
about the room, and his voice became more argumentative. "You see, it
was done, and the man died. Well, I wrote an account of it for the
medical paper at Vienna, and some one got hold of it and translated
it--well! not quite fairly. You see, it was a question whether a
certain lesion--but that's a technical detail--I hadn't approved at
the time, and I said so; and they made out I asserted the man had been
killed through incompetence. All I meant was that it wasn't a fair
test of the feasibility of the operation, and it wasn't. I tried to
smooth them over, but, as I said at the time, one must tell the truth
sometimes."
Ned Blackborough interrupted with a sudden laugh. "Did that smooth
them over?"
"Not in the least," replied Peter Ramsay quite seriously, "and they
wouldn't have it either that the translator was a fool and did not
know German. So I resigned. There is never any good in trying to work
with people who aren't satisfied."
"None," assented Ned succinctly, "And what are you going to do?"
"Go back to Pagenheim if nothing else turns up. One can live on
_wuerst_ over there and no one thinks the--the worse of you, as they do
here. My time isn't up till February, but I've offered to go at once
if they like."
"New Park is at your disposal."
"You're awfully kind. If I go--perhaps. But something may crop up."
As Ned Blackborough drove round to keep his appointment with Ted
Cruttenden at his office, he told himself joyously that anything might
crop up. These next few weeks had been to him for long so full of
possibilities, that the whole world seemed to him capable of launching
out into incredible action, of kicking over the traces even of
conventional chance.
His greeting of Ted Cruttenden rather took the latter aback, for he
had been carefully preparing for the interview.
"How are you? Will the 11.50 suit you on the 24th?--it suits me."
Ted coughed and looked a little embarrassed, for the inward conviction
that, to be quite fair, the invitation to Cwmfairnog ought not to have
been accepted came back with the first glance at Ned's--at his
friend's face. Still it was no use shirking the subject, so he buckled
himself up for his task.
"It will suit all right," he replied boldly, "You had better write for
a room at the inn. I--I am going to Cwmfairnog."
"Cwmfairnog?" echoed Ned incredulously.
"Yes--I'm going to stay with--with Sylvanus Smith." For all his
boldness he had hesitated, and Ned Blackborough fastened on the pause.
"Why didn't you say with Aura?" There was a trace of scorn in his
voice, which Ted resented hotly.
"Because the old man asked me when he came up here. I know it doesn't
sound quite fair, Lord Blackborough, but one can't help luck. He felt
ill, and I happened to be there, and I had to look after him. Then he
asked me to come and stop; and so of course I accepted. You would have
done the same if you had been me."
Ned Blackborough was silent for a moment; then said, "Perhaps."
"Oh! hang it all!" broke in Ted. "If you are not satisfied, you
needn't feel bound in any way. In fact, I have been thinking a lot,
and I have come to the conclusion that your plan isn't quite fair on
her. I think she ought to know; and I'd much rather she had her fair
choice. You see, neither she nor her grandfather really care for
money."
Ned Blackborough smiled. "I see," he said grimly. "On the whole, I
believe you are right." Then he thought for a moment or two. "So be
it! Each for himself, and the devil take the hindmost! But we will
stick to time and place. And if you want a day or two's extra leave
I----"
Ted blushed a little this time. "I--I--am not employed by the firm
any longer, Lord Blackborough," he said hurriedly; "You have been
away--besides, a clerk on a hundred and fifty would hardly come to
your ears. But the fact is that--that Mr. Hirsch offered me three
hundred."
Ned Blackborough's face took on an expression of amusement. "I begin
to understand. So you are on the high road to opulence! Now I wonder
why he did that?--you shall tell me in the train--11.50--for I must be
off, as I've some business to get through before closing-time."
The business appeared to amuse him also, for the expression did not
fade from his face as he drove to the Public Library, hunted up a book
on Wales, then drove to a house-agent's and gave an order, and finally
stopped at those general _entrepreneurs_, Williams and Edwards, and
gave another. Myfanwy Jones, catching sight of him on his way to the
senior partner's office, volunteered a remark to the buyer in her
department that she knew that fellow, had seen him down at her
father's, and was crushed by the reply: "Him! Why, he is Lord
Blackborough--the richest peer in England."
She brazened it out by saying "Get along"; but as a matter of fact Ned
was repeating much the same information in the office. "I am Lord
Blackborough," he was saying, "you need spare no expense. Only see
that everything is well done."
The words had a marvellous dynamic power, setting telegraphic wires
and express vans and confidential clerks in motion. The result being
that when Ned and Ted, who had travelled down third class together in
very friendly fashion got out at the station nearest to Dinas there
were two very smart motors cars awaiting them.
"If you will excuse me for a moment," said Lord Blackborough to his
companion, "I'll just see my cousin, Mrs. Tressilian--you remember her
of course--off for Plas Afon. I've taken it for three weeks and Ramsay
and some other people are coming down, so we ought to have a good
time. Then I can take you round in the Panhard to Cwmfairnog. It will
only make a difference of a mile or two, for Plas Afon, is just the
other side of Dinas, you know."
Ted waiting on the platform while Helen, another lady, and a maid were
stowed away in the covered car, began to realise that Ned was not
going to forgo a single advantage. It was to be check and
counter-check on both sides. It had been quick work, and to get hold
of Plas Afon--the show place of the neighbourhood--must have needed
money indeed! Some day he would be able to do that sort of thing if he
chose. But he would not choose. He would never be such a reckless
devil as Blackborough. Yet he could not help admiring the go and fire
of the fellow!
"So you are going to play the prince over me," he said when they had
settled comfortably down under a priceless fox-skin rug and Ned was
sending the motor up the hill full speed.
Lord Blackborough laughed. "Not at all! I had to check your move
somehow. I couldn't go--as you go--to Mahomet, so I had to try and
induce Mahomet to come to me. You will decline my invitations, no
doubt, but I shall have done my best. Personally," he added. "I would
much rather have stuck to the old plan. Anyhow we won't defile
Cwmfairnog with the smell of petrol. We'll leave the motor at the
bridge--you can send for your things afterwards--and walk up. Ye Gods!
How beautiful this country is in winter."
It was, indeed. The hills lay so still, so soft beneath the pale-blue
wintry sky, the distant ones greyly transparent, the near ones showing
rounded, red-brown bracken-covered lights against rounded, misty,
violet shadows. The very frost rime on each leaf, each blade of grass,
looked soft, and the gold of the slanting sunlight seemed to warm the
very icicles which drooped from the high moss-covered, fern-clad banks
showing where some trickle of water dropped from the hillside above.
But it was up the wooded ravines where the bare branches of the oak
scrub followed each curving contour that the ineffable hues of blent
shadows and shine showed to their fullest. They were valleys of
perfect rest, deep blue in their depths, jasper, jewelled with
crystals on their heights.
The footsteps of the two echoed sharply among the rocks. Their
shadows, blent into one, preceded them. Yet the thought of both went
further ahead still. There were no flowers now, but the brambles
dead-green and russet and gold, still thrust out withered
fruit-branches across their path. The leafless trees gave clearer
vision now. They could see across the stream. There was the garden,
the lawn, and on it, by heaven, reaching down red holly-berries from
an old tree was a figure in white--Aura herself!
Ned gave a view holloa. She turned round, waved one hand, then
dropping her berries waved both.
The thought of the long round by the rhododendrons and the drawbridge
was too much for them. The parapet was low, the stream lower still. In
a moment they were over it, and racing to meet her like a couple of
schoolboys.
She laughed to see them, holding out both hands.
"What a hurry you are in," she cried. "So you have both come.
Grandfather said you wouldn't, but Martha and I thought it wiser to
get the two rooms ready--and I was right!"
Her welcome disarmed rivalry, and gave both the young men a desire to
fall at her feet and kiss the hem of her garment. But they repressed
it.
"Of course we have both come!" replied Ned imperturbably. "Are we not
the inseparable two-headed, four-armed, four-legged monster, Edward
Cruttenden? don't interrupt me, Ted, I am coming to that by and by.
Only Miss--Miss--do you know I don't happen to know your surname. Is
it Smith?"
She shook her head with a smile. "Graham--but every one calls me
Aura."
"Miss Aura," went on Ned doubtfully.
She looked at him and her eyes twinkled.
"Put on the H, please, if you are going to speak like Martha. Only it
sounds better without any prefix."
For some reason or other both the young men found themselves blushing
and their hearts beating.
"Much nicer," assented Ted with fervour; but Ned made an elision.
"I was going to tell you that in addition to Edward Cruttenden I
have--for my sins--to answer to another name--Lord Blackborough."
She stared and frowned.
"You mean," she said slowly, "that as they put it in the books you are
Edward Cruttenden, Lord Blackborough?"
"Edward Cruttenden Gibbs, to be strictly according to Debrett," he
answered meekly. "I had to take the name when I came into the title
three years ago."
A distinct look of disappointment showed on her face. "It is a very
great pity," she said still more slowly; then she added more
cheerfully. "However, I suppose it can't be helped. Only when I
thought of you it was always as Ned and Ted." She glanced at the
latter and smiled.
"So far as I am concerned there is no reason why you shouldn't
continue----" he began.
"No reason at all," interrupted Ned with the first note of rivalry in
his voice. "Let us remain Ned and Ted for--for this week at any rate."
"This week," she echoed, looking from one to the other, "I don't quite
understand." Then suddenly, for the first time in her life she
blushed. It was extremely uncomfortable, and she felt vaguely annoyed
with both the young men. So she turned to them stiffly. "Will you come
and see grandfather and have tea first, or go to your rooms--you know
where they are."
There was a pause, broken accusingly by Ted. "Lord Blackborough--I
mean Ned----"
"Thank you," put in Ned with a laugh, "I can do my own dirty work, if
you please. The fact is"--he paused, still fighting shy of that dear
name, "I mean I'm afraid I can't stop. If I had guessed, but--but I
didn't!" He shrugged his shoulders. "It is so hard to predicate
perfection. The fact is, my cousin is living at Plas Afon for a
fortnight or so, and I must go back to her--after tea."
"Plas Afon," she echoed eagerly. "Oh! I hear that is such a lovely
place. How lucky you are," then the personal aspect of the news made
her frown a little. "Dear me!" she said, "what a pity! It spoils so
much. Now I shall have to differentiate between you two. Will you come
in to tea, Lord Blackborough and Mr. Cruttenden."
They followed her meekly, feeling vaguely ashamed of themselves.