CHAPTER XII

Why should not I love my love?

Why should not my love love me? Why should not I speed after him,

Since love to all is free?

Traditional.

THE days went by, warm and cloudless. Haymaking was in full swing, and the mown fields smelt Elysian, lying in ribbed gold under a blue sky. Wild roses tumbled anyhow through all the hedges, and Tommy, the fat black and white cat, startled everyone by confounding the experts and having seven kittens. And Adam Forrest did nothing.

I had got the passport away to the bank, which made me feel a little better, but it was a day or two after that moonlit meeting before I stopped watching the road between West Lodge and Whitescar. When two days, three days, passed, with no sign from him, I began to think that perhaps, having 'thought it over,' he had decided to take me at my word, and, for Grandfather's sake, to hold his tongue and await developments. I had not seen him again, though Julie had once or twice persuaded me to walk through the river-meadows to look at the a horse, Rowan: and I had gone, realising that, whatever Adam Forrest's intentions, I might as well behave as normally as possible, and naturally Julie expected my interest in the colt to be intense.

I had made no further attempt at confidence with Julie, and she had offered none, but I could not help suspecting that all was far from well between her and Donald Seton. How far her own feelings were settled, it was impossible to guess. She was young, volatile, perhaps a trifle spoiled, but from what little she had said to me—perhaps because she had said so little—I believed her affections to be seriously engaged. I had, on my first sight of Donald, decided that here was a man one could both like and respect; since then he had been down to Whitescar two or three times, and I had liked him better each time, though I thought I could see the cause of the tension that appeared to exist, if not between the two of them, then in Julie's mind. I could see that his quietness, his steady reserve, might appear daunting and even formidable to a nineteen-year-old extrovert accustomed to the easy and outspoken admiration of the young men of her own London "set. Still waters run deep, but at nineteen one can hardly be expected to appreciate the fact. The complaint she had made in jest, on that first evening, had its foundations firmly in the truth. Donald Seton would not "fit into any romantic context". And Julie, for all her gay sophistication, was young enough still to want her love-affair sprinkled with Stardust, and vulnerable enough to be hurt by a reserve which she must mistake for indifference, or at best a reluctance to pursue. Donald was, in other words, a disappointment. Liking, affection, comradeship, all growing steadily from the first seed of love—these were not what Julie, at nineteen, was looking for. Not happiness, but intensity, was what she craved. As a lover, the quiet Scot by no means measured up to the standards of Julie's favourite reading, or (more immediately) to those of the unhappy man who, eight years ago, had left notes for his mistress in the old ivy tree. Poor Julie, if she only knew ... I found myself hoping, with quite startling fervour, that Donald would emerge soon from his Roman preoccupation, and Speak.

Meanwhile, he called at Whitescar in the evenings, after work had packed up, and on one occasion, Julie went up to West Woodburn to see what was going on there, and even, possibly, in a genuine attempt to learn something about the job.

Although in this, it seemed, she was not successful, it did appear as if Donald had moved at least a little of the way towards her. He had brought her back in the evening, and stayed to dinner, listening silently and in apparent amusement to her lively—and malicious—account of the way he occupied his time.

"Sitting in a hole," said Julie, "my dears, I mean it, sitting all day at the bottom of a little pit, scraping away at mud, and with a thing the size of a teaspoon! Nothing but mud, honestly 1 And every spoonful preserved as if it was die Grand Cham's jewels. I never was so disillusioned in my life!"

"No gold coins? No statues?" I asked, smiling.

"My dear, I think there was a Roman bootlace."

Donald's eyes twinkled. "That was our big day. You mustn't expect excitement all the time." She opened her lips, and then shut them again. I thought her

smile was brittle. I said quickly: "Just what are you doing, anyway?"

"Only a preliminary bit of dating."

"Dating?" Grandfather looked up from his cheese.

I saw Donald glance at him in that diffident way he had, and affirm that this was genuine interest and not mere civility, before he replied. "Yes, sir. It does consist, as Julie says, of just scratching at the earth. We've dug a trial trench through the wall and rampart of the fort, and we're going down layer by layer, examining the successive ramparts, and whatever debris—in the way of pottery shards and so on—comes to light as we work down. In that way, we can determine what building was done in the fort at different times. Eventually it sorts itself out into a picture of the general history of the place, but at present—" the glimmer of a smile at her—"Julie's quite right. It's nothing but scraping at earth, and must seem deplorably dull."

"You seem to find it terribly absorbing, anyway," said Julie. I don't think she had meant the words to have an edge, but they sounded almost pettish, like the retort of a piqued child. Donald didn't appear to notice. "Well," he said, "it's like most jobs, I suppose, masses of dull routine most of the time; but the good moments, when they come, can be pretty exciting."

"Oh?" said Julie, then suddenly laughed, with an attempt at her normal sparkle of good-humour. "Well, for goodness' sake tell us when that's likely to happen, and we'll all come and watch! At least—" this to me—"he's coming up out of the mud on Wednesday. Did I tell you? And so am I. We're going into Newcastle, to the Royal."

"The theatre? How lovely. But, darling, Wednesday ... it's Grandfather's birthday, had you forgotten?

We're making rather an occasion of it, since we're all here—"

"Oh yes, I know, that's why we're going to the matinee. Donald says he can usually only manage Saturdays, but there weren't any seats left, and it's John Giclgud's new play, and I simply cannot miss it. So Donald's sneaking Wednesday off, after lunch, and we're going. Grandfather knows, and we'll be back in good time for the party. Donald's staying for that, too."

"Very sensible of him. I know Lisa's got something wonderful laid on, but she won't tell me what it is." Lisa smiled, but rather absently. I knew she was fidgeting until she could get out of the dining-room and back to the kitchen, where she could start to prepare Con's supper. When he worked late, she gave him this in the kitchen at whatever hour he came in, and I knew that, for her, this half-hour, when she had him to herself, was the peak of her day.

"Look," Donald was saying, in that pleasant, unemphatic voice of his, "it's very nice of you to have asked me, but I hadn't realised it was a family party. I think perhaps I'd better say—"

"Now, don't go crying off," said Grandfather. "We'll be thankful to have you. Never known a family gathering yet where the presence of a stranger didn't do a lot of good. Families arc usually pretty damned grim when they get together, especially Winslows. We'll have to behave ourselves if you're here." Donald laughed, "Well, if you put it like that . . ."

"I do indeed. Anything I have to say to the family as such, can be said in three minutes precisely, on the way to bed." The fierce, faded old eyes went round the table, lingering momentarily on Con's empty chair.

"And better so. There's been too much talk already, and I can't stomach post-mortems before I'm dead." The sheer unfairness of this took my breath away, and I saw Julie open her eyes wide. Donald, to whom these last remarks had been addressed, said rather faintly: "Oh, quite." I rescued him. "Then we'll see you on Wednesday? That'll be nice. What's the play, Julie?" Julie, her face lighting, her pique forgotten, plunged happily into an account of it, unaware of the fact (or perhaps uncaring) that she was betraying with every word how far her heart lay from Whitescar and the quiet island of Forrest Park. I saw Grandfather watching her, an odd expression on his face. Ah well, I thought, this was best, I stole a glance at Lisa, to see if this was being stored up for Con, but she was looking at her watch, and murmuring* something about coffee in the drawing-room.

"Well," said Grandfather, a little drily, as he pushed back his chair, "enjoy yourselves."

"We will, be sure of that! But till then," said Julie, dimpling at Donald, "I'll let you get on with your mudlarking in peace, and put in a bit of work for Con instead. In any case, I think haymaking's more fun, and far more profitable to the human race."

"Very probably," said Donald equably.

•

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Sure enough, Julie spent the next two or three days in the hay-field, driving the tractor for Con. Here I watched her rather more anxiously. It was just possible that Julie (provoked, restless, and already slightly bored with the country holiday that wasn't answering its purpose) was hoping to try out the age-old romantic device of making Donald jealous. She had two strings to her bow: Bill Fenwick from Nether Shields, who came over now and again, ostensibly to 'give a hand' in the hayfield when he could be spared from home, but in reality, it was obvious, for a chance to be near Julie; and Con. Bill I dismissed without a thought, except to hope that he would not be hurt; but Con was a different proposition. He was not a man who could be used in this sort of way, or in any sort of way that he didn't initiate. Besides, he was extremely attractive, and older and more sensible girls than Julie had rebounded before now into far less exciting arms. And if Con suddenly decided that three-thirds of the Winslow money was even better than two, and seriously turned his attention to Julie . . .

I need not have worried. At any other time, I suppose, Con would have flirted with her as a matter of course, a purely automatic reaction, as instinctive as that of a cock bird displaying to the female; but, just at present, Con had more important things on his mind. Mr. Isaacs, the lawyer, had been duly summoned to see Grandfather, and had spent Friday morning closeted with him in his office. The old man had said nothing whatever about this interview, but had allowed it to be known that Mr. Isaacs would call again in a few days' time, that is, on the morning of his, Grandfather's birthday. The inference was obvious, and, to my eyes, the effect on Con was obvious, too. The tension in him had increased perceptibly in the last few days; he was quieter than usual, and seemed edgy and strained. We saw very little of him; he rarely even ate with us, but spent all his time in the hayfield, working with an energy and fierce physical concentration that were remarkable, even for him. This was partly, I thought, due to a genuine passion for hard work, partly to work off the tensions he was feeling, and partly, also, to keep out of old Mr. Winslow's way. The die was cast, one way or the other; it seemed likely that it was cast in Con's favour, and Con was taking no risks. In this he may have been wise. Since the lawyer's visit, there had been a perceptible change, too, in Grandfather. Where Con had grown tense and wary, turning that diamond-hard concentration of his on his job, old Mr. Winslow became daily more difficult and less predictable, prone to sudden irritabilities, and even (what was new in him) fits of vagueness and absence of mind. The continued hot weather seemed to trouble him. He was very easily tired, but as he did less, so his fretfulness increased, and it seemed, wherever possible, to be directed at Con. His decision now finally made, it was as if the abdication of that will-to-power, which had been his driving force, had slackened something in him. He even seemed, physically, to have grown smaller. Where before he had been formidable, he now seemed merely fretful, and his resentful nagging at Con (over matters which previously he had been quite content to leave to the younger man) were the grumblings of a pettish old man, no longer the storms of a tyrant. Lisa was the only person who seemed unaffected by the tensions that snapped the nerves at Whitescar. It was as if she, too, had abdicated. It was increasingly obvious to me that Lisa, a determined enough personality in her way, lived only for Con —or, indeed, through Con. His energy and ambition charged her batteries; he steered her into a path, and along that path she ploughed steadily, undeviating, un-judging; but the decisions— and the rewards—were all his. She was more than content to help him to success, as long as she could watch him enjoying it. Her unremitting worship had certainly helped to make him" what he was, but sometimes I found myself wondering if, in fact, Lisa wasn't also his prison. It was all he had had, that mothering, smothering love of her that had driven him so much in upon himself. Con was for Con, and Lisa saw nothing wrong, or even out of the way, in such an attitude.

If she shared her half-brother's wariness and worry, she didn't show it, unless perhaps in a reflection of his reckless industry. Regardless of the heat, she threw herself into a positive frenzy of housewifery and cooking, and we were treated to a magnificent course of haute cuisine which drew only the most casual of accolades from the others, which Con, shut in his cold and wary preoccupations, noticed not at all, and which proved a great nuisance to me, who had in common civility to offer my help in whatever job she undertook.

For me, it was something of a relief to find myself abruptly removed from the centre of attention. Con was, for the moment, no longer concerned with me, and Lisa had accepted me completely. What jealous thoughts she may have originally had of me, she had transferred to Julie, who (to do her justice), had done nothing to deserve them. Me, she seemed even to like; I had the odd feeling that, in her stolid, brother-centred way, she was even grateful for my presence at Whitescar, where Mr. Winslow persisted in regarding her as something of a stranger, a sort of paid-housekeeper-cum-poor-relation; Mrs. Bates with a slightly jealous Northern caution; and Con himself with a casual affection that took everything, including the most detailed personal service, completely for granted.

Meanwhile, the heat increased, charging the air with thunder, adding this threat to the other perceptible weights in the air. Day by day the great soapsud clouds built up their slow thunder-towers in the south-west. The trees hung heavily, as if themselves exhausted by the heat, and the sky was a deep, waiting blue.

And Con kept quiet, and watched the clouds, and drove himself and the men like galley-slaves to clear the fields before the weather broke . . . And with that same cold preoccupation, and for a closely analogous reason, he watched Grandfather . . .

•

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Wednesday came, still without the threatened thunderstorm. The air felt a little lighter, as a small breeze had sprung up, though without shifting the towering, beautiful clouds. But the sense of oppression (or was it foreboding?) seemed to have lifted.

Mr. Isaacs came just before midday, and Grandfather took him straight into the office. I gave them ten minutes^ then went to the dining-room to get the sherry.

As I crossed the hall, Julie came downstairs, pulling on her gloves.

I paused. "Why, hullo! Arc you going now? My, my, don't you look wonderful!"

? This was true. She was wearing crisp cotton, the colour of lemon-ice, and her gloves were white. The pale, shining hair was brushed into an elaborate and very attractive style that had been thought up at least two hundred miles from Whitescar. Over one arm she carried a little coat of the same material as the frock.

I said: "Very nice! But why so early? I thought Donald couldn't get away till after lunch?" She tugged the second glove into place, pushing the heavy gold bracelet higher up her wrist with a sharp little movement that looked almost savage. "Donald," she said crisply, "can't get away at all."

"What?"

"He rang up an hour ago to say that he couldn't go, after all." "Oh, Julie, no! Why?" Her careful composure shivered a bit, like cat-ice wrinkling under the wind. Her eyes were stormy.

"Because he doesn't think what / want to do matters a damn, that's why!" I threw a glance towards the office door. "Come into the dining-room. I was just going to take Mr. Isaacs and Grandfather some sherry..." In the dining-room I said: "Now come off it, honey. Why can't he come?

What's happened?"

"Somebody's turned up from London, that's why. Some beastly man from the Commission, who's working with Donald, and Donald says he'll have to stay and see him. He says—oh,-what's it matter, anyway? I didn't listen. It's always the same, I might have known. The one time he did say he'd leave his precious blasted Romans—"

"Julie, he'd come if he could. He can't help it."

"I know! Oh, it isn't that! It's just—oh, it's just everything I" cried Julie. "And he sounded so calm and reasonable—"

"He always does. He would in a fire. It's a habit men have; they think it calms us, or something."

"Well, but he seemed to think / ought to be reasonable, too!" said Julie, furiously. "How dumb can you get?

.. . Annabel, if you laugh, I'll kill you!" She gave a reluctant grin. "Anyway, you know exactly what I mean."

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry. But you're not being fair to Donald, arc you? The man's got a job to do, and if something crops up that has to be attended to—"

"Oh, I know, I know. I'm not as silly as all that. But he knew how foully disappointed I'd be. He needn't have sounded just as if he didn't even mind not going out with me."

"He wouldn't mean to, you know. He's just not the type to spread himself all over the carpet for you to trample on. He'd be as sorry as the next man, but he—well, he just hasn't got the gift of the gab."

"No, he hasn't, has he?" Her voice was genuinely bitter. She had turned aside to pick up the jacket from the chair where she had thrown it.

"My dear-"

"It's all right. I dare say I'm being stupid about it, but* I can't help that. It would be different if he'd ever—if I knew—" she sounded all at once very young—"if I was sure he cared."

"He does care. I'm sure he does."

"Then why the hell doesn't he say so?" cried Julie explosively. She snatched up her coat. "Oh, what's the use?" "Is he still coming to dinner tonight?" "He said he'd try. I said he could please himself." "Oh, Julie!"

"Oh, I didn't just say it like that. I was really quite nice about it." She gave me a wavering smile. "Almost reasonable ... But if he knew what hellish thoughts were churning away inside me...

"It's often a good thing they don't," "They? Who?" I grinned. "Men."

"Oh, men" she said, in accents of loathing. "Why are men?" "I give you three guesses."

"The most harmless answer is that there'd be nothing whatever to do if there weren't any, I suppose."

"There'd be nothing whatever, period," I said.

"Well, you've got something there," said Julie, "but don't ask me to admit it for quite some time. Oh, Annabel, you've done me good. I must go now; there's the car."

"Car?"

She gave me a little sideways look under her lashes. "I told you I wasn't going to miss this play. I'm going with Bill Fenwick." "I see."

"And just what do you see?"

I ignored that. "But surely the play's going to open in London soon? You'll see it there?" "That," said Julie,

"is not the point."

"No, quite. Donald couldn't get' away, so you rang up Bill Fenwick, and asked him to take you? That it?"

"Yes," she said, with a shade of defiance.

"And he dropped everything, and promptly came?*'

"Yes." She eyed me. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing at all," I said cheerfully. "I hope they've finished leading for the day at Nether Shields, that's all."

"Annabel," said Julie, warmly, "are you trying to be a pig?" I laughed. "I was, rather. Never mind me, honey, go and enjoy your play. We'll be seeing you at dinner. And, Julie—"

"What is it?"

"If Donald does come, don't make it too obvious that you're a bit fed-up with him, will you? No—" as she made a little movement of impatience—"this isn't Advice from Aunt Annabel. What's between you and Donald is your affair. I was thinking of something quite different . . . I'll explain later. There's no time now .

. . But come and see me when you get in, will you? I've something to tell you."

"Sure," said Julie.

The front door shut behind her. I found the sherry glasses, and a tray, but as I set the decanter on this, the office door opened, and Grandfather came out.

He was making for the baize door that led to the kitchen lobby, but, hearing the chink of glass, he stopped, turned, and saw me through the open door or the dining-room. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then abruptly to make up his mind. He came into the room, and shut the door quietly behind him.

"I was just going to bring you some sherry," I said. "Were you looking for me?"

"I was going to get Betsy Bates and that girl Cora to witness my signature," he said, in a dry, rather harsh voice.

"Oh." I waited. He stood just inside the door, his head bent and thrust forward, staring at me under his brows.

"Child—" He seemed not quite to know what he had come to say. "Yes?"

"I've taken you at your word."

I tried not to let him see the relief that swept through me. "I'm glad of that," "I believe you are." I said earnestly: "It's right, Grandfather, you said yourself it was only right and fair. It's best for everyone—Con, me, the place, your peace of mind."

"Julie?"

"And Julie," I said steadily. "Julie loves this place, don't think she doesn't, but can you see her running it?" He gave his little bark of laughter. "Frankly, no. Must confess I've wondered, though, with young Fenwick in the offing—"

I said quickly: "There's nothing in that. It's Donald Seton, and you know he lives in London when he's not on field work."

"Hm. Gathered there was something in the wind. Not quite senile yet. Decent sort of fellow, I thought, Gentleman, and so on. Only thing is, he doesn't look as if he's got a penny to his name." I laughed. "His clothes and car? That's affectation, when he's out on a dig. I'll bet he's formal enough in London. He makes eighteen hundred a year, rising to two thousand five hundred, and his family's got money."

"How the devil d'you know?"

"Julie told me. She looked him up."

"Good God," said Grandfather, impressed. "Girl's got sense, after all." He gave a curious little sigh, and then smiled the tight, lipless smile of the old. "Well, that's that, isn't it? All settled. But I don't mind telling you. I haven't liked it. Boy's all right, don't think I don't know it, but not m'own flesh and blood. Not the same. Young people don't understand that nowadays, but it's true. A bit too much of the damned foreigner about Connor sometimes."

"Foreigner?" I said blankly.

"Irish," said Grandfather. I thought of Donald, and smiled to myself, but he didn't see. He was looking past me, out of the window. "If your father, or Julie's, had lived, it would have been a different matter." Yes, I said gently.

The old eyes came back to me. "You and Connor should have made a match of it. Should still. I'm not raking up the past, but after what's been between you—"

"I told you, it would never have worked."

"Not then, no. Too much of the Winslow in both of you, perhaps. But now ... say what you like, the onlooker sees most of the game. I still think it would be the best thing. For the place, for Connor; yes, and for you. Never a woman born yet, that wasn't the better for a husband. Don't just stand and smile at me, child. Come here."

I went and stood in front of him. He put up a hand, and held it against my cheek. It was cool and very dry, and felt as. light as a leaf. "It's made me very happy, your coming back. Don't think for a moment that you're not my favourite, because you are."

"I always did say you were never fair in your life." "I've left you some money," he said gruffly. "A good sum and Julie, too. I want you to know." "Grandfather, I—"

"It's settled. We'll have neither thanks nor argument I've done what I think fair, in spite of what you say about me. Tell you just how it stands. It's tangled up in a lot of lawyer's nonsense, but it amounts to this: Whitescar goes to Connor, with the house, stock, implements, the lot I take it you won't contest that? Or Julie?"

"No."

A grin. "Doubt if you could, anyway. Isaacs' wrapped it all up in legal jargon, with reasons stated. Seems you have to stop anyone being able to say, later on, that you were cranky when you made the Will. So there it is, all laid out: Whitescar goes as an acknowledgement of Connor's 'devoted work', for which I've so far made 'inadequate recompense'. True enough. Well, there it is. Then we come to the recompense for you."

"For me? What have I ever done, except run away?"

"Recompense for losing Whitescar. Should have been yours. Handed over your head to Connor."

"Oh." I waited, hopelessly.

"The money," said Grandfather. He had a hand on the table, and was leaning on it "I've divided it into three. A third goes to Julie, outright. It's all she ever expected, and I doubt if she'll quarrel with Con over Whitescar. If she marries this man of hers, she'll be well enough found. The other two-thirds I've left in trust, to pay your income for life." "In-trust?"

"That's what I said. Worked it all out with Isaacs as the best way. I want you repaid for losing Whitescar, and I want to see you well-provided-for. But I don't want the money to leave the land outright. You said you'd not stay here when I'd gone; remember? So it's left in trust for your lifetime. After your death it comes back to Connor absolutely, or to his heirs. On the other hand, if Connor should die before you, without issue, then Whitescar becomes yours, and the money along with it, absolutely. I take it, if he were gone, you'd look after the place ... ? Good girl." His hand lifted. "No, wait. I haven't finished. There's one thing more. If you should marry Connor—"

"Grandfather—"

"If you should marry Connor, and live at Whitescar, the money becomes yours then, absolutely. Clear?"

"Y—yes."

The only really clear thing was the old man's determination to tie the money to Whitescar; and me, along with it, if he could, to Con. The wrong end of the shotgun, with a vengeance. Dazedly, I tried to assess the probable results of what he had just told me. "But.. . two-thirds for me, and a third for Julie? What about Con? If I don't—I mean—" I floundered, and stopped. It was no use insisting; let him keep his dream.

"I've left him a little, and Lisa, too."

"But, Grandfather—"

"My good girl—" he was suddenly irritable—"anyone would think you were trying to get rid of every penny piece to Connor I Are you mad? If the place comes to him over the heads of you and Julie, he can hardly expect much more 1 It'll not be easy for him, with only a small capital to back him, but he'll have all the liquid assets of the place, and he'll make out."

He stopped, breathing rather hard. I noticed all at once how heavily he was leaning on his hand. He pulled a handkerchief, rather fumblingly, from his breast-pocket, and touched it to his mouth. "Con's a good lad, and a clever lad; he's not afraid of work, and the land's in good heart. I think it's fair enough, all round."

"Darling, of course it is! More than fair! And now let's stop thinking about it; it's done, let's all forget it, and you forget it, too." I grinned at him. "You know I can't stomach these postmortems." He patted my cheek. "Dear child," he said, and went abruptly out of the room.

#

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What it cost Con in self-command I shall never know, but he did not come in to luncheon. The lawyer left immediately afterwards, and Grandfather retired to rest. I had promised Lisa to go into Bellingham that afternoon to do some shopping. She was already busy with preparations for dinner, but had refused to allow me to help her "because," she said simply, "I enjoy special occasions, and I'm selfish; but you shall do the table if you like."

I laughed. "All right, I've no quarrel with that. If I'm to be allowed to eat your cooking without having to work for it, that's okay by me."

"Oh, you can wash up," said Lisa placidly, adding, with that spice of malice that was never far away: "Julie can help you."

The shopping did not take long, and I caught the four o'clock bus back from Bellingham, which put me down at the head of the lane. I assembled my rather awkward collection of packages and set off downhill. When I reached the mouth of the disused quarry where, on the first day, I had left my luggage, I saw a car standing there, an old car with too much chrome winking too brightly in the sun. Donald's car. I picked my way in at the rutted entrance of the quarry. Donald was there, pipe in mouth, hands deep in trouser-pockets, his head tilted back, apparently surveying the high wall at the back of the quarry. This was of sand-coloured stone, darkened with weathering, and here and there fissured red with iron. It was a big quarry, deep and narrow, consisting of several sections opening out of one another, partitioned off by jutting walls of rock. The cliff tops were crested with woods, whose crowding trees had sown seedlings broadcast, so that every ledge and tumble of rock was hung with green, and young oaks thrust golden frilled leaves above the brambles and foxgloves that hid the edges of the quarry floor. It must have been decades since any stone had been taken out of here.

Donald turned when he heard my footsteps, took the pipe out of his mouth, and smiled.

"Why, hullo."

"Hullo." I added, a little awkwardly, with a gesture of the basket and parcels in my hands: "I saw your car, and yielded to temptation. You were coming down to Whitescar, weren't you?"

. "If I hadn't been," said Donald diplomatically, "I should be now." I laughed. "You could hardly do anything else. I've an awful nerve, haven't I?" I hoped that my glance at his suit, which was, for once, impeccably formal, had not been too obvious. "But surely, you're coming to dinner?"

I thought he looked uncertain. I added, quickly: "Julie said you weren't quite sure if you could manage it after all, but we're hoping you will. It'll be worth it, I promise you. There were rumours about duckling."

"I'm sure it will. Miss Dermott's a wonderful cook. Well, if you're sure I haven't put things out—"

"Of course you haven't. We were all hoping you'd manage to get away. Julie'll be delighted. She's out just now; she went into Newcastle, after all; but she'll be back in time for dinner."

"Did she? Then she won't miss the play. I'm glad. Did her cousin take her?"

"Con? No. Bill Fenwick. D'you know him?"

"She mentioned him. Would you like to put your parcels in the car?" He moved to open the door and take them from me.

"Thanks very much." I handed them over with a sigh of relief. "There. At least that's one way of ensuring that you do come to dinner. I only hope I'm not taking you down too early."

"No; I wasn't going straight there, as it happens; I want to go over and see Mr. Forrest, so I'll take you down via Whitescar, and—" he grinned "—it'll be very nice to have someone to open the gates."

"Fair enough. And there's an extra one now; one of the cattlegrids is damaged, and you have to use the gate." I added, curiously, for his eyes had returned to the quarry face: "What interests you here? This is a geologist's sort of thing, not an archaeologist's, surely?"

"Oh, sure. But there is something interesting. This is the local sandstone, the building stone you'll see they've used for all the old houses hereabouts, and most of the walls, too. It's an old quarry. I've been asking about it, and I'm told it stopped working in 1910. I'd like to find out when it started, how far back there are any records of it."

"I can tell you one thing, though it may be only legend. This is supposed to be the quarry that Whitescar came out of, and I suppose Forrest too, though Whitescar's older. It's supposed to have taken its name from the quarry. When this sort of stone is newly blasted, could it be said to look white?"

"Fairly pale, anyway. Yes, I'd heard of that story. It's in Bewick's Northumberland. The first Whitescar was built in the fifteen hundreds, wasn't it?"

"Yes. And the main part of Forrest in 1760, or something like that. At any rate the first workings here must be at least four hundred years old."

"Older than that, by far." He smiled. "The quarry was here long before Whitescar was built. When you come to think about it, it is more likely that the place got its name from a quarry— a white scar—that was already a well-known landmark, before they took the stone out to build the house."

"It could be, I suppose. Is this a guess, or can you tell, somehow?" I looked vaguely at the overgrown rock around us.

"I can tell." I saw, suddenly, a spark of excitement in the deep hazel eyes. "Come and tell me if you see what I see. Over here, and watch your feet. There are bits of old iron and stuff lying around still. The oldest end of the quarry's along here, and it's flooded. I'll go first, shall I?" We picked our way through the foxgloves, and the buds of ragwort, where loose stones and shards of rusting iron made going dangerous. A rabbit bolted out of a clump of nettles, and dived out of sight down an unlikely-looking crevice.

"A nice fat one," said Donald, watching it.

"Were you thinking of the cooking-pot, and Lisa's arts?"

"I was not. I was thinking about myxomatosis."

Oh. Seeing the rabbits coming back, you mean?

"Yes, the destructive little devils. But will you ever forget seeing them hobbling about, dying and in pain, and having to kill them, and not quite knowing how, and being afraid one wouldn't manage it cleanly the first time? One got sickeningly good at it, in the end. It may be the wrong thing to say to a farmer's daughter, but I'm pleased to see them back, nice and fat and immune, and I hope they eat every blade of grass belonging to the brutes who deliberately gave them the disease . . . But of course you won't remember it. You weren't here, I keep forgetting. You seem so much a part of the scene at Whitescar. It's a lovely place, isn't it?"

"Do you know," I said, "I'm quite aware that that was a non sequitur, but it was also a compliment." He looked surprised. "Was it?" He seemed to consider. "Yes, I've got it. So it was. Well, I didn't see it, but if I had I would have meant it."

"Fair enough" I laughed. "Except that then you'd never have said it." He smiled slightly. "Probably not. The curse of Scodand, the padlocked tongue." But his eyes weren't amused.

I said, before I thought: "Maybe. But is it any worse than the curse of Ireland; the tongue without a latch, even, let alone

a lock?"

He grinned then, spontaneously, and I knew he was thinking as I was, too late, about Con. But all he said was: "Or the curse of England; the double tongue?"

I laughed. "We had to have that crack, didn't we? The old, old war. What a mercy that neither side means it. . . Do you like living in the South?"

"Very much. I've good rooms in London, and my work takes me out as much as anyone could want."

"Do you think you'd want to settle permanently in London?"

We had clambered over a ridge of fallen stones, jammed by time into a bank of solid clay. Below us, round in another angle of the quarry, I could see water.

He stopped. He still had his pipe in his hand. It had gone out. He examined it carefully, but absently, as if he was not quite sure what it was. Then he stuffed it into his pocket. "You mean if I married Julie?" I hadn't been ready for quite such direct dealing. "Yes. Yes, I did mean that. Perhaps I shouldn't have—"

"If I married Julie, I should still have to go where my work was," said Donald bluntly, "and it won't always be at West Woodburn." He looked at me. "Are you trying to tell me that she'll want to come and live here?"

"No."

"Ah. Well, I didn't altogether get the impression that she was wedded to the place."

"She's not." I hesitated, then added, equally bluntly: "Nor likely to be." He looked at me sharply. Beside me a tuft of silvery hair-grass had fluffed into a lace of pale seeds. I ran my fingers through them, and then regarded the handful of tiny particles. I took a breath and plunged on.

"You know, I wouldn't dream of saying this sort of thing to you, if it weren't important. You may think I'm speaking out of turn, and if so, I hope you'll forgive me."

He made the slight, indescribable sound that, in the North, manages to express assent, deprecation, interest, dissent, apology —anything at all that the listener cares to read into it. It sounds like 'Mphm,' and you can conduct whole (and perfectly intelligible) conversation with that one sound, anywhere north of the Tyne. As a contribution from Donald, it was unhelpful.

I opened my hand and let the seeds drift down on to the clay. "Have you said anything to Julie yet?" He said quite simply: "No. It's been—so quick, you see ... eight weeks since we met, that's all. I don't mean that I'm any the less sure, but I don't know if she . . . well, she's so young."

"She's nineteen. Nowadays girls know their own minds at nineteen."

"Do they?" I caught a slight hesitation in his manner then, and wondered if he had been suddenly reminded of another nineteen-year-old, eight years ago at Whitescar. He said: "I rather thought Julie had given every indication of not knowing."

"Bill Fenwick? He's a nice boy, I think, but I assure you, you needn't worry about him."

"I wasn't thinking about Bill Fenwick,"

"What do you mean, then?"

"Connor."

"Con?" I stared for a moment, then said flatly: "If you'd asked me, I'd have said she didn't even like him." He had taken out his pipe, arid was filling it again, more, I thought, for something to fidget with than because he wanted to smoke. He glanced up across it, and I thought his look sharpened. "I should have thought he was the very sort of chap a girl would be bound to fall for."

"Oh, lord, lord, he's attractive," I said impatiently. "You might say devastating. But Julie's never shown any signs of falling for him, and she's had plenty chance to . . . Goodness knows, if she wasn't susceptible to sheer blazing good looks like Con's at fifteen or sixteen, then she probably never will be. You forget, she was brought up here; she probably thinks of him like a brother . . . and not a particularly favourite one."

"You think so? I'm not very knowledgeable about these things. It just seemed to be so likely, and so . . . suitable."

"Suitable? I doubt it! Anyway, Julie's not a nitwit, and she's had plenty of time to fall for Con if she was ever going to, instead of which ..." I paused, and brushed a finger idly over a tight purple thistle-top. "Things are a little—difficult—just now at Whitescar. I can't quite describe why . . . it's a sort of emotional climate

..."

"I know," he said, surprisingly. "Everyone seems a little too much aware of what other people are doing."

"You've felt it? Then you know what I mean. It's partly to do with my coming back, and Grandfather's stroke, and his making a new Will . . . oh, and everything. But it's rather horrid, and definitely unsettling. I know Julie's feeling it, and I'm so afraid she'll do something just plain silly. If it weren't for that, I'd be quite happy to settle back, and depend on her good sense and good taste, but just at present . . ." My voice trailed off, awkwardly.

"Do you know," said Donald, "whether you meant it or not, that was a compliment?" I glanced at him. He looked amused, relaxed, confident, calmly pressing the tobacco down into the bowl of his pipe. I suddenly realised that I had been tempering the wind to a fully-grown and completely self-possessed lamb. I had underrated Donald, and so (I thought with amused relief) had Julie. I took a little breath of relief. Then I grinned maliciously.

"Think nothing of it. That was my double tongue. How do you know I meant you?" His eyes twinkled. "It never occurred to me that you could mean anyone else. That's one of the blessings of being a Scot, a profound and unshakable conviction of your own worth."

"Then hang on to that, and forget about Con," I said. "Heavens above, what's got into me? Donald, don't ask me why, and blame me for an interfering so-and-so if you like, but I wish to goodness that you'd simply ask the girl!"

He sent me that sudden, transforming grin. "It'll be a pleasure. Now, come along, and be careful down this slope, there may be loose bits. Here, take my hand. That's it."

"Goodness, that water's deep, isn't it?"

"It is that. Round here now. It's all right, you can walk on the edge, the rock's safe." The water lay still and billiard-green in the shadow of the ledge where we stood. The edges of the pool were as sharply-quarried as those of a swimming-bath. On two sides the water was held in by a right-angle of the high cliff; at the side where we stood, the quarry was floored with flat, bare rock, as smooth as concrete, which dropped squarely away in front of us to the water-level some four feet below. Here the water was in shadow, oil-green, slightly opaque, and somehow dangerous-looking, but where the sunlight struck it, it was lucid with grass-green colour streaked with weed, and beneath the surface the planes of quarried rock showed clearly, coloured according to their depth, green-gold and gold-jade, like peaches drowned in chartreuse.

I said: "Why is it that even the most awe-inspiring things in nature, like volcanoes and ice-cliffs, and deserts and things, look kind and innocent compared with places where men have worked and built things, and then abandoned them? This is sinister"

He laughed. "Professionally speaking, I'd say it all depends if they were abandoned long enough ago. If a thing's old enough, it's purged, I suppose, of all die nastier wreckage—-like the rusty iron, and that old boot there; and can you tell me where in the world that pram can have come from?—like finding a nice clean skeleton, instead of a decaying body."

"For goodness' sake! You give me the creeps. Did you bring me here to show me a body?"

"No." He pointed down through the water towards one of the slanting slabs of stone that showed like a buttress shoring up the side of the pool. "Do you see that bit of rock?"

"The one that's lying on a slant? Yes. It looks as if it had been shaped, doesn't it? Such a nice, regular oblong."

"It has been shaped." Something in his voice made me look at him. He said: "Look at it again. Don't you see the marks?"

I peered down: "I... think so. I can't be sure. Do you mean what looks like a sort of rough scoring, diagonally across the block? That's not artificial, surely?"

"I think it was. Those marks would be sharply scored originally; chisel-marks. That block's been under water a long time, and even still water will smooth out a stone surface, given time." I stood up and looked at him. "Given time?"

"I don't know how long, because I don't know when this part of the quarry was flooded. But those stones down there were quarried about two thousand years ago."

"Two thou—" I stopped short and said, rather blankly: "You mean the Romans?"

"That's my guess. About two thousand years ago they opened a quarry here. Later, possibly much later, the 'white scar' among the woods was re-opened and worked again. Perhaps the Roman workings were already flooded; at any rate, new ones were started, and the original ones left to the weather. And now, this year, with this dry spring, and the drought, the water-level sinks a couple of feet just when I chance to be poking about in this part of the world, and I see the stones. That's how things happen."

"Is it—is it important? Forgive me, I'm terribly ignorant, but what does it tell you, apart from the fact that they got building stone from here, for the Wall?"

"Not for the Wall. Hardly, when they were driving that along the whin sill anyway. They quarried the stone for the Wall on the spot."

"For the fort at West Woodburn, then? Habitancum, where you're working?"

"The same applies. There's stone there. They dug the local stuff whenever they could, of course, to save time and transport,"

He seemed to be waiting, eyeing me in amiable expectation. It was a moment or two before the very simple conclusion presented itself.

"Oh! Yes, I get it. But, Donald, there's nothing Roman hereabouts, is there? At least, I've never heard of anything, and surely, if there were, the one-inch map would have it marked?"

"Exactly," said Donald.

I stared at him stupidly for a moment or two. "I... see 1 You think there may be something? Some Roman work that hasn't been found yet?"

He pushed his pipe down into a pocket, and turned away from the water's edge. "I've no idea," he said,

"but there's nothing to stop me looking, is there? And now, if you're ready, I'll be taking you down to Whitescar, and then I'll get along to see Mr. Forrest, and ask his leave to go poking around in his policies."