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And now, sure enough, the prodigal had returned—not in affliction, but in triumph. Harry Laxton had ‘made good’ as the saying goes. He had pulled himself together, worked hard, and had finally met and successfully wooed a young Anglo-French girl who was the possessor of a considerable fortune.
Harry might have lived in London, or purchased an estate in some fashionable hunting county, but he preferred to come back to the part of the world that was home to him. And there, in the most romantic way, he purchased the derelict estate in the dower house of which he had passed his childhood.
Kingsdean House had been unoccupied for nearly seventy years. It had gradually fallen into decay and abandon. An elderly caretaker and his wife lived in the one habitable corner of it. It was a vast, unprepossessing grandiose mansion, the gardens overgrown with rank vegetation and the trees hemming it in like some gloomy enchanter’s den.
The dower house was a pleasant, unpretentious house and had been let for a long term of years to Major Laxton, Harry’s father. As a boy, Harry had roamed over the Kingsdean estate and knew every inch of the tangled woods, and the old house itself had always fascinated him.
Major Laxton had died some years ago, so it might have been thought that Harry would have had no ties to bring him back—nevertheless it was to the home of his boyhood that Harry brought his bride. The ruined old Kingsdean House was pulled down. An army of builders and contractors swooped down upon the place, and in almost a miraculously short space of time—so marvellously does wealth tell—the new house rose white and gleaming among the trees.
Next came a posse of gardeners and after them a procession of furniture vans.
The house was ready. Servants arrived. Lastly, a costly limousine deposited Harry and Mrs Harry at the front door.
The village rushed to call, and Mrs Price, who owned the largest house, and who considered herself to lead society in the place, sent out cards of invitation for a party ‘to meet the bride’.
It was a great event. Several ladies had new frocks for the occasion. Everyone was excited, curious, anxious to see this fabulous creature. They said it was all so like a fairy story!
Miss Harmon, weather-beaten, hearty spinster, threw out her question as she squeezed her way through the crowded drawing-room door. Little Miss Brent, a thin, acidulated spinster, fluttered out information.
‘Oh, my dear, quite charming. Such pretty manners. And quite young. Really, you know, it makes one feel quite envious to see someone who has everything like that. Good looks and money and breeding—most distinguished, nothing in the least common about her—and dear Harry so devoted!’
‘Ah,’ said Miss Harmon, ‘it’s early days yet!’
Miss Brent’s thin nose quivered appreciatively. ‘Oh, my dear, do you really think—’
‘We all know what Harry is,’ said Miss Harmon.
‘We know what he was! But I expect now—’
‘Ah,’ said Miss Harmon, ‘men are always the same. Once a gay deceiver, always a gay deceiver. I know them.’
‘Dear, dear. Poor young thing.’ Miss Brent looked much happier. ‘Yes, I expect she’ll have trouble with him. Someone ought really to warn her. I wonder if she’s heard anything of the old story?’
‘It seems so very unfair,’ said Miss Brent, ‘that she should know nothing. So awkward. Especially with only the one chemist’s shop in the village.’
For the erstwhile tobacconist’s daughter was now married to Mr Edge, the chemist.
‘It would be so much nicer,’ said Miss Brent, ‘if Mrs Laxton were to deal with Boots in Much Benham.’
‘I dare say,’ said Miss Harmon, ‘that Harry Laxton will suggest that himself.’
And again a significant look passed between them.
‘But I certainly think,’ said Miss Harmon, ‘that she ought to know.’
II
‘Beasts!’ said Clarice Vane indignantly to her uncle, Doctor Haydock. ‘Absolute beasts some people are.’
He looked at her curiously.
She was a tall, dark girl, handsome, warm-hearted and impulsive. Her big brown eyes were alight now with indignation as she said, ‘All these cats—saying things—hinting things.’
‘About Harry Laxton?’
‘Yes, about his affair with the tobacconist’s daughter.’
‘Oh, that!’ The doctor shrugged his shoulders. ‘A great many young men have affairs of that kind.’
‘Of course they do. And it’s all over. So why harp on it? And bring it up years after? It’s like ghouls feasting on dead bodies.’
‘I dare say, my dear, it does seem like that to you. But you see, they have very little to talk about down here, and so I’m afraid they do tend to dwell upon past scandals. But I’m curious to know why it upsets you so much?’
Clarice Vane bit her lip and flushed. She said, in a curiously muffled voice. ‘They—they look so happy. The Laxtons, I mean. They’re young and in love, and it’s all so lovely for them. I hate to think of it being spoiled by whispers and hints and innuendoes and general beastliness.’
‘H’m. I see.’
Clarice went on. ‘He was talking to me just now. He’s so happy and eager and excited and—yes, thrilled—at having got his heart’s desire and rebuilt Kingsdean. He’s like a child about it all. And she—well, I don’t suppose anything has ever gone wrong in her whole life. She’s always had everything. You’ve seen her. What did you think of her?’
The doctor did not answer at once. For other people, Louise Laxton might be an object of envy. A spoiled darling of fortune. To him she had brought only the refrain of a popular song heard many years ago, Poor little rich girl—
A small, delicate figure, with flaxen hair curled rather stiffly round her face and big, wistful blue eyes.
Louise was drooping a little. The long stream of congratulations had tired her. She was hoping it might soon be time to go. Perhaps, even now, Harry might say so. She looked at him sideways. So tall and broad-shouldered with his eager pleasure in this horrible, dull party.
Poor little rich girl—
III
‘Ooph!’ It was a sigh of relief.
Harry turned to look at his wife amusedly. They were driving away from the party.
She said, ‘Darling, what a frightful party!’
Harry laughed. ‘Yes, pretty terrible. Never mind, my sweet. It had to be done, you know. All these old pussies knew me when I lived here as a boy. They’d have been terribly disappointed not to have got a look at you close up.’
Louise made a grimace. She said, ‘Shall we have to see a lot of them?’
‘What? Oh, no. They’ll come and make ceremonious calls with card cases, and you’ll return the calls and then you needn’t bother any more. You can have your own friends down or whatever you like.’
Louise said, after a minute or two, ‘Isn’t there anyone amusing living down here?’
‘Oh, yes. There’s the County, you know. Though you may find them a bit dull, too. Mostly interested in bulbs and dogs and horses. You’ll ride, of course. You’ll enjoy that. There’s a horse over at Eglinton I’d like you to see. A beautiful animal, perfectly trained, no vice in him but plenty of spirit.’
The car slowed down to take the turn into the gates of Kingsdean. Harry wrenched the wheel and swore as a grotesque figure sprang up in the middle of the road and he only just managed to avoid it. It stood there, shaking a fist and shouting after them.
Louise clutched his arm. ‘Who’s that—that horrible old woman?’
Harry’s brow was black. ‘That’s old Murgatroyd. She and her husband were caretakers in the old house. They were there for nearly thirty years.’
‘Why does she shake her fist at you?’
Harry’s face got red. ‘She—well, she resented the house being pulled down. And she got the sack, of course. Her husband’s been dead two years. They say she got a bit queer after he died.’
‘Is she—she isn’t—starving?’
Louise’s ideas we
re vague and somewhat melodramatic. Riches prevented you coming into contact with reality.
Harry was outraged. ‘Good Lord, Louise, what an idea! I pensioned her off, of course—and handsomely, too! Found her a new cottage and everything.’
Louise asked, bewildered, ‘Then why does she mind?’
Harry was frowning, his brows drawn together. ‘Oh, how should I know? Craziness! She loved the house.’
‘But it was a ruin, wasn’t it?’
‘Of course it was—crumbling to pieces—roof leaking—more or less unsafe. All the same I suppose it meant something to her. She’d been there a long time. Oh, I don’t know! The old devil’s cracked, I think.’
