“She’s a sort of second cousin of ours,” Cecil explained. “Probably you never came across her. Besides, she’d hardly be out of the nursery when you went off to South Africa. Well, she’s grown up now—just about a year or two younger than Joan. You’ll see her for yourself. She’s staying with us just now for this coming-of-age of Joan’s.”
Sir Clinton had no great difficulty in guessing, behind Cecil’s restraint, his actual feelings about the girl. His voice gave him away if the words did not.
“No use making a long story of it, is there?” Cecil continued. “Both Maurice and I wanted Una. So did a good many others. But she didn’t want Maurice. She was quite nice about it. He’d nothing to complain of in that way. He got no encouragement from her at all. But he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. He was really extra keen, and I think he overdid it instead of making the best of a bad business. And finally he realized that it was me that he was up against. Una and I aren’t officially engaged, or anything like that—you’ll see why in a moment—but it’s a case of two’s company and three’s none; and Maurice knows he’s Number Three.”
There was more than a tinge of rancour in Cecil’s voice when he came to this last sentence. Sir Clinton raised his eyebrows slightly. He did not quite admire this malevolence on the part of the successful lover against his defeated rival. Cecil apparently noticed the slight change in the Chief Constable’s expression.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “You haven’t heard it all yet. Before I go on, just bear in mind that there was plenty of money for all of us in the family. My father always took it for granted that I’d have enough to keep me. He’d never thought of my going into business. I’ve got some sort of turn for writing; and I think he hoped that I’d make some kind of name as an author. And, of course, with what I supposed was an assured income behind me, I haven’t hurried much in the way of publishing my stuff. I could afford to let it lie—or so I thought.”
A slight gesture of Sir Clinton showed his approval of this outlook on authorship. It seemed to him that Cecil at his age could hardly have much to tell the world that it didn’t know already; but he had no intention of expressing any such discouraging views.
“You see how it is,” Cecil continued. “As things stand, I haven’t the ghost of a chance of earning a decent income for years and years. And that was the weak joint that Maurice saw and went for—damn him! He took it upon himself to tell me that I was here more or less on sufferance. He’d been generous in the past—he actually reminded me of that!—but he didn’t see how he was to continue to subsidize me indefinitely. You see his game? If he couldn’t have Una himself, he’d take care that I shouldn’t have her either. Damned dog-in-the-manger! That’s a nice sort of brother for you! I wonder what his father would think about him if he knew of this trick.”
He pitched away the stub of his unfinished cigarette as though with it he could rid himself of some of his feelings.
“Of course there was friction—I’m putting it mildly—but there was no open row. My mother’s not in good health and I couldn’t afford to have her worried over my affairs. So we settled down to some sort of armed neutrality, although the thing’s more or less evident to most people. That’s what I meant when I said I might be kicked out any day. It’s only a question of time, it seems to me. He still thinks that if I were out of the way he’d have a chance with Una; and sooner or later I expect him to give me an express-ticket into the wide world. I’m trying to get some sort of job; but so far I haven’t succeeded in lighting on anything that seems to offer the slightest prospects. It’s no pleasure to stay here on sufferance, I can tell you.”
Now that Sir Clinton had received Cecil’s unsolicited confidences, he hardly knew what to do with them. After all, he reflected, he had heard only one side of the story; and it was scarcely fair to judge the case on the strength of an ex-parte statement. It was not quite the Ravensthorpe which he had expected, he admitted ruefully to himself as he bent his efforts to bringing Cecil back to normal again. Money and a girl: the two things that seemed to lie behind most troubles—and even crimes, as he knew from experience. It seemed an unkind Fate that had forced these two factors to the front in an environment where trouble of the kind was the last that might have been expected. One never knew what this sort of thing might lead to in the end.
“I’d like to have a look at your father’s collections some time or other,” he said at last, to change the subject, when he had succeeded in getting Cecil into a somewhat cooler frame of mind. “I saw a good many of the things in London from time to time, as he bought them; but there must be a lot here at Ravensthorpe that will be new to me. Anything your father bought will be worth looking at. He had wonderful taste.”
