Well, it was the way of the world, and perhaps it must be so, but the thought of it made Alan Vernon sad. If he could have continued that business, it might have been otherwise. By this hour his late partners, Sir Robert Aylward and Mr. Champers-Haswell, were doubtless sitting in their granite office in the City, probably in consultation with Lord Specton, who had taken his place upon the Board of the great Company which was being subscribed that day. No doubt applications for shares were pouring in by the early posts and by telegram, and from time to time Mr. Jeffreys respectfully reported their number and amount, while Sir Robert looked unconcerned and Mr. Haswell rubbed his hands and whistled cheerfully. Almost he could envy them, these men who were realizing great fortunes amidst the bustle and excitement of that fierce financial life, whilst he stood penniless and stared at the trees and the ewes which wandered among them with their lambs, he who, after all his work, was but a failure. With a sigh he turned away to fetch his cap and go out walking--there was a tenant whom he must see, a shifty, new-fangled kind of man who was always clamouring for fresh buildings and reductions in his rent. How was he to pay for more buildings? He must put him off, or let him go.
Just then a sharp sound caught his ear, that of an electric bell. It came from the telephone which, since he had been a member of a City firm, he had caused to be put into Yarleys at considerable expense in order that he might be able to communicate with the office in London.
"Were they calling him up from force of habit?" he wondered. He went to the instrument which was fixed in a little room he used as a study, and took down the receiver.
"Who is it?" he asked. "I am Yarleys. Alan Vernon."
"And I am Barbara," came the answer. "How are you, dear? Did you sleep well?"
"No, very badly."
"Nerves--Alan, you have got nerves. Now although I had a worse day than you did, I went to bed at nine, and protected by a perfect conscience, slumbered till nine this morning, exactly twelve hours.
Isn't it clever of me to think of this telephone, which is more than you would ever have done? My uncle has departed to London vowing that no letter from you shall enter this house, but he forgot that there is a telephone in every room, and in fact at this moment I am speaking round by his office within a yard or two of his head. However, he can't hear, so that doesn't matter. My blessing be on the man who invented telephones, which hitherto I have always thought an awful nuisance. Are you feeling cheerful, Alan?"
"Very much the reverse," he answered; "never was more gloomy in my life, not even when I thought I had to die within six hours of blackwater fever. Also I have lots that I want to talk to you about and I can't do it at the end of this confounded wire that your uncle may be tapping."
"I thought it might be so," answered Barbara, "so I just rang you up to wish you good-morning and to say that I am coming over in the motor to lunch with my maid Snell as chaperone. All right, don't remonstrate, I /am coming/ over to lunch--I can't hear you--never mind what people will say. I am coming over to lunch at one o'clock, mind you are in. Good-bye, I don't want much to eat, but have something for Snell and the chauffeur. Good-bye."
Then the wire went dead, nor could all Alan's "Hello's" and "Are you there's?" extract another syllable.
Having ordered the best luncheon that his old housekeeper could provide Alan went off for his walk in much better spirits, which were further improved by his success in persuading the tenant to do without the new buildings for another year. In a year, he reflected, anything might happen. Then he returned by the wood where a number of new- felled oaks lay ready for barking. This was not a cheerful sight; it seemed so cruel to kill the great trees just as they were pushing their buds for another summer of life. But he consoled himself by recalling that they had been too crowded and that the timber was really needed on the estate. As he reached the house again carrying a bunch of white violets which he had plucked in a sheltered place for Barbara, he perceived a motor travelling at much more than the legal speed up the walnut avenue which was the pride of the place. In it sat that young lady herself, and her maid, Snell, a middle-aged woman with whom, as it chanced, he was on very good terms, as once, at some trouble to himself, he had been able to do her a kindness.
The motor pulled up at the front door and out of it sprang Barbara, laughing pleasantly and looking fresh and charming as the spring itself.
"There will be a row over this, dear," said Alan, shaking his head doubtfully when at last they were alone together in the hall.
"Of course, there'll be a row," she answered. "I mean that there should be a row. I mean to have a row every day if necessary, until they leave me alone to follow my own road, and if they won't, as I said, to go to the Court of Chancery for protection. Oh! by the way, I have brought you a copy of /The Judge/. There's a most awful article in it about that Sahara flotation, and among other things it announces that you have left the firm and congratulates you upon having done so."
"They'll think I have put it in," groaned Alan as he glanced at the head lines, which were almost libellous in their vigour, and the summaries of the financial careers of Sir Robert Aylward and Mr.
Champers-Haswell. "It will make them hate me more than ever, and I say, Barbara, we can't live in an atmosphere of perpetual warfare for the next two years."
"I can, if need be," answered that determined young woman. "But I admit that it would be trying for you, if you stay here."
"That's just the point, Barbara. I must not stay here, I must go away, the further the better, until you are your own mistress."
"Where to, Alan?"
"To West Africa, I think."
"To West Africa?" repeated Barbara, her voice trembling a little.
"After that treasure, Alan?"
"Yes, Barbara. But first come and have your lunch, then we will talk.
I have got lots to tell and show you."
