it.”
“Not the best moment to have chosen to inspect your property,” Brock observed dryly, opening the door of his car.
“Oh, yes, it is,” she said, gazing at the house with eyes that were hypnotised by the snow and the sudden light, “It will never again seem quite the same, will it?”
“Get in,” he replied, unfeelingly, and, when she still stood there as if he had not spoken, he picked her up in a grip that was none too gentle and pushed her into the car.
Tears came as he turned down a short drive and out on to the snowy road, tears of exhaustion and the emotional reaction to a new and strange experience.
“You cry very easily,” he remarked, and she expostulated with the indignant shame of a child:
“I don’t. But I’m not used to days like this—being lost in a blizzard and discovering an inheritance at the same time.”
She thought he smiled in the darkness, but the snow could play tricks as well as the mountains and she was not sure. “Hardly a blizzard,” he said, “though it may be one before morning. You are not at all fitted for the future your aunt has planned for you, Miss Sabina Lamb.
“Why?”
“Because you will expect miracles—or, at least, romantic manifestations—and a marriage of convenience is not likely to provide either.”
“Oh,” she said a little blankly, then, aware suddenly that she had received little consideration from him, she added severely:
“I don’t think you’ve been very kind, Mr. Brockman. I haven’t been attempting a difficult mountain, I know, but the experience was quite gruelling enough for a first attempt.”
“Yes, for a first attempt I think it was,” he replied with unexpected agreement, “but don’t let it give you exalted ideas. Your path is set in ordered places. Initiative is not for you.”
“I might have got another chill,” she said, trying to assert her own importance.
“If you have,” he returned, unimpressed, “you will be tiresome rather than interesting. Bunny’s P.G.s are not expected to give trouble.”
She was silent after that, and it was not long before they reached the rectory. Bunny herself was standing at the open door while the snow drifted gently over the threshold.
“Thank God!” Bunny said fervently, and her face looked old and pinched. “Did you find her at Penruthan, Brock?”
“Yes. She’d taken a bee-line straight across the moor. She seems to think that was quite an achievement.”
Over Sabina’s head, Bunny met his quizzical look with
raised eyebrows.
“I think it was,” she replied quietly, and as Sabina began to cry, she led her away into the warmth of the living-room.
CHAPTER FIVE
WHEN Sabina awoke the next morning the character of her room had subtly altered. A hard snowlight touched the white walls with cold brilliance and the mountains in the photographs stood out, clear and defined. Sabina ran to the window to look out on the changed countryside and caught her breath at the sudden beauty of the landscape. The bleak savagery of the moor was hidden by the unbroken expanse of snow, and blue shadows gave the hollows the semblance of glaciers to her enchanted eyes. The tors on the horizon looked like distant mountains with their covering of snow, and even the graves beyond the garden had taken kindlier shapes.
Sabina dressed with feverish haste, not wanting to miss a moment of such delight, and she reached the little back parlour where they breakfasted before Bunny had made the coffee.
“You were meant to breakfast in bed,” Bunny said, sounding quite flustered. “I trust you have not taken another chill after your experience yesterday. You should have waited until I called you, dear.”
Brock, glancing up from his morning’s mail, observed dryly:
“You sound like the proverbial hen with one chick. Such concern!”
“Well, it’s more than you showed me,” Sabina retorted somewhat tartly, and he grinned.
“Quite right,” he said. “I’m glad to see you can answer
“Not the best moment to have chosen to inspect your property,” Brock observed dryly, opening the door of his car.
“Oh, yes, it is,” she said, gazing at the house with eyes that were hypnotised by the snow and the sudden light, “It will never again seem quite the same, will it?”
“Get in,” he replied, unfeelingly, and, when she still stood there as if he had not spoken, he picked her up in a grip that was none too gentle and pushed her into the car.
Tears came as he turned down a short drive and out on to the snowy road, tears of exhaustion and the emotional reaction to a new and strange experience.
“You cry very easily,” he remarked, and she expostulated with the indignant shame of a child:
“I don’t. But I’m not used to days like this—being lost in a blizzard and discovering an inheritance at the same time.”
She thought he smiled in the darkness, but the snow could play tricks as well as the mountains and she was not sure. “Hardly a blizzard,” he said, “though it may be one before morning. You are not at all fitted for the future your aunt has planned for you, Miss Sabina Lamb.
“Why?”
“Because you will expect miracles—or, at least, romantic manifestations—and a marriage of convenience is not likely to provide either.”
“Oh,” she said a little blankly, then, aware suddenly that she had received little consideration from him, she added severely:
“I don’t think you’ve been very kind, Mr. Brockman. I haven’t been attempting a difficult mountain, I know, but the experience was quite gruelling enough for a first attempt.”
“Yes, for a first attempt I think it was,” he replied with unexpected agreement, “but don’t let it give you exalted ideas. Your path is set in ordered places. Initiative is not for you.”
“I might have got another chill,” she said, trying to assert her own importance.
“If you have,” he returned, unimpressed, “you will be tiresome rather than interesting. Bunny’s P.G.s are not expected to give trouble.”
She was silent after that, and it was not long before they reached the rectory. Bunny herself was standing at the open door while the snow drifted gently over the threshold.
“Thank God!” Bunny said fervently, and her face looked old and pinched. “Did you find her at Penruthan, Brock?”
“Yes. She’d taken a bee-line straight across the moor. She seems to think that was quite an achievement.”
Over Sabina’s head, Bunny met his quizzical look with
raised eyebrows.
“I think it was,” she replied quietly, and as Sabina began to cry, she led her away into the warmth of the living-room.
CHAPTER FIVE
WHEN Sabina awoke the next morning the character of her room had subtly altered. A hard snowlight touched the white walls with cold brilliance and the mountains in the photographs stood out, clear and defined. Sabina ran to the window to look out on the changed countryside and caught her breath at the sudden beauty of the landscape. The bleak savagery of the moor was hidden by the unbroken expanse of snow, and blue shadows gave the hollows the semblance of glaciers to her enchanted eyes. The tors on the horizon looked like distant mountains with their covering of snow, and even the graves beyond the garden had taken kindlier shapes.
Sabina dressed with feverish haste, not wanting to miss a moment of such delight, and she reached the little back parlour where they breakfasted before Bunny had made the coffee.
“You were meant to breakfast in bed,” Bunny said, sounding quite flustered. “I trust you have not taken another chill after your experience yesterday. You should have waited until I called you, dear.”
Brock, glancing up from his morning’s mail, observed dryly:
“You sound like the proverbial hen with one chick. Such concern!”
“Well, it’s more than you showed me,” Sabina retorted somewhat tartly, and he grinned.
“Quite right,” he said. “I’m glad to see you can answer
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