Free Gates of Dawn by Susan Barrie Page B

to live in. He probably plans for you to become its mistress, and then you can begin your programme of looking after him. ”
    “ With Mrs. Abbie doing the actual running of the place? ” She smiled sceptically. “ You heard what he said about Mrs. Abbie. He thinks she ’ s the most wonderful housekeeper in existence. ”
    “ Which she probably is. I don ’ t think she would have lasted so long with your uncle if she hadn ’ t the most extraordinary qualifications to commend her. ”
    “ That ’ s what I mean, ” Noel said. “ He has no time for inefficiency! I couldn ’ t hope to c ompete with her, and in any case he ’ ll probably be getting married quite soon —”
    Melanie was struggling with the rearrangement of their assortment of hand luggage on the rack, and she paused, struck by the shrewdness—and the apparent powers of observation—of the sixteen-year-old.
    “ Oh! ” she exclaimed. “ Is he thinking of getting married? ”
    “ If he isn ’ t, Sylvia Gaythorpe is thinking of marrying him! ” Noe l frowned down at an advertisement in one of the glossy magazines, and then flicked over a page. “ And she ’ s so beautiful! She really is beautiful, and I can ’ t help admiring her enormo u sly, and she was wonderful in that film we saw—but I don ’ t know whether I should like to have her for an aunt! ”
    “ If I were you, ” Melanie advised her, thankful that an attendant was approaching along the corridor and that she could create a diversion by ordering coffee, “ I wouldn ’ t bother my head about such matters until you have to. There is such a thing as crossing your bridges before you get to them, you know. ”
    The afternoon was already closing in when they reached Haveringford, but Noel ’ s questing eyes made out the hilly grandeur on all sides of them. A single shaft of red-gold late afternoon sunlight gilded the piled-up purple distance, and transmuted the shabby vehicle in which they were to travel the last lap of the journey to a temporarily pleasing fiery chariot. But even so it was bitterly cold—a cold which stung like the sharp thrust of knives after the damp, depressing cold of London—and both girls were glad of the rug which was wrapped round their knees. Their luggage made the journey piled up behind them on the luggage grid.
    Noel was tired after her long day devoted to travelling, and Melanie was glad, when they finally reached the Wold House, to find that Mrs. Abbie had more than justified her advance journey. She had a huge fire glowing half-way up the chimney in the library, and something more in the nature of a most welcome high tea awaited them after their cold car-ride.
    To Melanie ’ s eyes the whole house had been transformed, and was an oasis of comfort and quiet after the prim luxuriousness of Hill Street. When she had seen Noel into bed in the room which conveniently adjoined her own she wandered round it, taking in all the carefully thought out appointments, and the many improvements which, had been made. The bedrooms were airily comfortable, and her own was both tasteful and artistic. She wondered whether the plain green carpet, like a carpet of moss, and the highly-glazed chintz with a tiny pattern of violets and harebells on a cl ear primrose ground was the choice of the new owner of the house, or someone whom he had employed. And she particularly admired her magnificent specimen of a walnut tallboy, and the deep, comfortable, tapestry-covered chair which stood, cheek-by-jowl with a handy little low table, drawn up close to the fire.
    The lampshades were all new and unusual, shedding a warm amber light over the room, and the bathroom she shared with Noel lacked nothing in its equipment.
    Yet the house still retained its atmosphere—its unassailable, reassuring atmosphere of solidity and age which had been the one thing about it which had impressed itself upon both Melanie and Richard Trenchard when they had seen it first. The hall echoed to the