Precious Waif

By Anne Hampson

Mills and Boon, 1969

Precious Waif

by Anne Hampson

Harlequin Romance - 1969

Cathy was completely alone in the world when her unknown

uncle Charles Blythe appeared on the scene to rescue her, and

Cathy was duly grateful. But there was one thing about her Uncle

Charles that Cathy didn't know .. .

CHAPTER I

ON either side of the valley the crags rose steeply to merge with

the sky as the shadows deepened over the wild, uninhabited

moorlands. A blue mist hung suspended, then dropped like a

curtain, only to rise again, swirling, wraith-like, as if performing

some mysterious ritual dance.

The path skirting the clough held many perils, but the girl moved

with the Base and grace of a fawn, her step light, unerring, her

head erect.

Higher and higher she went, part the entrance to the old Hall

until, reaching a break in the gritstone fence, she left the path and

made her way through the bracken towards a distant knoll.

Near the crest of the knoll, in gaunt outline against a sombre sky,

stood a circle of yews, guardians of the resting place of the

Fanshawes, one-time owners of the Hall and the vast Callderton

estate.

The Hall lay in ruins, the burial ground neglected except for one

grave, with the soil newly-turned.

For a long while the girl stood by the grave, her hands clenched,

her eyes moist, and in her heart a hatred so intense that it seemed

to envelop her whole being.

Retracing her steps at last, she paused now and then to peer

down into the main valley far below. Dimly she could make out

the row of huts, high on a rise above the river bank, defacing the

landscape. Strewn along the valley floor ancient trees lay dying

where they had been torn from the soil, grim evidence that man

and machine were continuing their work of destruction. The last of

the Fanshawes had died of a broken heart because of the rape of

his land—or so it was laid. That was forty years ago, when the first

reservoir had been built, further downstream.

And now Paul, her father, who had also loved the valley.

He had been born there, and his father and grandfather before

him. Hardy folk they were, those who chose to live on the lonely

Pennine moors. Close-knit and staunch, they were an isolated

community, bound by one common endeavour, that of wresting a

precarious living from the unyielding land.

They had put up a formidable resistance to the Callder Valley

Scheme, but their fight was hopeless from the start. How could

they, a mere handful of people, oppose the powers of a great city,

or flaunt the government order?

One by one the families had left, and as each property became

vacant it was demolished in order to prevent pollution. The toil of

generations was destroyed in hours as orchards and gardens were

razed and barns and sheds burned down.

Only Paul had held out, for more than a year. Coming to a bend

in the stream, where a resistant band of rock had caused a

waterfall to form, the girl stopped, casting anxious eyes around,

seeking for the stakes which would tell her how high the waters

would eventually rise. The stakes were spaced fairly evenly over

the area to be submerged and, finding the one nearest to her, she

breathed a sigh of relief. The waterfall had been one of Paul's

favourite spots. It was to be saved.

The cottage came into view. Low and thatched, it nestled in the

curve of the terrace by the Packhorse Bridge where Hunter's

Clough joined the main valley of the Callder. A light flickered in the

window; Mrs Foster was there, Mrs Foster from the lonely inn half a

mile away. She had no need to come, for she was merely a

neighbour, but she was homely and kind, and she worried about

people.

Pushing open the door, the girl entered the tiny kitchen. It had

an air of warmth and mellowness; it smelt of paraffin and burning

logs. On the hearth a cat stretched lazily, then settled down again

to resume its disturbed slumber. Taking it all in one helpless,

despairing glance, the girl moved to the fire and held out her hands

to the blaze.

"Cathy love, where have you been? Not up to that grave again?

You shouldn't, child, it's morbid." Mrs Foster emerged from the

scullery, wiping her hands on her apron. "I've tidied up, and there's

a pie in the oven. I don't suppose you've eaten today?"

Cathy made no reply. The money had almost run out, but pride

would not allow her to admit it. Turning to the window, she rested

her elbows on the wide sill and stood gazing out towards the huts.

Lights had appeared in the windows and men could be seen mov-

ing about. Which hut was he in? she wondered.

"Mrs Foster, have you ever hated anyone so much that it made

you—ache inside?" she asked, without turning her head.

"No, I haven't, and neither should you ! The man's an absolute

stranger, and likely to remain so. You don't even know his name !"

The girl's brooding gaze settled on a truck by one of the lighted

windows. Brown and Davis … , but neither Brown nor Davis existed

any more.

"He killed my father."

"Pour father had a stroke; lots of people have them—my own

father did. Now sit down, love, and I'll get your pie. You'll feel

better when you've eaten."

The table was already laid, and Cathy sat down. No matter

what Mrs Foster said that man—the `Big Boss' as the valley folk

had called him—was responsible for her father's death.

Mrs Foster brought the pie from the oven and put it on the table.

"Have a good tuck in, child, while I make you a drink." She went

outside to fill the kettle from the pump, and Cathy listened for the

familiar sound of water dancing between the boulders. The stream

by her door did not go very far; already it was diverted, piped into

the Tordale Reservoir downstream, leaving a section of the valley

dry in order that work on the dam could proceed. Mrs Foster

returned with the kettle and put it on the fire.

"They say the artificial Lake will enhance the valley," she

submitted, as if reading Cathy's thoughts. "You must admit the

Tordale Reservoir is very pretty."

"Man never improved on nature." Cathy helped herself to a

generous portion of pie, surprised to find she would actually enjoy

the meal. "It's good of you to come, Mrs Foster. Thank you very

much for making the pie."

The old woman watched her in silence for some time, noting the

painful thinness of her amis and body, the unnatural pallor of her

skin and the sadness in her eyes. They were an unusual colour of

smoky grey, and far too large for her face. Her pair, long and

straight, was the deep rich colour of tarnished bronze.

"Perhaps you have lived too long with nature," she said, ignoring

Cathy's thanks. "Your father was a dreamer and you take after

him. I hate to say this, being as it's not much more than a fortnight

since he died, but it would have been much better if he'd given

more time to preparing you for life and less to his study of the

rocks. What good that does anyone I fait 'to see !"

"Paul wrote some wonderful papers on the evolution of the

Pennines," began Cathy, then she stopped. Mrs Foster would not

understand that Paul had been a brilliant geomorphologist, nor

could she imagine the thrill of knowing just why that mountain was

there, or this valley here; or why the river ran straight at this point

but meandered at that; or why it made a steepsided valley in its

highland stage, yet flowed through a flood-plain as it neared the

sea. All these things Paul had taught her and much, much more

besides. She knew, for example, just why this particular Pennine

valley was so suitable for the construction of a reservoir. Soft water

owing to the absence of time, high rainfall and, because of the

nature of its rock structure the beds, or rock layers, dipped towards

the river. This meant that the maximum amount of water would

eventually be conserved. Yes, Paul had always known that the

synclinal nature of the valley would one day spell its doom.

"Well, he didn't make much money from them," Mrs Foster

retorted, reaching for the tea caddy. It would have been far more

sensible if Paul had left the valley years ago and found himself a

proper job !"

"He had me to look after from a baby, remember," said Cathy

with some indignation. In her eyes, everything her father had

done was right. Her mother had died when Cathy was only three

months old, and since then he'd given himself up almost entirely

to his studies. As Cathy grew older she too became keenly

interested and whatever the weather they could both be seen,

high on the moorlands or hillside, equipped with field notebooks

and maps, binoculars and hammers. No one had ever quite

understood what they were doing, and Cathy knew Mrs Foster

had always regarded it as a waste of time, especially as the only

profit from all that work had been the odd pound or two which

Paul occasionally received from some obscure magazine in which

one of his articles had appeared.

"We've got to do something about you, Cathy love." Mrs Foster's

voice broke in on Cathy's thoughts. She watched as the old woman

poured her tea, and then poured a cup for herself. "You cannot

stay here much longer, you know."

"I'm quite resigned," returned Cathy in flat tones. "I had a letter

from the Water Board this morning; they've given me a week. The

cottage will be demolished on the first of April." Her lips trembled

and her eyes shone, dark and intense. "It's his doing, of course.

There's no need for me to go yet; it will be twelve months before

the flooding begins, and it's only then that this part of the valley

will be involved."

A deep sigh escaped Mrs Foster as she began to explain that,

while anyone still lived in the valley, some pollution must inevitably

take place.

"He's only doing a job of work," she went on, clearly trying to

reason with Cathy, "and your father must have held him up, no

matter what you say. Personally, I think he's been extraordinarily

patient. If you'll excuse my saying so, Paul was a very stubborn

man."

"A good man, though," submitted Cathy quietly. "He would

create rather than destroy, never interfere with the beauties of

nature simply to put money in his pocket."

Pushing her plate away, she drew her cup and saucer towards

her. But the tea choked her and she rose and went over to the

window again. The scene had now become indistinct, but she had

a mental picture of the whole devastated area. Giant-sized

machines whose function it was to scar and gash the valley sides;

great trucks piled high with what was now termed `timber'.

Other trucks standing in readiness for the loading of those trees

which lay about, mutilated and dying. Tomorrow there would be

more felling, and the next day, and the next. All the doomed

trees were marked by a great splash of white paint; the trees she

and the other children had climbed, the friendly oak in which

they had made their `den', the trees that had sheltered the

garden front sun and wind, and the house from the savage

storms that raged across the moors in winter. All these must go,

by order of one man. Who was he to order the destruction of a

thousand trees? How could he live with that on his conscience?

But he had no conscience. He was ruthless and arrogant, hated

by his staff and even unpopular with the designers of the

reservoir, with whom he should be working in close liaison.

Typical of him, she thought, to find fault with the design, to

consider himself capable of improving on the work of experts.

Rumour also had it that, after his uncle had brought him into the

firm as a young consultant geologist, he had repaid the old man's

kindness by ousting him completely and taking his place as head

of the firm.

"That man's wicked, Mrs Foster, and I hope that one day he'll be

punished." The vehemence of her words brought a troubled frown

to Mrs Foster's brow, and she spoke with unusual sharpness.

"It's very wrong for a young girl to have such hatred in her heart !

Your dislike of this man stems entirely from the fact of his being the

head of the contractors.

But don’t forget it was the Water Board that acquired this land,

and it's been known for many years that another reservoir would

eventually have to be built here. If his firm weren't doing the job

then another one would be. How would you have liked to have

been in Lowport three summers ago when the town's water supply

was completely cut off? Don't think me and my Joe like this any

more than you do, but we know it's got to be. Towns must have

water, and so men must build reservoirs."

Logic in those words, Cathy had to admit. It was true that during

a severe drought three years ago the Tordale Reservoir had dried

up. The previous winter millions of gallons of water had been lost

when, after weeks of torrential rain, the reservoir had overflowed.

The new Callderton Reservoir would collect this excess water during

the winter, so ensuring a constant supply to the downstream

reservoir during the drier summer months.

"I know you're right, in a way," she owned, "but I still can't help

hating him. Paul became so harassed, especially when all our barns

and sheds were demolished. I'm sure he expected the cottage to be

demolished, too, about our ears. That's what caused the stroke—I

know it. That man could have left us alone for at least another

year."

Mrs Foster shrugged. She obviously thought the subject

unprofitable, for she changed it.

"Have you- any idea what you're going to do?"

Cathy shook her head and for the first time fear entered her

voice.

"No—I can't think properly yet. If I had a little more time, so that

I could get over Paul...."

"You can't live up here all alone, dear, even if we could manage

to persuade them to give you more time. Our Doris goes home

next week so she won't be able to sleep with you. My other

granddaughter is coming for a visit, but I don't know when." She

paused as Cathy came back to the table and began to sip her tea,

which had now gone cold. "What a scrap you are!" she exclamed

involuntarily, as Cathy, suddenly shivering, drew her cardigan more

closely around her thin body and began to button it up. "No one

will ever take you for nineteen—you look no more than sixteen. I

don't know what's to become of you, I'm sure !"

Cathy didn't know, either. All her life she'd been one with nature,

a creature of the wilds. She knew nothing of the busy world down

there on the plain, nothing of people or of life. Yet she did not

blame her father, for she'd always been content with her lot. And

she could not agree with Mrs Foster when she asserted that Paul

had been selfish, that he hadn't cared that his daughter would one

day have to face the world, innocent and unprotected against the

dangers lurking there. Nevertheless, she did wonder how she would

live, and how she was to support herself. Her fears were once more

revealed and Mrs Foster spoke kindly, saying that she hoped Cathy

wouldn't be upset, but they had better go through the box of

papers which she had mentioned the other day.

"There may be someone, somewhere, who would have you for a

while," she went on, "just until you get on your feet, as it were."

"I have no one." Cathy spoke without interest. "But you can

examine Paul's papers if you wish. It won't upset me."

"Then I'll fetch them down. Clear the table, so that we can sort

them out. From what I could see they appeared to be in something

of a muddle."

No doubt about that. Mixed up with old bills and birth

certificates were numerous papers dealing with Paul's theories

regarding the evolution of the Pennines. There was also a technical

treatise on the glaciation of the region and another entitled, `The

Environmental History of the Sand Grains from the Carboniferous

of Derbyshire'.

"I suppose," said Mrs Foster with undisguised sarcasm, "that you

know what this is all about?" "Oh, yes." Cathy's eyes brightened

momentarily. "We did ever such a lot of work on that. You see, it's

been discovered that the histories of sediments can be interpreted

from the surface textures of sand grains, and therefore—" The look

directed at her brought Cathy's explanation to a halt. "It was all

very interesting," she added lamely.

"It must have been," was the dry comment, and then, "Here, sort

there out while I see what I can do with this little pile."

They worked silently, in the light of the oil lamp. At the end of

half an hour Cathy leant back in her chair.

"I knew there wasn't anyone," she said with renewed fear. "Paul

always said we only had each other."

Mrs foster was absorbed in an old faded diary; she put it on the

table as Cathy spoke and began to agree with her. But on noticing

Cathy's expression she became silent again and picking up the

diary she flicked the pages until she found what she wanted. After

a slight hesitation she calmly announced that Cathy had an uncle

who, at the time of the entry in the diary, was living in

Leicestershire.

"An uncle?" Cathy stared unbelievingly, though her eyes shone

with hope. "What's his name?"

"Charles Blythe."

"I've never heard of him. What does it say about him?" Cathy

leant across the table in an attitude of puzzled inquiry and was

surprised to find Mrs Foster avoiding her eyes. "That's Mother's

diary, isn't it? When was the entry made?"

"Let me see ... nineteen years ago. There's quite a story here," she

added, again flicking the pages. "Pour mother had a sister who

married a man named Peter Blythe. They went out to Australia."

"Yes, that's right; Aunt Margaret, it was. But both she and Uncle

Peter are dead. I never remember seeing 'either of them."

"Your Uncle Peter had a brother who lived in Leicestershire. His

address is here, at the back of the diary. It could be that he still lives

there."

The light went out of Cathy's eyes.

"I didn't know about this brother, but in any case, he wouldn't be

any relation to me." Her mouth trembled with disappointment and

she made a valiant effort to check the tears which threatened. "I

knew we had no relatives," she ended, on a little sob.

"He's a sort of uncle," said Mrs Foster, obviously determined to

find a link. "If he's your uncle's brother then he too must be your

uncle—yes, I'm sure that's right."

"But Uncle Peter is dead."

"What difference does that make?" Mrs Foster closed the diary, a

thoughtful expression on her face. "Could still live there," she said

again. "I’ll take this home, if you don't mind, and write to him

tonight. We should have a reply by Thursday."

Could this Charles Blythe really be her uncle? Cathy wondered,

unaware that she clung to a straw. Had she someone of her own,

after all? If her mother had written about him nineteen years ago

he must be quite old by now, for Uncle Peter had been over thirty

when he married Aunt Margaret. Yes, he must be middle-aged, at

least, and probably like Paul in other ways, h —kind and gentle

and patient. A smile of gratitude touched her lips as she glanced

across at Mrs Foster.

"You're so good to go to all this trouble for me, and you did so

much for Paul during his illness. And now, if you c-can persuade m-

my uncle to have me—" Emotion swept over her suddenly and Mrs

Foster put in soothingly,

"There, pet, don't you dare cry after being so brave all this time.

Leave it to me," she added, a determined glint in her eye. "If I don't

get you nicely fixed up my name's not Annie Foster !"

The reply to Mrs Foster's letter had not come by Friday and

Cathy said, in some desperation,

"He won't answer, I know he won't. Why should he? After all, we

aren't really related."

Nevertheless, when Mrs Foster arrived at the cottage on

Saturday afternoon Cathy's first words were, "Have you heard from

my—uncle?"

"No, love, but—but I'm sure we shall hear something on

Monday." Her tope, and the way she avoided her gaze, made

Cathy frown in puzzlement. It almost seemed as if the old woman

had spoken impulsively, and that the now wished she could take

Jack Chose words and say something altogether different. Had she

heard from Charles Blythe? Had he replied, refusing his help?

Considering the position from his point of view Cathy felt he would

be fully justified in refusing to accept responsibility for an unknown

girl, a girl who, he must know, was not in any way related to him.

She continued to stare at the laid woman, who had suddenly

begun to clear away the dishes from the table. She appeared

unconformable, and a little angry; for a moment Cathy felt sure

she'd received a curt and definite refusal from Charles Blythe, but

after some consideration she had to own that her suspicions were

ridiculous. For if Mrs Foster had received a reply to her letter there

was nothing to be gained by remaining silent about it.

"Do you really think he'll reply by Monday?" Cathy's voice broke

as fear overwhelmed her at the thought of having to be out of the

cottage by Tuesday. "I'm frightened now, Mrs Foster. Where can I

go?"

"You'll have to come to us for a while," Mrs Foster began, when

Cathy interrupted her.

"Mr Foster said right at the beginning that he wouldn't be

involved," she reminded her dully, and the old woman's mouth

compressed.

"Never worry, dear. I’ll go dong and see this—" Flushing hotly, she

broke off, acutely aware of Cathy's glance of surprised inquiry.

"What I mean is, I'll go with you into Lowport on Monday and see if

we can get you fixed up with some lodgings. Yes, that's what we'll

do. And now I really must be off; Joe gets so impatient if his tea isn't

on the table prompt at five." Taking up her coat, she put it on

hastily. "Our Doris will be along about ten, to stay the night with

you."

Cathy stared at the closed door; her eyes flickered after a while

to the clock on the wall. Not yet two—and Mrs Foster had suddenly

decided to rush off, to prepare her husband's tea ! No doubt about

it, Mrs Foster was certainly in one of her peculiar moods today.

Dismissing the matter, Cathy went into the little scullery to wash

the dishes, which Mrs Foster had loft in the sink. Then, pulling on a

sweater, she left the cottage and proceeded along the river bank,

her eyes searching. No, the landslip had occurred at the bend and

couldn't be seen from here. A hint of satisfaction entered her eyes.

That man would be having some trouble, and he'd have plenty

more ! For the whole region around the point where the dam was

to join the Bank was unstable, but he couldn’t possibly know it.

There would be more slips, and he would suffer many headaches

before the reservoir was finished. And if he'd committed himself to

a completion date then he would find himself in even greater

trouble.

Cathy’s gaze moved as an old man ambled along the path

towards her. Opening the gate, he passed through and closed it

after him. Mien he looked at Cathy with come uncertainty.

"Still mad with me?" he asked, and a forint smile suddenly

touched Cathy's lips.

"No. I'm sorry I said that to you, Mr Johnson. I didn't really mean

it."

"You don't think I'm disloyal, then?" He still appeared uncertain

as, leaning on the gate, he searched her face. "I do need the

money—and I get bored, too, when I'm at home all the time. It's

not a bad job, either, being watchman, not for an old man like me.

Interesting too--get to know what's going on and so have

something to talk about when I get home." He paused, and then, "I

understand how you feel, lass. Maybe I'd be the same if it was my

home he was pulling down. Luckily that we moved years ago,

when Bella's father died, and left us the cottage." He paused again,

glancing towards the huts, and then to the river bank below. "Been

a serious landslip up there," he informed her, and Cathy's eyes

flickered once more with satisfaction.

"I saw it from the cottage—through the binoculars, that is'

"Two men were trapped. In a pretty bad state when they were

brought out"

"They were hurt?" Cathy hadn't thought of that. "Are they in

hospital?"

"No, it was shock mostly. The boss took them home, in his own

car. Very feeling of him, I thought."

"Nothing of the kind ! He was probably afraid, because he

shouldn't have had men working there. If he knew his job he'd do

some investigating because a minor slip occurred some weeks ego.

But I don't suppose he knows where to start," she added

disparagingly.

"He doesn't usually work on a Saturday, but he's been there all

morning, the old man submitted. "Moving about, examining the

bank and the rocks above. Seems sort of puzzled, if you know

what I mean?" "He will be puzzled," returned Cathy. "I know

exactly what you mean."

"Only just gone home; looks very tired and dispirited. Felt rather

sorry for him; it must he a great worry.

"He doesn't need your pity, Mr Johnson. He deserves to worry—

seeing that he causes so much worry to other people!" Mr Johnson

said nothing, but continued to stare at her mildly. She flushed a

little and remained silent for a space and then, curiously, "What’s

his name?"

"Not heard it yet. Everyone call’s him 'the boss'. Cathy's eyes

rested for a moment on the half-finished dam, then moved to the

row of huts above.

"Which one is his office in?" she asked as the old man turned to

follow the direction of her gaze.

"The one at that far end. Sumptuous, it is; wouldn't believe you

were in a hut at all."

"Do you know where le lives?"

"Ferndale-on-Callder. Rent’s a home there, on the river, I

believe."

"Ferndale?" For some reason she could not exploit Cathy hated

the idea of his living anywhere so close, or such a lovely village as

Ferndale-on-Callder. She recalled what Paul had told her about its

history. It had originally been in Cheshire; it had one inn and a

church, and apart from a small amount of building winch had

taken place over the past year it had changed little from the time

when the church had been a monastery founded by Hugh Lupus,

the `wolf' of Cheshire. Built on a terrace of the river, the village had

magnificent views over the rugged heights of the Pennines, with

the heather-strewn moorlands spreading away in the endless

distance to the south and east. h was only about five miles

downstream from the Tordale Reservoir; Cathy had been there

often, for at one time her father had carried out some extensive

research on the glacial deposits in the region. With each visit she

had become more and more enchanted with the village and she

often thought that next to the volley itself, Ferndale would be the

place in which she would choose to live.

And now he lived there ! She couldn't think of anything more

ironical. Still, it was some consolation to know that his stay was only

temporary. Obviously he would move once his work here was

completed.

"Must be going, lass." Mr Johnson's rather gruff voice interrupted

her thoughts. "And now that you're not mad with me can I come

for my cup of tea in the morning?"

"Of course." She smiled at him, an apologetic little smile, and said

again, "I didn't mean it. But I felt so angry at the idea of anyone up

here working for him. All the workmen come from Lowport each

day, as you know." Poor Mr Johnson. He'd been so upset and

looked almost ready to throw up the job. For she'd accused him of

disloyalty, asserting That she herself would have preferred dire

poverty to taking a penny from that man. This was true; in fact,

she would starve rather than accept his money, even though she

worked for it, but it had been mort unfair of her to expect Mr

Johnson to refuse the job, especially as he was so active and,

therefore bored with his retirement.

The following day, Sunday, Mrs Foster came early, bringing the

milk, for which Cathy insisted on paying. This time the old woman's

manner was even more strange and when Cathy murmured

something about having only two more days at the cottage she

said, with what seemed to Cathy a most exaggerated carelessness,

"We'll get you fixed up tomorrow. Perhaps, after all, that Mr

Blythe wouldn't make a suitable guardian for you, now. What I

mean is;" she added hastily as Cathy paused in her dusting to look

across at her in puzzlement, "he might be quite an austere person

and not try to understand your position at all. He could be entirely

without feeling," she continued, with what seemed to Cathy quite

unnecessary heat. "And you do need sympathy and understanding,

dear, seeing as you're about to make a great change in your way

of life. It wouldn't do at all if he didn't turn out to be what we

expected, would nit?"

"No—no, I suppose it wouldn’t.... Cathy took an ornament from

the mantelshelf and absently flicked the cluster over k. "What did

we expect him to be like? I imagined him to be elderly, and rather

like Paul. I never think of him as being austere, or—unkind."

"Neither did I until—Well, until I gave it more thought. For

instance, we have no real reason for assuming him to be elderly.

True, your mother did write about him nineteen years ago, but he

could have been a mere schoolboy at that time."

"Yes ... yes, he could." Thoughtfully, she replaced the ornament,

and stared at it for a moment. She could rot imagine being either

happy or comfortable with a young man, not alter having lived for

so long with her father. "I wonder why he didn't reply to your

letter," she added at last. "Do you think, alter all this Time, he's left

that address? Did you put your address on the back of the

envelope so that it could be returned to you?"

"Yes." The admission came with obvious reluctance. Mrs Foster

bent down to stir the fire.

"And it wasn't returned to you.... Then he must have received it.

How strange that he hasn't acknowledged it." She stood for a

while, considering this. "What did you put in it?" she asked curiously.

"What did you tell him about me?"

"Oh, just what thought was necessary—" She moved quickly as a

spark shot from the fire on to the rug. Cathy put her foot on it,

waiting for the old woman to continue. "I explained the situation,

and said as how you'd been up on the moors all your life. I told him

you were quite young for your age, and immature, and that you

were probably ignorant about--erthings—"

"But I'm not!" flashed Cathy indignantly, "No wonder he hasn't

replied. He probably thinks I'm stupid !"

"No such thing. That you are not, dear, and I thought it best to

explain that, just in case he decided to take you. I also told him

about your father, that he was the well-known geomorphologist,

Paul Blalkeman. He seemed very interested and wanted to

know—" The old woman broke off in dismay and Cathy's eyes

opened very vide in a stare of surprised interrogation. But Mrs

Foster recovered her composure immediately and continued, quite

calmly, "Your father, of course. I explained that he was interested in

the rock formations around here, and that he was always wanting

to know their history. I said that what he hadn't known about

these rocks wasn't worth knowing, and that he wrote it all down

and made mails about it and so on."

"You told him all that? It must have been a long letter." And a

boring one, thought Cathy. Mr Blythe wouldn't want to know all

that. Her brow suddenly creased; there was something here she

failed to understand, but before she could phrase a suitable

question Mrs Foster was speaking again, saying that it was quite a

long letter. And then she went on once more to advise Cathy net to

trouble her head about Mr Blythe, for she felt sure he would not be

a nice person at all. In fact she might even refuse his help, once she

had met him, so Mrs Foster was sure it was all for the best that he

hadn't replied to the letter.

"You mean, I might dislike him? Yes, I could, of course," and then,

with a deep sigh, "Well, he hasn't given me the chance to like or

dislike him, and I don't know whatever I'm to do."

Before Mrs Foster could reply there came a gentle tap on the

door and Mr Johnson walked in. He greeted them, said he hoped

he wasn't too early, and then made himself comfortable in the

chair by the fine.

"No, I'm just going." It seemed to Cathy that Mrs Foster heaved a

great sigh of relief as she spoke. She certainly appeared to welcome

the old man's presence, and that was very strange for it was well

known in the tiny village down by the inn that these two could

never agree about anything. "Good-bye, Cathy dear. I'll bring you

something up latter for your lunch." And with that she was gone.

CHAPTER II

"OLD busybody," murmured the old than, putting his feet on the

fender.

"She isn't—don't say things like that, Mr Johnson !" "Talks about

everybody—"

"Not here. She never gossips, honestly. She's been wonderful to

Paul and me."

"You're young, that's why site never gossips. But get her with

some of her cronies down at the pub. No one's affairs are safe with

her around." He pointed a finger at Cathy, who was about to

protest again. "I'll wager everyone around our village knows

everything about you."

"It doesn't matter. " Cathy took the kettle from the hob. "In any

case, they know everything already."

"Yes ... maybe. But say as she was to talk about you to a

stranger. Within five minutes they'd know the lot !—know as how

you roam about like a wild thing—yes, I've heard her call you the—

and as show you feel about the boss up there and how you hate

him like poison and blame him for Paul's death— No, don't defend

her, lass, know what I'm saying. Good-hearted, I'll not deny, but I

hastes a woman as gossips as the does !"

Cathy opened her mouth again to protest, then decided the

matter was not worth troubling her head about. Supposing Mrs

Foster did gossip, it could not do anyone any harm. She went

outside to fill the kettle, and a little while later, a mug of tea in his

hand, Mr Johnson was rambling on about the valley and the site,

seeming to consider his job of watchman a most important one

indeed. Cathy tried to show interest, having to smile, for it seemed

scarcely necessary to have a watchman at all, seeing that the entire

volley around was uninhabited. As he went on Cathy felt that this,

too, must surely be gossip-but Mr Johnson would be horrified at the

idea of his being put in the same category as' Mrs Foster.

"The boss is there again this morning," he submitted alter a little

silence. "Has his uncle with him. They've been wandering all around

the site, looking at the landslip."

"I thought he and his uncle didn't get along."

"Seemed quite friendly; he's over on a visit. Heard him say he'd

passed the business into good hands, so I expect he's satisfied." He

took a drink and put his mug on the hob. "They were measuring

up, near the slip. No doubt about it, there's difficulty up there—and

it’s giving the boss some trouble, I can tell you. However, he seems

to have found a way of solving the problem—"

"Solving it? What do you mean?" Cathy spoke with a sharpness

that startled the old man. "Flow do you know he is going to be

able to solve the problem?"

"Well, as I said, they were measuring up. I was holding on to one

end of the tape, so I couldn't hear it all— me being a fair way off.

But there's the boss, looking sort of haggard, like. And suddenly it

seems he's thought of something, and he starts talking to his uncle.

They both look relieved and I tried to move nearer—" He broke off,

flushing slightly and, picking up his mug, took another long drink.

"Yes, Mr Johnson, go on?" urged Cathy. "Did you manage to

move nearer?"

"A little. St seems that he—the boss, that is—knows of a map, or

some maps, that will help him. Said he could get hold of them, but

that he would have to put up with a great deal of inconvenience in

order to do so. His uncle said it would be well worth it, though, and

the boss agreed. Apparently the early solving of the problem will

serve six months' work, and several thousand pounds. Just think of

that!"

"He doesn't know what he's talking about," returned Cathy

scornfully, relieved that the problem was not to be solved so easily,

and that the `boss' was not to be saved thousands of pounds. "The

only maps which could possibly help him are in my possession. Paul

made several, mapping all the faults and instability in the area.

There's no geological map of this region which could help him, and

that's why he hasn't been able to salve the problem before now.

No, Mr Johnson, if he thinks he can find a map then he's in for a

disappointment. "

"Well now, lass, he did seem as if he was sure about getting it.

Seemed very confident indeed."

Cathy shook her head emphatically.

"I know there isn't one-the plates were destroyed during the war

and this area hasn't yet been resurveyed." She frowned in

puzzlement. "I can't think why he should be so sure there's a map.

He's a geologist himself, so he knows there isn't one."

Mr Johnson didn't seem inclined to pursue the subject; he took up

his tea again and drank till the mug was empty.

"Guess I must be going, lass." He stood up and paused, frowning.

"Shah I see you again?"

"Come in tomorrow morning, Mr Johnson. I'm not leaving until

Tuesday."

"But Mrs Foster said as how they were pulling the place down on

Tuesday."

"That's right. I--I shall have to be out early—"

Valiantly she choked back the tears, though her voice was

scarcely audible as she added, "Mrs Foster is coming with me on

Monday, to find somewhere...." Her heart began to thump madly,

for it came came upon her suddenly that she had but a few hours

left. Two days, she had told Mrs Foster, but now she found herself

counting the tune in hours. A few hours before she went down

there into the City, alone and without the slightest notion of how

she was to earn her living. Aware of Mr Jhnson's growing

embarrassment, she forced herself to smile. "Everything will be all

right —once I've found a job."

A little while later she was high on the Hunter's Clough, her head

thrown back, the wind on her face. Tuesday now seemed a long

way off. She stood there for a time, enveloped in silence, with now

and then the breeze faintly stirring the pines, high on the his side.

Then suddenly her whole body tingled; she turned a full circle, sure

that she was being watched, watched from a distance. Not a soul

in sight; the tingling sensation remained and she turned once more

and her gaze became fixed on the hut at the end of the row. But

she would not be visible from there, unless of course anyone was

using binoculars... But why should they? and was it someone in the

hut? She moved out of the range of vision, a thoughtful expression

on her face. She had no time to dwell on her strange conviction,

however, for a sudden roll of thunder warned her that she'd have

to make her way down to the cottage with all speed, otherwise she

would be soaked. Coming to the head of the gorge she took the

wide cleft with a flying leap, justly proud of her achievement . . .

and again she experienced the sensation of being watched. The

storm had beaten her, for the descent was long, and she was

drenched as she flung wide the door and entered the cottage,

slamming the door behind her.

Then she stopped, a look of blank astonishment on her face.

Slowly she backed to the door, intent on escape.

"It's all right, Cathy. I'm Charles Blythe; Mrs Foster wrote to me

about you." The quiet words of assurance had the desired effect.

Cathy moved forward; the fact of his being her uncle swept away

her trepidation, but he was so different from what she had

expected that she spoke without thinking.

"Are you my uncle?" His expression told her she had said the

wrong thing; she tried to smooth over her mistake and blundered

even more badly. "I didn't think you would look like that." She

wondered again if he'd originally y refused to take her—and if so,

why had he changed his mind ? She also remembered Mrs Foster's

doubts about his being elderly and kind, like Paul. 1t would almost

seem that Mrs Foster had second sight for, tall and lean, with

severely-cut features and piercing grey eyes, Charles Blythe was just

about as formidable a man as Cathy had ever seen, and as for his

age—well, he couldn't be much more than thirty. It soon became

apparent that tolerance was not one of his virtues, for he made no

allowance for her impulsive words, did not stop to think that tact

might be unknown to her simply because she had never been

obliged to practise t,

"Indeed ! And what did you expect me to be like?"

She recoiled from his tone, yet at the same time she knew that

despite her disappointment she must not antagonise him. For he

was all she would have in that strange new life which faced her.

"I didn't mean to make you angry, " she quivered. "I just thought

you would be older." Perhaps it was unwise to judge by

appearances. He must have some kindness in him, otherwise he

would not have taken the trouble to come and see her. "Are you

taking me back to live with you in Leicestershire?" Had he noticed

her anxiety? she wondered, hoping that he wouldn't realise that

from her point of view it was a case of 'any port in a storm'.

"Do you think you would litre to make your home with me?" he

asked laconically, and Cathy knew for sure that nothing could be

hidden from him.

"I . . . think so." She sounded uncertain and her voice quivered

slightly. Charles stood with his back to the window and for a brief

spell her eyes were drawn to the scene outside. The rain had ceased

but a grey mist veiled the bills. The moorlands were sombre and

dark and forbidding as on a winter's eve, in that mysterious half-

1light of dusk. To the valley folk the moors had been repellent in

this mood, but for Cathy they had always felt a strange fascination.

They drew her irresistibly and she knew no fear as she ventured

forth into the gloom to become one with the brooding landscape.

Her glance returned to Charles and, her doubts swift1y

evaporating, she said in a firm little voice, "Yes, I think I would like

to live with you.' She regarded the matter as settled and inquired

when he would be corning to fetch her. Before he could reply

another thought struck her. "Have you come by car?" she asked.

"Yes, I left it on the—" He stopped abruptly and she glanced up,

puzzled. "I left it on the verge down the road," he said at fast in

calm and even tons.

"You could have brought it up to Callders Bridge," she informed

him, "but you weren't to know that. It's very good of you to come

all this way to see me. You must have had a tiring journey." Even

as she spoke Cathy noticed how fresh he looked. But perhaps he

was one of these men to whom a drive of eighty miles was no

trouble at all.

He made no reply and Cathy became mare of his critical

scrutiny. What was he thinking? She wondered, recalling what Mrs

Foster had told him about her. She turned slightly to glance in the

mirror, and had to own with some disgust that Mrs Foster had been

right when she said she looked no more than sixteen. She moved

her glance again to Charles in an effort to read his thoughts. An

unprepossessing scrap of humanity, Paul had once called her, and

probably this man thought the same. But Paul had spoken with

affection, for he was intensely proud of her, really, hopefully

maintaining that, if only she could fill out a little, she'd be like her

mother. Cathy herself wasn't too sure about that, for photographs

of her mother showed her to have been beautiful, with delicately-

contoured features, widely spaced eyes and a forehead high and

unlined. Cathy glanced once more at her refection, and her eyes

flickered ruefully. Her saturated clothing clung tightly to her robin

body; water dripped from the hem of her dress and from her pair.

Charles spoke suddenly, in a curt and imperious atone, advising her

to go and change.

"It doesn't matter." Mechanically she plunked the dress away

from her shoulders. "They'll soon dry." She felt at ease; he must be

hungry alter the journey and she had nothing to offer him. "Would

you like a cup of tea?" she asked awkwardly.

"I should change your clothes," he repeated, but she merely shook

her head and picked up 'the kettle from the bob.

"Cathy," said Charles in a very soft tone, "go and change your

clothes."

Hall way to the door, Cathy turned, staring at him from her

enormous eyes. Never in her life had she been given an order. Not

once had Paul questioned her right to do as she pleased. Neither

had interfered with the liberty of the other; they'd gone their ways

in complete freedom, unhindered by laws, unbound by convention

and answerable to no one. Had she wished to, change her clothes

she would have clone so. It was too much trouble and as far as she

was concerned but ended the matter. However, she excused her

uncle's attitude, for he couldn't know all this. She must explain,

though, so that he would not repent his mistake.

"Paul never tried to make me do anything I didn't want to, so if

you will please remember in future—" Cathy went no further, for

something warned her that it would be mort imprudent to do so.

Charles had moved and now stood by the fire in an apparently

careless attitude, but there was a definite menace in the way he

tapped his lingers on the mantelshelf, and his lips had compressed

into a thin bard lire that made her wish she'd put off the

explanation until a more opportune time.

"That was very remiss of Paul." Danger now in the quiet tones.

"Put down that kettle and do as I tell you."

For a moment the light of defiance entered her eyes, then she

replaced the kettle and left the room. She would obey him this

once, to save further argument, she decided, or he might change

his mind about giving her a home. However, at the first suitable

opportunity she must have a talk with him, so that he would fully

understand and alter his manner accordingly.

She returned to the kitchen a few minutes later with a towel in

her band. She gave it to Men, saying he could dry her hair- and

assuming the gesture would reassure him that she bore no ill-will

for what had just occurred.

"Paul always did it--a man can rub harder," she explained with a

smile. "I'll get a chair; you'll find it much easier if I sit down."

"Did your father permit you to call him Paul?" inquired Charles in

icy topes.

"Yes." She turned, her hand on the back of the chair. "I'll call you

Charles if you like. It's much more friendly."

"You will call me Uncle Charles." The towel was flung across the

zoom; she caught it and held it against her, wondering what she'd

clone wrong. "Now sit down on that chair and listen to what I have

to say !"

Cathy did as she was told, clasping the towel in her lap. No one

had hart her in any way before, and it was also a new experience

to hear tones so stem and cold, and to have eyes regarding her

with such censure in their depths. She recalled her father's

gentleness, and several times blinked away a tear before it fell.

What Charles had to say did nothing to improve her unhappy

state. His work took him away from home; that should have

pleased her but, strangely, it did pot. For she must live with

strangers—two women and a man. Charles said little about Moira,

his stepmother, and Cathy suspected he was not on the best of

terms with her. Beryl, Moira's daughter, also lived at the Grange,

Charles's home in Leicestershire, and Steve, the old man who,

Charles said, was interested only in ‘bed, books and food', was a

tramp befriended by Charles's father over twenty years ago. At first

he had lived in the stable, but an illness had brought him into the

house where he had remained ever sine, comfortably clothed and

fed—at Charles's expense. At least, Cathy surmised it was at his

expense, although Charles had pot exactly said so. Also living in the

house were two elderly maids. The gardener, who was married,

had a flat in the old stables.

Cathy felt helpless and afraid as she contemplated her life. She

watched Charles's face as he talked and knew without any doubt

at all that she would rather dive with him than anyone else, no

matter how unkindly he might treat her. For although he was very

different from what she had expected, she still clung to the hope

that he would eventually adopt a fatherly attitude towards her.

"Will you come home at the week-ends?" she faltered, a tremor

of dejection in her voice.

"That may pot be possible," he began, and then, as her face fell,

"Perhaps I'll manage it—occasionally."

Another battue of wills occurred When Cathy was informed that

she would be taken down to Leicestershire later that day.

"Today? But I haven't to be out until Tuesday. I would much

rather stay—if you don't mind." Although resigned to moving,

Cathy clung to every precious moment, and she wondered if her

uncle understood that, for there was no hint of impatience in his

zone as he laid,

"I do mind, Cathy. A couple of days can't make much difference."

"I didn't know you would come today. It's impossible for me to be

ready."

"Cathy," he said, still without heat, "has it occurred to you that I

might be inconvenienced by such a delay?"

She bit her lip; she hadn't meant to be selfish or thoughtless.

"You can't take me down on Tuesday—is that it? I cap go by

train, then. Mr Foster will take me to the station, and you can meet

me—or send someone. That should be all right. And so can I stay—

?" She paused in an agony of suspense as she noted his expression.

"We shall go today." He spoke with quiet forbearance, though he

did add, with a touch of asperity, "And, Cathy, please do not be for

ever arguing with me!"

That was almost too much for Cathy; surely it was he who

argued with her ! If only he were more easygoing, litre Paul, she felt

sure they'd get along famously. How would the like it, she

wondered, if she were to adopt a similar attitude and tried to force

him to do things against his will? She knew without doubt that he'd

object, so why shouldn't she? It all seemed so unfair, but she

capitulated, once again because she feared he might change his

mind about taking her into his home.

Charles then informed her that he had telephoned Mrs Foster

earlier on, and she would be here directly after lunch to help with

the packing. He would return for her at four o’clock, and she must

be ready.

"I don't expect to be kept waiting," and with that curt warning

he left her.

Cathy was on the Packhorse Bridge when Charles arrived back

at the cottage; she watched him leave the car at the Callders

Bridge, noting his impatient movement as Mrs Foster spoke.

Neither appeared to have noticed her, but then the trees still

standing partially hid her from their view.

"The child's terribly upset, Mr Blythe, though she does try to hide

it, poor dear. Seems to have taken to you, though." Mrs Foster

spoke with obvious anxiety. "You will be kind to her, won't you? I

fear everything will be so difficult. I'm angrier than ever with her

father for keeping her in this isolation. You'll be very kind to her?"

she said again, on a note of uncertainty.

"I don't intend to beat the child," came the tart reply from

Charles. "Where is she now?"

"She was looking for pebbles—"

"Pebbles?" the frowned.

"Quartz pebbles, I think she said—but look around, you'll find her

and she'll explain. I've just a few books to pack, and then

everything's ready to be put in the car." She paused for a moment.

"Are you going to tell her?" she asked fearfully, and Cathy's head

jerked up. "As I said, everything will be so difficult, and when she

knows...."

Cathy stood very still, tensed and alert, waiting for Charles to

speak. But his voice was loft, his words indistinct, and all she heard

for the moment was something about his being careful, and his

family and friends would be warned. Warned of what? Cathy

shrugged, too unhappy to allow the question to tease her. Then

after a little white Charles's voice became dear.

"—a few weeks of civilisation and she'll soon realise just how

stupid these notions are. I don't attach any importance to them in

the least, and I'm quite sure she will have forgotten them in a very

short while, so don't worry about the matter at all, Mrs Foster."

Charles saw her then, and began to walk towards her. Cathy

looked away, having no interest in his presence as she savoured

these last precious moments before leaving the valley for ever. He

stopped at the end of the bridge, as if not daring to come nearer,

and Cathy wondered vaguely if her remoteness repelled him,

forbade any closer approach. She herself felt detached as, gazing

ahead of her she scanned the wide expanse of moorland, taking

every detail to memory. The splashes of pink and purple that here

and there softened the grim panorama of bluffs of rotting shales

and gritstone scarps, fretted and seared by the relentless forces of

nature; the wild and distant mountains grotesquely merging with a

sullen sky; and, nearer to, the lone habitation darkly fusing with the

landscape, with the Wildlingstone Brook and Hunter's Clough

meeting almost at its front door before flowing on to join the

Callder River.

At length Charles moved, starting forward again with purposeful

strides. She turned; his face seemed harsh in the misted light. She

likened him to the terrain at its most sinister, and knew no fear.

"I thought I told you to be ready," he admonished, reaching her

side. "It seems you've left all the parking roc Mrs Foster. What are

you supposed to be doing now? Come along, at once!" He

obviously expected her to hasten to do his bidding, instead, she

gave him a tranquil smile and informed him that she was making

a wish.

"I've found two pebbles for us—they're not easy to find because

they have to be quartz pebbles; the others won't work. You have

to stand in the centre of the bridge and make your wish just as the

pebble hits the water. We all used to do it—the children, that is.

Now !" She felt his eyes regarding her, and then she once more

forgot his presence as a profound feeling of desperation swept over

her. She wished hard, as if by sheer intensity of feeling she would

make her wish come true. The pebble dropped, hitting the water

with a little splash. She turned to him then and smiled.

"I suppose I mustn't ask What you've wished?"

"Oh, yes, we made it a rule that you could," she replied, and a

faint smile touched his lips. "I wished that the bridge would be

saved."

"The bridge?" Charles glanced downstream to the Callders

Bridge, reputed to have been built by the Romans.

"This bridge," said Cathy. "I would like them both to be saved, of

course, but to me this is the more important because it's the

Wishing Bridge. It's very old and beautifully built. I hope some

generous person will pay to have it removed, otherwise it will be

submerged along with all this part of the valley, submerged for

ever."

"It would be a most costly business to move it," Charles pointed

out. "I shouldn't bank on that wish coming true."

"It will cost four thousand pounds."

"How do you know that?" he asked curiously.

"Because at one tune a man was going to have it moved, but

when he knew how mach it would cost he changed his mind. " She

recalled the negotiations that had gone on over the removal of the

bridge. Everyone thought the man a crank even to consider

spending all that money just to cave a few stones from

submergence. "Do you think I've wasted my wish?" Cathy's tune

was anxious, but Charles spoke brusquely, saying that he was quite

sure she had wasted her wish. She gave a deep sigh, then

brightened somewhat as she opened her palm to offer him the

shining white pebble,

"Here's yours. Wait till it touches the water, remember. "

"No." He shook his head. "Seeing that you've wasted your first

wish, then have another."

Her face fell, revealing her disappointment. She dropped the

Stone into the water.

"What was it this time?" he asked, rather gently, then started

back at the fire in her eyes.

"I wish that one day he'll be punished !"

"He?" Charles's tons were loft and smooth. "Who is 'He'?"

"The man in charge of the reservoir. I would like to see him suffer

for what he did to my father." her hand on the wall of the bridge

was white and clenched. "I would like to be the one to hurt him,

but I don't suppose that could ever be."

Following the direction of her gaze to where the row of huts were

dimly visible through the mist he said, "What exactly did—that man

do to your father?"

"He killed him."

"I understand that he died after having a stroke. Many people

have stokes, Cathy."

"It was brought on by worry—oh, (I know we'd have had to

move eventually, but there was no need for that man to harass

Paul the way he did. You see," she went on to explain, "there are

no actual workings in this area—the dam is being built

downstream. We wouldn't have been affected until the flooding

starts in about twelve months' time, so there's no need for such

urgency."

"I expert the man was only doing his job," submitted Charles. "I—

er--believe that when a reservoir is being constructed the whole

area to be flooded must be cleared several years previously in

order to prevent pollution. This must occur, you know, if people

were deft in the valley."

"You sound as if you agree with him."

"I can't disagree with him," he returned shortly, and then, "Come

along, we've wasted enough time already. I meant to be away

from There just after four o'clock !"

Cathy trotted beside him as he strode back to the cottage. She

felt sorry for the change in his manner and said in a small, contrite

voice,

"You think it's wicked to hate like this? Mrs Foster thinks so, too."

He obviously hadn't the patience to answer and Cathy went on, "I

can't help it--it's so strong inside that it hurts. I know I shall hate

him for as long as I dive."

Charles stopped suddenly, to glance down at her in stern reproof.

"I don't know you very well, Cathy, but I would have thought a

strong feeling of hatred like this would be wholly foreign to your

nature. Beware of it, for it could prove to be your enemy. It could

one day destroy you." And on that cryptic remark he turned again,

leaving her to follow in puzzlement over his warning.

Half an hour later, with everything in the car, Charles and Mrs

Foster were standing by it, and Cathy stood alone in the cottage.

"What is the girl doing?" she heard him snap. "Are we never to

get started?"

Cathy came out of the cottage and stood at the door, watching

Mrs Foster's face as it became clouded and uncertain.

"Ah, there you are, dear." The old woman sighed with relief as

Cathy moved towards the car. "I was just about to explain to your

uncle how hard it must be for you leaving the place where you

were born, knowing it will soon vanish for ever, that you can never

come back to see it. Come, love, your uncle is waiting; do make a

little haste."

Seated in the car, Cathy looked up at Mrs Foster. "Good-bye."

There was only the merest quiver of sadness in her voice, although

her eyes were unnaturally bright. "Thank you far everything. I'll

write soon." "Yes, dear, write very soon to let me know how you're

getting along. Good-bye, love, and take rare." Charles switched on

the ignition and started the car. Then he switched off again, eyeing

Cathy narrowly.

"What is that?" He referred to a strange sound coming from one

of the boxes in the back of the car. Cathy pretended not to

understand.

"I didn't hear anything," she began, and realised at once that

she'd given herself away. "Was it a noise you heard?"

Charles merely waited, his lean brown fingers moving

impatiently round the wheel, his narrowed gaze fixed upon her.

"I told you, dear," said Mrs Poster, and still Charles waited.

"It's Joseph," admitted Cathy, biting her lip. And when he still

remained silent she added, "The cat. Please let me take him." But

she know, even before she made the request, That it would not be

granted and she turned to Mrs Poster, her lips quivering. "You will

take care of him—and let him sleep in the house ?"

"Of course I will. Didn't I promise to give him a good home? We

need a cat," she went on, looking at Charles, "on account of the

mice. They're only field mice, you know, but they will come inside—

" She tailed off as Charles, with a gesture of exasperation, got out of

the car. Taking out the box, he handed it to her.

"Thank you. And now perhaps we can get started !"

CHAPTER III

TO Cathy the way seemed long, and at times the journey was

pair-raising, for Charles drove at top speed. She had been on a

motorway once, when Mr Poster had arranged a trip to Blackpool.

But sitting beside the driver, and especially a driver determined to

keep to the fast tune, was very different from sitting in a coach,

gazing out of the window, sublimely unconscious of the hazards in

front. After a while, however, she became used to the speed, but

took no interest in her surroundings. Charles drove for mile alter

mile in silence, taking her away, far away from her home and the

valley, away from the lofty crags and heathered moors, away from

freedom—to what?

Could it be only six weeks since she and Paul had tramped over

to Castleton to find the fluorspar which she had wanted for her

collection? The previous day a young student geologist had come

striding across the moors. The hammer in his hand was passport

enough; he shared their frugal meal while they all talked `shop'. He

told them of the fluorspar lying under a thin covering of boulder

Clay; but it had originally cooled well below the surface and in

consequence the crystals were large. As Cathy's sample was

mediocre she and Paul, after obtaining the exact location from

their visitor, had risen at dawn and gone off, complete with packed

meals and all the tools necessary to chisel out the rock. She saw her

father now, so fit, precariously balanced on a ledge in the limestone

outcrop as, with expert fingers, he had manipulated the removal of

the Clay covering, then hacked skilfully at the fluorspar—or Blue

John as it was more commonly called. They had taken only what

they required for other avid collectors would came that way. Paul

had taught her always to be sparing with what she removed,

whether it be .a rock specimen or fossil.

It had been late when they'd returned to the cottage, for the

rocks had yielded many treasures other than the fluorspar. The

moon rode high, glinting on Shining Tor and casting shadows dimly

on Cat’s Tor as the racing clouds hall masked its light. They were

exhausted but happy; they had gone and come as they pleased,

with no one to question or complain. Surely Paul's way of life was

the right one, thought Cathy, her heart twisting with grief and a

terrible ache catching at her throat. She needed desperately to still

her unhappy reflections, and longed to Mark to Charles, but she

feared he would not welcome her chatter when his attention was

required on the road.

Leaving the motorway at last, Charles glanced at his watch and

announced his intention of stopping somewhere for dinner. There

would be nothing ready at home, le said, for as his stepmother and

Beryl usually went out on Sunday evenings, a late meal was not

served. Soon afterwards le drew on to the car pack of a large hotel,

then handed Cathy a comb and told her to tidy her hair.

"Yes." She turned anxiously towards him. "Are we going in there?"

He merely nodded, and Cathy swallowed bard.

"I'm not hungry,", she said, pulling the comb through her hair. She

had washed it after Charles had left, and it shone, and kinked at

the ends giving her an elfin-like appearance. "Mrs Poster brought

me some steak for my lunch." She made to return the comb, but he

told her to put it on the shelf.

"You'll find you're hungry once you're inside," he assured her.

"Besides, I have some time to waste."

Time to waste? Rather silly after all that speeding. Maybe he

drove fast for the sheer pleasure of it, but why wish to waste time

now? She frowned uncomprehendingly but after a moment her

brow cleared. She felt he was doing this to save her

embarrassment. He was making sure that his family would be out

when she arrived at his home, so that she could settle in for an hour

or so before being confronted with too many new faces. She cast

him a sideways glance, saw the inflexible line of his mouth and the

cool impersonal stare. Yet he must have some kindness in him, she

concluded, recalling that the same idea had score to her earlier

that day when le came to the cottage.

"May I wait for you in the car?" she murmured at fast, aware

that he expected some comment from her.

"No," he said shortly. "You'll have to get used to mixing with

people, so we might as well begin right away"

She could scarcely refrain from clutching his band as they were

escorted the full length of the dining-room to a small table by the

window. The smiling waiter pulled out a chair and sine sat down

opposite to Charles. After watching him pour the wine she at last

had the courage to glance around. To her surprise no one seemed

to be taking the slightest notice of her and site was emboldened to

pass comments on the lights, the decorations and, latter, on the

soup. But Charles did net encourage her to talk and she again

lapsed into a shy silence.

During the meal she watched him, following with meticulous

care all le did. He held his glass in a certain way, and assuming this

was the correct thing to do site picked up her own glass, rather

gingerly, trying to follow his example. The glass slipped, clattered

against the water jug and broke, attracting the attention of the

nearby dinners whose chatter ceased abruptly. The waiter, at her

side on the instant, began colleting up the pieces as Cathy watched

in horror the ugly stain spreading over the spotless white cloth.

Charles took the stem of the glass from her trembling fingers and

handed it to the waiter.

"Eat your fish," he said with fine composure.

"Yes." She kept her eyes averted until, hearing voices about her

once more, she ventured to look up at her companion, searching

his face for the impatience she expected to see there. She longed for

a gentle word, yet knew it would release the tears; perhaps Charles

sensed it too, for he spoke sharply to her, telling her again to eat

her fish.

"Yes, Uncle Charles." Was he already regretting taking her--

wondering what troubles lay ahead for him? He seemed

thoughtful, and glanced across at her several times. perhaps, she

thought, dejection flooding over her, he was already debating on

how to rectify his folly, trying to devise some means of having her

taken off his hands.

When they left the hotel he handed Cathy the key, telling her to

sit in the car while he made a telephone call. He joined her a few

minutes later, a smile of amusement on his face. Cathy turned to

him impulsively as he slid into the driver's seat and closed the door.

"I am so sorry; I disgraced you terribly. And you weren't angry—

that was kind of you."

"I could scarcely be angry," he said, "when the blame was entirely

mine."

"Yours? How could that be? I can't see it at all."

"Can't you, Cathy?" he said, rather gently. "Never mind, then. It's

not important."

The car purred away and Cathy leant back in her seat, watching

him. How 1itale she knew of min. He wasn't married, because he

hadn't mentioned a wife. But had he any brothers or sisters—or any

relatives other than those he had mentioned? Had he a girlfriend?

,She examined him in profile. The arrogant fines of his face and the

imperious set of his shoulders should have stamped him a superior

being, but Cathy had no knowledge of the hierarchy still existing in

the `civilized' way of life. To her all men were equal because Paul

had said so, and although she knew without doubt that there

would be occasions in plenty when he would frighten her, she

would never feel in any way inferior to him.

For some reason she had expected her new home to be set amid

a congestion of houses, shops and numerous other buildings, and

when Charles at last turned onto the drive of the Grange she

exclaimed in surprise, "Is this it?"

She stood for a moment looking across at the expanse of

undulating green land, while Charles took his briefcase and one or

two other articles from the car.

In the far distance stood an ancient manor house and, nearer to,

another black and white house with careful modem additions. In

the other direction she could make out the shadowed slopes of

Charnwood Forest and her heart lifted. It might not be so bad after

all, for there seemed to be endless land on which to roam. Not wild

and mysterious like the moorlands, of course, but at least it spelled

freedom.

Lucy, the elderly maid, met than in the hall, flushed and visibly

agitated.

"We were in such a quandary when you phoned, Mr Blythe." She

held out a hand and took his coat. "Mrs Blythe and Miss Beryl had

just gone out and we didn't know what to do."

"You did as I instructed, I hope." He frowned. "What do you

mean, you didn't know what to do?"

"It was the room. Mrs Blythe doesn't like the guest room to be in

permanent use; she likes to keep it, as you know, for when her

married daughter visits us. And that loft only the attic room."

"I expect you prepared the guest room for niece?"

"We did, but, I don't know what Mrs Blythe will say.

'It need not concern you, Lucy. Cathy, take off your coat."

"We had to move a lot of Miss Beryl’s things—she kept them in

there. I don't know what Mrs Blythe will say," she repeated on a

distinctly anxious note, and Charles's brows lifted arrogantly.

"I said that need not concern you," he snapped. "Cathy, your

coat."

She began to unbutton it, glancing around. Massive Tudor doors

and archways; black wainscoting in the hall and a long, darkly-

leaded window on the landing. She shuddered, afraid of the space

and yet at the same time feeling imprisoned. Landing her coat to

Charles, she obeyed his nodded command and followed Lucy up

the vide staircase and along the landing until the maid stopped

and opened a door.

In the same way the bedroom overwhelmed her, gathered her

to its oppressive dimness. Here again the same Tudor influence;

beams and plaster and oak-liner walls. Even the door to the tiny

dressing-room studded and arched. Cathy paused just inside the

door, lost; and desperately unhappy. How could she live in this

dark and cheerless house? Tears rolled down her face; Lucy asked

her what was wrong, but Cathy could only shake 'her head

dumbly.

"Don't you like your room, miss?"

Cathy shook her head again, conscious even in her misery of her

debt to Charles.

"We've not long since had central heating put in," submitted Lucy

with pride. "And the curtains are new."

They were drawn across the window; green velvet, thick and

dark. There had been no need to shut out the night and the stars

up there on the moors, no need to worry, as you undressed by

candlelight, that anyone might see. Crossing the room, Cathy

swung back the curtains. The black and white house was nearer

than she had thought, and to her left stood a row of four cottages

she had not seen from the drive. In the distance the old manor

house looked bleak in the fading light. It was now used by the

Army, Charles had told her as she stood in the drive. Closing the

curtains again, she watched Cooper put down two of her cases by

the bed.

Lucy seized the opportunity to escape, and as she passed the

gardener she whispered something about a queer one. Cathy

blinked, unable to believe her ears, but as Cooper smiled at her she

thought that perhaps she hadn't heard correctly.

The last two boxes, brought up one at a time, took Cooper's

breath away and he panted as he remarked on weight.

"My rocks and fossils," she informed him briefly, g on the lied and

frowning at its softness.

`Fossils, miss?"

For the first time she had no interest in explaining about her

hobby. Nevertheless, she could not be rude and ignore his enquiring

gaze.

"Sea creatures," she laid dully. "And a few plants."

"Sea creatures and ... plants?" Cooper glanced at the wooden

boxes with their lids firmly nailed on, then his eyes returned to

Cathy, regarding her with open suspicion. "In there?"

"That's right." She gave him a vacant stare, thinking of her firm

bard bed with its flock mattress and patchwork quilt.

Her expression remained fixed and vacant; Cooper took a

strategic step backwards and spoke in soothing tones.

"Won't they die—shut up in those boxes?"

"Die?" she echoed blankly. "They're three hundred million years

old." Perhaps, she thought, it would more comfortable to sleep on

the floor.

"Are they n-now?" Cooper swallowed hard and another step

backwards. "That's very interesting—very interesting indeed. Three

hundred million years you said?"

"Some of them are, that is. But some are only hundred and fifty

million years old."

"Is that all, miss?" He gave a rather cracked little laugh,

continuing his backwards progress to the door. His wary eyes never

left her face as he added, with slight tremor in his voice, "Just

youngsters, as you might say." He had reached the open door when

Cooper suddenly became conscious of what had been going on.

"Oh, I'm sorry—Come back, Mr Cooper, I didn’t stop to think for

the moment— " But Cooper had gone, closing the door rather

noisily behind him as if in hurry to be off. Cathy frowned, reflecting

on how Lucy too, had made a similar hasty departure.

She began to unpack, feeling guilty about Cooper. It would not

have hurt her to have explained. But then she dismissed the

matter. He probably wouldn't have been interested even if she had

been in the mood to explain.

Her few clothes hung forlornly in the wardrobe, and all but one

of the drawers remained empty. The room was just pleasantly

warm but, used as site was to the cool pure air of the moors, she

felt stifled. The knob on the radiator caught her attention; she

turned it, gingerly, as if hall expecting it to blow up. Nothing so

drastic happened and after a white she was relieved to find the

room was becoming cooler.

She had no bookcase, so she loft her books in their packing, but

her rocks and fossils decorated the window-sill, the dressing-table

and even the top of the bedside cabinet.

This made her feel slightly more at home, though site would

never like the room, and with a little sigh that hurt her throat, she

went downstairs to the sitting-room where Charles was seated in a

large chair by the fire, intent on a booklet he held in his hand.

"Your father was a clever man." He looked up without smiling,

and tapped the booklet. "He knew a great deal about land

formation."

"Where did you get it?" Cathy sat down on the rug at his feet,

resting her head against his knee, in the way she had always done

with Paul. If Charles felt any emotion he hid it perfectly.

"On the floor of the car; it must have fallen out of one of your

boxes." He flicked the pages, apparently without interest, and his

tone was expressionless when spoke again. "The little mails are very

good. Your father was an expert cartographer too, it would seem."

A long pause followed his words and then,

"I did those," Cathy informed him demurely.

"You—You've done these maps?" His voice remained cool, but a

hint of respect had entered into it.

"Paul's are much better. He's mapped most of our area—on a

much larger scale, of course." She moved her head to examine the

map in the book. "The con-tours here are all wrong."

"I didn't look at the contours closely, but the map is beautifully

executed." His atones became expressionless again. "I can't think

Paul's are better than this." He glanced down at her bent head,

and to where her hair sprawled on to the map, and on to his wrist.

"You're quite gifted, Cathy."

She smiled unselfconsciously and asked if he would come to see

another of her maps, a larger one.

"Indeed I would . . . and, perhaps . . . one of your father's?"

"They were under all my books," she apologised over ten minutes

latter. "I didn't think I'd be so long."

"Your books? Yes, I noticed them when I was in the cottage." He

paused, his mouth curving grimly, and Cathy thought perhaps the

titles had confounded him. For they were all technical books; books

on palaeontology, mineralogy and lithology, also numerous

volumes on the Pleistocene period—in fact, all the books on would

use when taking a degree in geology. "We must get you a

bookcase. I'll came home next week-end and we'll go into town

and buy anything else you require "

"Next week-end?" she faltered. "Does that mean you're going

away tomorrow?"

"I must. You will be all right with my stepmother and her

daughter, both of whom you will meet in the morning before I go. I

shall see them tonight and explain why you have come, so when

you do meet them in the morning you won't feel uncomfortable

because they'll already know all about you." He smiled fain and

seemed amused. "They're going to be most surprised to hear of my

long-lost niece, but I expect they'll make you welcome." He didn't

make that sound convincing and Cathy said dejectedly,

"I haven't ever lived with women—I'm not used to them at all.

You see, even the callers were mostly men, hikers and geologists

and tramps."

"There's Steve. You might actually find him a kindred spirit. Did I

mention him?"

She nodded.

"You said he was interested only in food, bed and books," she

reminded him wanly.

"Nevertheless, you'll like him. As told you, he used to be a tramp,

so you should get on." He laughed then. "I meant that in the nicest

way. He's a lover of nature, so you should have something in

common."

Cathy laughed with him, revealing for the first time the dimples,

and the dancing light in her eyes. Charles's own eyes flickered

oddly. He seemed to stiffen and with an abrupt movement he

reached for one of the maps she held. Handing it to him, Cathy

knelt beside him this time and took hold of one side of the map as

she read it out across his knees.

"This is one of Paul's. See, isn't it better than mine?"

"It's certainly very beautiful," he agreed, yet with a strange hint

of disappointment in his voice. His glance strayed to the other maps

lying on the rug. What are those?"

She stared, disappointed at his lack of enthusiasm. She picked up

another map and opened it out. This is a geological map," she

began, folding it up, but Charles said he would like to see it.

"But it's a geological map," she repeated. "Do you know anything

about geology? If you do I'll explain about the canal, but if you

don't it would only bore you."

"I think I know enough to enable me to follow you," Charles

retorted crisply.

"If you have only a slight knowledge of the subject I can make

you understand." She spread her hands without any intended

affectation and added, "Ill not become too technical, I promise."

"That's most kind of you."

Cathy could not mistake the sarcasm in his tone and she blinked

up at him for a moment. But then she became absorbed in the

map, speaking with that supreme confidence which only a

thorough knowledge of her subject could give. Her accents were

low and tender, but now and then they would be the murmur of

the breeze through the pins, or the music of water cascading

joyfully over the rocks. No harsh sound had ever touched her ears.

She stopped speaking at last, looking up into his face with clear,

animated eyes.

"So now you know something of the rock structure in my valley. I

hope I haven't bored you ?"

"Not at all. " His glances strayed to the map again. "But you

didn't tell me about these little marks here. What are those?"

"Faults—do you want me to explain what those are?"

"I have an idea what they are."

"Paul did a lot of work on this area years ago when some of the

soil covering was removed after exceptionally heavy rains, and he

discovered this instability in the bank. Do you see this grit-shale

junction I mentioned?"

He nodded, his eyes strangely alert.

"A landslip occurred recently at this point"

"May I ask how you know that? I shouldn't have thought you

could see from your cottage."

"With the binoculars you car."

"So you've been keeping track of what has gone on by the aid of

binoculars?"

"Paul and I were interested," she owned, a soft flush spreading. "It

was only natural." And, alter a slight pause, "That man—the one in

charge of the building of the reservoir—is supposed to be something

of a geologist, but he—"

"Something of a geologist ! What exactly do you mean by that?"

Cathy blinked at him for a moment, then made a disparaging

gesture with her bands.

"A geologist, then. But he isn't very clever, in fact he's totally

incompetent to be in charge of a project litre that."

"What reason have you for saying the?" Charles's voice was like

ice, and again Cathy blinked at him before going on to say that,

had he known his job, he'd have expected the slip.

"He probably did expect it," he returned in the same frigid tones,

but Cathy shook her head vigorously.

"He couldn't have because.... " She tailed off, a look of horror

spreading over her face. "Do you really think he would have

expected the slip to occur?"

"Anyone in charge of a scheme like that must know what he's

about. Yes, I'm sure he would have considered the possibility of a

landfall."

"Then he's even more wicked that I thought !" she aspect. "Oh,

you have no idea just how wicked he is, Uncle Charles I"

A muscle moved at the side of his mouth and it was while before

he spoke.

"Perhaps you will tell me, then?"

"Two men could have been killed by that slip."

"Killed? May I ask where you obtained this information?"

"The watchman is a friend of mine, and he told me about the

men being trapped. I suppose," she went on in a voice choked with

disgust, "that he's committed to finishing the work in a certain time,

and if he fails to do so he'll lose money. So he deliberately allowed

men to carry on working there. Don't you agree it's a wicked thing,

to do if, as you say, he expected the slip?"

Charles's mouth compressed and his glance was cold. He ignored

her question and said there could be a possibility that the men had

been working there against orders. Then he softened slightly as he

asked her to show him another of her father's maps. She showed

him several, but she again had the odd impression that he was

somehow disappointed, and when at last he asked if these were all

she had Cathy looked up to stare at him in surprise.

"No, I have some more, but they're of the limestone area. Do you

want to see those?"

Charles shook his head, frowning.

"I thought you said your father had mapped almost the whole of

the gritstone area."

"He did, and I thought all the maps were here. The others must

be somewhere. . . ." She paused in slight puzzlement. "I wonder

where they've got to. I hope I haven't burnt them along with the

rubbish I took from the cottage."

"Surely you wouldn't do that?" His tons were sharp and again she

sent him a glance of surprise.

"I can't think I would . . . but Mrs Foster burnt some papers too. It

would be awful if they'd managed to get on the fire. They were

lovely—and the only maps i existence showing all the faults—at

least, Paul used say there were no others." She folded the maps,

feeling strangely dispirited, for Charles appeared to be angry about

something. When she had put the maps neatly in a pile on the rug

he told her shortly that it was time she went to bed.

"But I'm not tired. I would like to stay up and meet Mrs Blythe

and Beryl tonight. May I call her Beryl?"

"She is only twenty-six, so I see no reason why you shouldn't call

her Beryl. Mrs Blythe you will call Aunt Moira. Now go to bed."

"I said I wanted to stay up," she emphasised firmly. Paul would

never have dreamed of telling her she must go to bed. She would

go when she was tired. "I wouldn’t sleep if I went up now. We rarely

went before midnight."

Charles's glance became arrogant and stem; Cathy looked down

at her hands.

"We must understand one another right away," he said coldly. "I

shall not brook any disobedience, Cathy. You will learn to do as

you are told."

She reached down to replace one of the maps that had slipped

off the pile.

"Perhaps we should have a talk about that," she suggested,

persuasively but without meekness. "Paul always taught me that

no one was entitled to inflict his will upon another person. I could

never be dictated to—oh, don't think me ungrateful," she added

hastily, "but please try to understand. I've never done anything I

didn't want to."

Removing her hands from his knee, Charles leant - back in his

chair- and regarded her in frigid silence until, frowning, she lowered

her head again.

"Do you really imagine you can continue to do as you like?" he

enquired softly.

She considered this for a moment, and then,

"I won't do anything wrong or outrageous, Uncle Charles."

"Thank you for the concession ! You will do as I tell you. We live in

a civilised society and each one of us bas to conform in some

measure to the wills of others. The world would be in complete

chaos if everyone decided to do as they pleased !"

Cathy hadn't noticed anything chaotic about life up on the

moors, and the people had always done as they pleased.

"Is it because I've talked too much?" she asked as the idea

occurred to her. "Have I bored you, and so you want me to go?"

"No, Cathy, that's not the reason," he replied wearily. "It's just that

I consider you've had a tiring day and an early night won't do you

any harm."

In that case, she assured him, she could stay up, for she was not in

the least tired. In fact, the day had been almost restful compared

to those days of tramping over the moors with Paul.

"So why can't I stay up?" she went on reasonably. "You're not

wishing to be alone, and I'm not tired.... She shrugged. The matter

as far as she was concerned was settled. Sitting back on the rug she

drew up her knees under her chin and embraced them tightly. A

smile appeared, and the dimples, and the smoky grey eyes were

not sad. "Would you care to see one of my maps, now?"

"No, I would hot," he returned with quiet authority. "You will do

as I say and go to bed !"

She recoiled from his tone, as she had recoiled from it earlier in

the cottage. Her lips trembled and her eyes darkened in

bewilderment. Quickly she rose to her feet, picking up the maps

and making for the door.

The following morning she was up at dawn, leaving the silent

house and making her way across the fields, exploring her new

terrain. Hedges separated the fields for the most part, but dry stone

walls were also much in evidence. Dimly Cathy recalled reading in

one of her father's geographical magazines that a new fossil had

been discovered in a place called Broadhouse Eaves, in

Leicestershire, and she wondered how far away this was. On

impulse she returned to the house for her geological hammer.

There was an unwritten law among collectors that walls be strictly

left alone, but in the absence of quarries or other outcrops they

were very tempting...

She wandered across the fields, taking in her surroundings and

trying to recall what she knew about the rock structure of the area.

Beneath this cover, which gave the soft and undulating aspect to

the landscape, there lay some of the oldest rocks in the world; it

was in these rocks that the new fossil had been found, and it was of

these hard rocks that the walls were made, for in many places the

softer covering had been removed, allowing these older rocks to

come to the surface.

Stopping now and then, she examined the blocks which topped

the walls, but saw nothing of interest and continued on her way,

wishing she had not brought the hammer, after all.

Once, a distant farmer appeared to be shaking his fist at her, but

she decided he must be greeting her and she waved back, her

spirits lifting at the gesture.

The dew lay heavy on the grass, and a cool breeze touched her

face. She sighed for the moors, yet accepted what she had. Things

could have been worse, for at least she did not have to live in a

town. There entered into her a new resiliency possible only with the

very young.

On her return she came to the wall which ran the full length of

the garden at the rear of the black and white house she had seen

on her arrival. Stopping to look at a small boulder perched at an

odd angle, she then began scraping away at it with the hammer,

unaware of the presence of the man who, coming from behind a

clump of bushes on the other side of the wall, stood staring down at

her in some considerable surprise.

"May I ask what you're doing?" he asked at length.

Cathy jumped, though there was nothing frightening about the

man's voice or his manner. In fact, he had a pleasant lazy drawl

and his expression was merely one of curiosity.

"Is this yours?" she said timidly, indicating the wall. "It is. What are

you intending to do—knock it down?"

A Swift smile appeared, but before she could reply three poodles

bounded out from somewhere at the side of the house, sprang over

the wall and leapt up at her, barking loudly and licking her hands

and legs.

"Oh, you're nice, but. . . ." She felt overwhelmed, for the dogs

were wild with delight.

"Belinda ! Samantha—Debbie, come hem!" A smiling woman

carne down the path, calling the dogs, who took not the slightest

notice. She was middle-aged, with faintly auburn hair and a

plump, comfortable sort of figure. Behind her came a young girl,

about seventeen, whose voice brought the dogs running to her,

much to Cathy's relief. The two joined the man, who no informed

Cathy that she was trespassing.

"But how can that be?" she wanted to know, casting a

bewildered glance around the field. "I'm only walking on the field."

"The field belongs to me." His tones were still tolerant, his eyes still

curious.

"Surely I can walk on it. I'm doing no harm at

I've never heard of anyone not being able to walk through the

fields."

"_No?" The man raised his brows at that. "Where do you come

from? You don't live round here." His glance flicked to the hammer

she had put down on the wall.

Aware of the half-amused, half-curious eyes of the woman and

the girl, Cathy flushed slightly and pointed in the direction of the

Grange.

"I live there—with my uncle."

"At the Grange? Mr Blythe lives there."

"He's my uncle. I only came last night." She glanced from the

man to the woman and decided they were the parents of the girl.

The man had black hair, greying at the temples, and a handsome

face, brown and faintly lined.

She knew instinctively that she would like them all.

"I didn't know Charles Blythe had a niece?" The woman turned

to her husband in puzzlement, though it was clear she did not

doubt the truth of Cathy's statement.

"I don’t think he knew himself," Cathy put in. "I didn't know I had

an uncle—not until my father died. Then Mrs Foster, our neighbour,

found Uncle Charles's address in an old diary of my mother's. He

took me to live with him," she went on confidingly. "Otherwise I

should have had nowhere to go, and I'd have had to go into a

home . . . or something." Her vagueness brought a smile to the

man's lips, but his wife seemed anxious as she enquired if Cathy had

any other relatives.

"No, but I'm quite all right with my uncle; I don't need anyone

else." She stared at the woman with wide, f rank eyes, troubled by

her expression. "You don't like much uncle?"

"Yes, we do, indeed," responded the man quickly. "But you ... ?"

Cathy's gaze remained fixed on the woman. She felt strangely

depressed at the idea of her not liking Charles.

"Yes, my dear." She smiled reassuringly. "We're quite good friends

of your uncle. It's just that—well, he isn't used to children—not as far

as I know."

"I'm not a child," returned Cathy indignantly. "I'm nineteen."

Both the man and the woman opened their eyes wide at this

piece of information and the girl stopped fondling one of the dogs

to stare in surprise. She had not spoken a word to Cathy, but stood

regarding her curiously from the terrace where the three dogs sat

up contentedly on a little rustic garden table. Flushing under their

stares, Cathy picked up the hammer from the wall and waited

uncertainly for a moment, but no one spoke.

"I'd better be going," she laid, her smile embracing them all.

"Breakfast will be ready."

"Come and see us when you feel like it," the woman invited,

returning the smile. "We're nearly always in. Just come through the

gate there—at the side of the house."

"Thank you very much, I will. Good-bye." Turning, she sped across

the field to the fence separating it from the drive to the Grange.

Her steps were light and she waved gaily after bounding over the

hedge with the ease of an athlete. The hammer was still in the air

when she almost collided with Cooper. His jaw dropped, and

before Cathy could utter the bright `good morning' that came to

her lips, he had disappeared into the flat and slammed the door

behind him.

A deep frown settled on her brow. He'd taken offence over her

not explaining about the fossils last night, she realised with growing

dismay. He probably thought she'd been disparaging his ignorance

on the subject, and felt hurt. Cathy hesitated by the gate,

wondering whether to knock at the door and tell him it hadn't

been that at all. But then she would have to explain about the

fossils—what they were and how they got into the rocks. She had

explained to people before, and it invariably took a long time, for

many people could not at first assimilate the idea of the boundless

aeons of time involved in the formation of the rocks. Aware that he

was watching her from a window, Cathy was also aware of his

white face, and thought that perhaps his running away had

nothing to do with her at all, that he was feeling unwell, and she

decided to leave the matter for the time being.

The smell of bacon cooking made her feel hungry, but no one,

other than the person cooking the break-fast, seemed to be

stirring. What time did they get up ? She thought of her

exhilarating walk in the clear air and the sunshine and wondered if

they knew what they were missing.

However, from the dining-room came the rattle of crockery and

as Cathy reached the door an elderly, grey-haired woman

emerged carrying an empty tray. She took one look at Cathy,

another at the hammer, then fled in the direction of the kitchen.

For one astounded moment Cathy stared after her, then she

shrugged her shoulders and went upstairs to her room.

Tossing the hammer on the bed, she crossed to the window and

gazed out over the field to the black and white House beyond. No

one in the garden, but the dogs raced wildly about on the lawn.

What was the girl's name? she wondered, thinking how pleasant it

would if they became friends. With a warmth she would very have

believed possible, she went out and along to the room occupied by

Charles.

"Can I come in?" Without waiting for permission she opened the

door.

"No !"

She let go of the handle as if it were hot, pausing awhile in

puzzlement. Then she tried again.

"Is it all right now?"

Charles came to the door, fastening the girdle of his dressing-

gown.

"What the—What do you want!" he demanded eyeing her

angrily. "And what do you mean by walking into my room?"

"I didn't walk into your room. You never gave me the chance.

May I come in now?"

With a sigh of exasperation Charles opened the door wider and

she went past him into the room. Kicking off her shoes, she sat on

the bed, tucking her legs under her in a comfortable and

apparently settled position.

Charles could only stare.

"Is that grey-haired lady the maid, or is she Mrs Blythe?" she

asked, looking up at Charles and wondering if he were one of those

people who always got up in the morning feeling bad-tempered.

"Mrs Blythe will still be in her bed."

"Then she's the other one—not the one I saw last night?"

"I presume you're telling me you've seen Alice?"

"Is that her name? Well, Uncle Charles, there's something wrong

with her. She acted in a most peculiar fashion and I wondered if she

were a little—well, if she has something on her mind."

"Probably; most people have things on their minds.

As for there being something wrong with her, I don't quite

understand." He stopped, glancing at her in some perplexity. "In

what way did she seem peculiar?" Cathy spread her hands.

"When I came in she just looked at me and ran away. It was

almost as if she'd seen a ghost."

"Nonsense ! You're imagining things. You should have spoken to

her; she would have expected you to do so."

"She gave me no opportunity to say a word—and Cooper was

the came."

Charles, on his way across the room to open the curtains, turned

abruptly.

"What's the matter with Cooper?"

"I think I upset him last night because, when he mentioned about

the boxes being heavy I said they contained fossils, and he must

have expected me to explain what they are. When I saw him a few

minutes ago he ran in and shut the door before I had time to say

good morning—or anything. He did look white, though," she added

on an anxious note. "So he could be I suppose." Her wide brow

furrowed in thought. "Would he really be interested in the fossils, do

you think? I hope not, because I wouldn't like him to be hurt."

"I'm quite sure that Cooper would be the last person to find

interest in your fossils," commented Charles dryly. "And I'm also sure

that you're allowing your imagination to run away with you.

There's nothing peculiar either with Cooper or Alice." He pulled

back the curtains, letting in the sunshine. "Now be off; I want to

dress."

Cathy settled herself more comfortably on the bed. "It's all right,"

she murmured obligingly. "I don't mind."

"What did you say?"

"You can get dressed. I don't mind at all. I always chatted to Paul

like this."

"Do you mean to tell me you sat and watched your father

dressing?" he exclaimed, after an astounded silence.

"I didn't watch him." Cathy gave a faint chuckle at that idea.

"You have your dressing-gown on, so you can get dressed inside it.

You have to wriggle about, but it's quite easy. Paul did it, and so

did I."

"I'm not Paul," said Charles cuttingly, "and I am not in the habit

of dressing before strange females. Out!" He pointed to the door.

Cathy jumped off the bed, picking up her shoes and staring at him

in bewilderment.

"I'm not a strange female," she protested. "I'm your niece."

"What difference does that make?"

"Well, we're related, so it makes a lot of difference."

"It seems to me," he said in the same cutting tons, "that your

father hadn't the slightest notion of how to bring up a daughter.

He had no right to dress in your presence, and as for allowing you

to dress in his—it's disgusting!"

"That's not true," she objected, with increasing bewilderment.

"Paul brought me up from a baby; he had to do everything for me,

perhaps until I was six or seven, I can't remember. He wouldn't

expect me to shy of him from the moment I began looking at

myself."

"Perhaps not," conceded Charles wearily. "But you're now a

woman, and you've known me less than twenty four hours. Despite

these facts I'm sure you have so perfectly logical reason why there is

no harm in o popping in and out of each other's bedrooms.

However I don't want to hear it, either now or at any other time.

Close the door behind you."

With a deep sigh Cathy took a few dragging steps the door, then

turned.

"I'm afraid of seeing Beryl, and Aunt Moira, because I don't know

them. I want to go down with you."

"Stay in your room, then, and I'll call you when I'm ready."

"And I wanted to tell you about some people I've met. They live

in that black and white house over there. The lady said they were

your friends."

"The Deans?" His glance became curious, but he merely said, "Tell

me about them over breakfast"

CHAPTER IV

THE commotion began with Alice giving in her notice. Charles

had come downstairs, after having called to Cathy, informing her

he was ready. No sooner had he entered the dining-room than

Alice told him she would be leaving at the end of the week.

"This is very sudden," he frowned. "has anything upset you?"

Neither he nor Alice noticed Cathy, standing by the door. "Is it

anything Mrs Blythe bas done?" he added, and Cathy wondered if

he were quite used to dealing with complaints about his

stepmother's conduct towards the servants. It certainly seemed like

it.

"No, it isn't that. I don't feel comfortable any more sir. None of us

do."

"Perhaps you'd better explain," said Charles, his frown deepening.

"It's the young lady, sir; we're all scared of her. I don't like saying

it—with her being your niece—but she isn't normal, is she, sir?" and,

seeing his expression, she added, rather hastily, "She's acted so

strangely with Cooper. Last night she tried to make him believe she

had some—Now what did he say they were? Oh, yes, sea-serpents,

in a wooden box all nailed up. And some plants—they were all

nailed up in a box too, and she said they were millions of years old.

And she stared at him in such an odd manner, the way they stare,

if you understand me? This morning it was worse and we thought

she'd become violent. Walking about with a hammer she was, and

would have killed poor Cooper," she added dramatically, "but he

managed to get away though she did make as if to follow him, he

said. She had the hammer when she came in, so I know he spoke

the truth. I ran for my life!" Alice sniffed plaintively, casting him a

glance of reproach. "I've been here so long that I'm too old to

change my job, but I could never rest in my bed with her in the

house, being as she's not normal."

"Of course my niece is normal ! Don't talk such nonsense," he

snapped, frowning as if trying to recollect what Cathy had said

about Cooper and the fossils. But he wouldn't remember, thought

Cathy, for he didn't take very much notice at all of what she was

trying to tell him.

She still stood at the door, just inside the room, her brow creased

in puzzlement.

"Come here !" Charles ordered and she came forward hesitantly,

quite put out by his scowling countenance. "What did you do to

Cooper last night?"

"Nothing—I don't know what she's talking about," she answered

nervously. "And I never went near her with the hammer."

"You did, miss, and you actually waved it in Cooper's face. They

don't always remember what they do," she went on to inform

Charles. "My sister had a friend who—"

"That's quite enough," he interrupted haughtily. "There has

evidently been some misunderstanding, but that does not excuse

disrespect towards Miss Cathy. Kindly remember that she is my

niece!" He waved an imperious hand in the direction of the

sideboard. "Take that stuff away and keep it warm. Then tell

Cooper to come in here at once."

"Yes, Mr Blythe." Alice picked up the tray and thankfully made

her escape.

"I’m very sorry, Uncle Charles." Cathy cleared her throat with a

little nervous cough. "Will she leave, do you think?"

Charles made no reply to that; instead, he delivered her a

withering homily on the imprudence of carrying a geological

hammer about among people who had no idea what it was for.

"Why you chose to take it with you this morning is quite beyond

me," he continued in the same scathing tones. "There isn't a quarry

or an outcrop anywhere near that you could use it on—" He

stopped, his eyes narrowing perceptively. "You're not on the moors

now, remember. Every wall, every field—every scrap of land

belongs to someone !"

"It did on the moors, but no one questioned your right to walk on

it."

"Where have you been this morning?"

"I went across the fields."

"Then you had no right; you were trespassing."

"I can't see that," Cathy objected. "Paul said that the land

belongs to everyone, that you should be free to wander over the

countryside just whenever you wish."

An exasperated sigh escaped Charles.

"Your father's unorthodox ideals do not apply here," he informed

her shortly. "It's not possible for you to go tramping over cultivated

land." He threw her a direct and meaningful glance. "I shall not

expect to receive any complaints about you, Cathy. I hope I make

myself clear?"

Her chin lifted firmly.

"There's no harm in just crossing the fields," she maintained,

tossing her head defiantly. "I could never become used to walking

all the time on pavements and roads. Never !"

Charles's brows rose arrogantly and a warning glint entered his

eyes.

"You will observe my wishes," he said, very softly. "Among the

many things to which you will become used is the acceptance of

my authority. I warned you last night that I shall not tolerate your

defiance. While you remain in my care you will obey me."

His last words startled her, quelling any inclination for further

argument.

"You mean that unless I submit to your will you'll send me

away?"

"I'm not threatening you," he returned shortly. "Nor do I expect

you to `submit to my will' as you term it." How else could it be

described, if she must always defer to his wishes and commands?

"Can't I ever do the things I choose to do?'

"Certainly; so long as they're within the bounds of convention."

Cathy sighed deeply, looking up at Charles unhappily "I don't

think I shall ever get used to all the restrictions."

"Give yourself time," he said, rather gently. "It will be difficult, but

you will try, my child—to please me." The ghost of a smile flickered

then. She would like to please him but, somehow, she feared she

would cause him a great deal of trouble instead.

And her fears were strengthened when she saw Cooper's face, as,

after knocking at the door, he entered the dining-room, eyeing her

warily.

"You wanted me, sir?"

"I have a feeling you wish to leave me—because of something my

niece said to you last night."

"Well, Mr Blythe, I don't want to leave, having such a nice flat

and a good job, but she—Miss Cathy, sir, she acts sort of queer."

"What exactly happened last night? Alice tells me you were

worried about some fossils Miss Cathy has." "She said they were sea-

serpents, and—"

"Sea creatures, Mr Cooper," amended Cathy nervously.

"Yes, and that they were millions of years old. Well," he reasoned,

turning again to Charles, "nothing can live all that long; you must

agree with me there, sir?"

Charles's lips curved in amusement as his glance flickered to

Cathy and back again to the gardener.

"The sea creatures are all dead, and quite harmless. You can

take my word for it

"Dead?" repeated Cooper in an awed voice. "Miss Cathy really

has some of these sea creatures?—and they've been dead all that

time?"

"Correct. My niece collects them."

Cooper's eyes opened even wider at this statement. It would

seem as if he considered them both mad.

"I thought she was rambling, sir." Cooper again glanced warily at

Cathy, for her lips were quivering with suppressed laughter. But,

noticing his expression, she said contritely,

"I'm so sorry, Mr Cooper; but I did call you back so that I could

explain, didn't I?"

"Yes, miss," he had to admit. "But you stared so queer, like."

"I don't know about that," she returned, frowning. "I only wanted

to tell you about the fossils, and homo they're really made of stone

and you find them in the rocks."

"Is that it, miss?" His face cleared miraculously. "Was that why you

had the hammer?"

"What puzzles me," interposed Charles, "is why you were

brandishing it in Cooper's face?" He shot her glance of enquiry. "Isn't

that what Alice said?"

"I wasn't; I waved to the Deans, and when turned round Mr

Cooper stared at me for a moment and then ran away—" She

broke off, unable any longer to check her merriment. But she soon

became serious again as she apologised profusely to the gardener,

almost begging him to stay. Her plea, accompanied by a smile that

captured his heart at once, brought forth the assertion that he had

never even contemplated leaving, and it was that stupid Alice who

had somehow given the wrong impression.

When he had gone Charles admonished Cathy for her `abject'

attitude towards Cooper when asking him to stay.

"I'm sure I wasn't abject," she protested. "But as I was to blame, I

had to apologise and ask him to stay. That's only right."

"You do not beg servants to stay. Try to remember, please, that

you are now in a superior position." "But how—?"

"And you do not address the gardener as 'Mr'," he interrupted

shortly. "Cooper doesn't expect it." Cathy did not comment on that,

but went back to his earlier statement.

"I can't be in a superior position," she said in tones of protest.

"Paul always said that everyone is equal." "Paul lived in his own

little Utopia!" he retorted with mounting impatience. "You now live

in a world of reality, and the sooner you forget your impracticable

ideals the better!" He rang for the breakfast to be brought in; they

began it in silence, and through the fence was the disturbing

undercurrent of Charles's patience with her. She thought sadly of

her father, ways placid, always genial, and, searching the taste of

her companion, she wondered what this so-called civilised society

had done to people.

Although hall in dread of meeting Mrs Blythe and her daughter,

Cathy found herself breathing a deep sigh of relief when, towards

the end of the meal, they both put in an appearance.

The days dragged interminably. Charles had gone immediately

after breakfast on the Monday, and although it was now only

Thursday morning Cathy felt she had been away from the moors

for weeks. She had wandered over the fields, and inevitably found

herself ordered off the farmer's property. Had the farmer been

polite, had he requested and not ordered Cathy's reaction might

have been different. As it was she told him in no uncertain terms

just what she thought about the laws of trespass—and continued to

cross his fields whenever she felt like doing so. That the farmer had

threatened to contact the police trouble her not at all, though his

threat to contact Charles ha given her some slight misgivings.

She had explored the house, and hated it more then ever. She

could not abide its grim and dismal space, in dark passages and

heavy furniture. She disliked Mrs Blythe though she became friends

with her daughter Beryl, she felt, nursed some sadness, but it was

she who told her of the broken engagement, for Beryl spoke very

little, even to her mother. Cathy recalled Charles attitude towards

Beryl during the brief space when had all been together at the

breakfast table. He had been cool to Beryl, but kind. Not so with

his step mother. It was clear that there was no affection between

them; Charles tolerated her simply because he would consider it his

duty to do so.

Steve, as Charles had predicted, proved to be a kindred spirit,

but he was merely an amateur botanist knew little of rock

structure or of the sculpture of landscape. Nevertheless, he was an

interested listener and any observations he made were relevant

and intelligent.

But there seemed no doubt that they all considered her peculiar.

Both Beryl and her mother read novels, and so raised their brows

at Cathy's own reading matter. Steve had borrowed one of Paul's

papers, but it had proved too technical for him and he returned it

to Cathy unread. More and more she missed her father, and the

lively discussions they'd had—and even the arguments, for on

occasions her own theories had clashed with his. Here, she found

nothing to do, and she feared she would eventually become like

Steve, interested only in bed, books and food.

After lunch she went outside to the old man, whose favourite

spot was the tumbledown summerhouse which seemed to be held

together by the ivy and wild ramblers that clung to its roof and

walls.

His head was sunk in a book; a look of wispy hair fell down over

his face, and his spectacles hung precariously on the tip of his nose.

A benign smile creased his ace at Cathy's appearance and he

moved to let her sit down beside him. But she found a rickety stool

and sat n that, her thin legs dangling, her hands clasped between

her knees.

"What are you reading?" she asked, noticing the frailness of the

hands gripping the book.

"Thought I'd like to read something about your Pennine moors,"

he smiled. "They don't appear to be overendowed with flora from

what I can see."

She wanted to know how he had come by the book d evinced

some surprise at discovering he had taken from the library at the

Grange. True, it was a fairly I-known book, but of interest mainly

to the inhabitants of the region. She would never have expected

Charles to have it.

"We do have some variety," she told Steve. "The soils high up are

acid peats, though, resting on the rotted gritstone and shales, so we

have great expanse of cotton grass. But we have wild bilberry, and

the heather is beautiful. We have numerous lichens and mosses,

and a great many ferns, of course."

"I never tramped that part of England," he said with some regret.

"I'm beginning to think I've missed something."

"How long were you a tramp?" she wanted to know. To Cathy

there was nothing odd in being a tramp; she had met many

tramps up on the moors when out on those long expeditions with

Paul, and often they would invite one to supper and give him a

straw bed in outhouse or barn.

"Nigh on forty years." Steve's eyes clouded reminiscently. "A

wonderful life—wonderful !"

"Why did you take to the road?"

"Crossed in love," was the brief reply, and a tinkling little laugh

escaped her.

"They all say that."

Steve laughed then and his eyes held amusement too.

"I believe so," he admitted. "People always want reason, you see,

and that one seems to satisfy them. I took to the road because I

craved for freedom, enjoyed every minute of it, yet on looking

back I know it was a selfish attitude. No one should shirk

responsibility like that."

Cathy's brow furrowed.

"Would you not do the same again, then?"

"Yes, because I'm a born shirker."

"I don't agree. My father always said that everyone should be

free to do as he pleases."

"That wouldn't do at all." Steve shook his head emphatically.

"Just imagine the chaos if everyone did exactly as they wished."

Charles's words repeated, or nearly so. For the first tune Cathy

felt a tinge of doubt, wondering if, after all, there could have been

something wrong with her father's philosophy. But no. He was so

good, so clever; he had been always happy, and he had made her

happy, too. How could his way have been wrong?

"I think happiness is the most important thing," she said wistfully.

"We should all be free to find happiness in our own way. Paul and I

were happy, and I know that, whatever happens, I shall never be

as happy again." Her voice was not quite steady and Steve scru-

tinized her critically.

"You really do believe you were happy, up there among the bills,

but wait until you've tasted true happiness; I think it was

contentment you found, my dear, you and your father."

"Contentment is true happiness, surely?"

The old man shook his head.

"The ancient Greeks defined happiness as `having something to

strive for, being admired by many, and being loved by a few'.

Now, let us compare that with our definition. Had you anything to

strive for?"

Cathy admitted she had not. On the other hand, she hoped she

would never strive for material things. From the conversation of

Mrs Blythe and Beryl Cathy had readily learned with disgust that

most people's ambitions were dominated by money, and those

things which money can buy.

It's only living things that matter." She spoke her guts aloud.

"People and animals, birds and plants."

"All right. The second requisite was you admired by many?"

"No.... We didn't know anybody, not after the others had left."

She recalled for a moment the young people who had been her

companions until about three years ago. They liked her well

enough, but they thought her rather odd in preferring Chose jaunts

with her father to the company of boy-friends. No, she did not

think she had ever been admired by anybody.

"And you were not loved by anyone but your father." Pausing to

allow that to sink in, he noticed her heightened colour and the

sudden tightening of the clasped hands. "Do you really suppose you

were happy my dear?"

Cathy blinked at him, seeing compassion in the fad eyes. What

he said was true; she had never been love by anyone but her father

. . . and now he had gone. Suddenly a terrible fear engulfed her,

greater by f than the recent fear of leaving the valley and trying

adjust to the demands of convention. Who would e love her now?

She thought of the people with whom she lived. There seemed to

be scant affection between any of them, even between Mrs Blythe

and her daughter, so obviously no affection would be extended

Cathy herself. Steve, to whom she had immediately opened her

heart, felt pity for her—nothing else.

Charles?

He could not be expected to feel anything. Until just over a week

ago, he had not even heard of her existence. Besides, he was too

cold, too unfeeling to love anyone. Were he capable of loving, then

surely he would have been married long ago.

Steve seemed to be awaiting a reply, and she owned bleakly

that, by the standards of the ancient Greeks she had not known

happiness, but what she had experienced with her father was the

nearest she would ever come to it. At which the old man smiled

with the wisdom of age and said quietly,

"I'm sure, my little friend, that you will one day know happiness

in the way defined by the Greeks."

Long after she was in bed Cathy reflected on Steve's assertion

regarding her future happiness. She supposed he had meant that

one day she would marry and have children. She had never

thought about marriage; it was a vague state, meant for others

but not for her. She would have been content to spend the rest of

her life on the moors, living in the came tiny cottage in which she

had been born. In her brief acquaintance with her new family she

had learned rot only of Beryl's broken engagement, but also that

Moira's other daughter, who had two children, was living apart

from her husband. To Cathy it seemed that marriage should be

regarded as a permanent state from the first; it was very wrong

that children should be separated from their parents. Up on the

moors couples had never thought of separating, but down here

everything was so different.

Perhaps Steve had been right when he said she had own

contentment and rot happiness, but it had been much more

comfortable than trying to grapple with the complications and

problems of civilisation.

She tossed and turned until at last her mind became with sleep.

Charles intruded mistily into her thoughts. Where was he? What

was he doing? How little she knew about him...

As usual she was up before anyone stirred, but the kept her in.

Should it continue all day time would hang more heavily still, she

mused bleakly. On the moors rain did rot matter. There was no one

to look askance if she came in dripping wet. Here, the whole

household had stared in amazement on the one occasion when she

had done so.

After reading for a while she stood by the window, looking across

at the Deans' house. Even from here it seemed much more warm

and friendly than the Grange. The modern additions pleased her,

for there had been no intentional meaning off the old and the new.

She fell to studying the building, and realised the skill of the

architect. Modern additions to the nucleus of a Tudor cottage could

have looked incongruous, but these were exceptionality pleasing to

the eye. The gardens, too, were in excellent taste, with trimmed

yews and hollies, a sunken rose garden and an orchard stocked

with young apple trees. Beneath the trees was an ornamental pool,

and slang the drive spring flowers their brilliance of colour against

the of a laurel hedge.

Cathy recalled the struggle of growing things up on the moors. So

tenderly she would nurture a bulb plant, only to have it the, often

after a valiant effort survive.

Her eyes pricked, and she blinked bard.

The houses she had seen on her various walks pretty, and so were

the gardens with their flowers blossoming trees, but nothing could

compensate for the grandeur of the hills and the moors—or the

freedom roam them at will.

The Deans had asked her to visit them, and several times she

had started out to do so, but shyness overcome her and always she

had turned back. Yet she had an urgent longing to talk to the girl,

to make friend of her own age.

During breakfast Cathy sensed, not only the familiar resentment

against herself which Mrs Blyth had shown froam the very first, but

undercurrent hostility between mother and daughter. Obviously

they had had another of their frequent quarrels. Beryl, sulky and

quiet, ate scarcely anything, and now and then she would react an

almost baleful glance at her mother, who seemed bent on ignoring

it. Beryl would have been mort attractive, Cathy decided, if it

weren't for the perpetual droop to her otherwise pretty mouth. Her

hair was the colour of pale honey, and expertly styled, and her eyes

the vivid blue of a cornflower newly opened. What had gone

wrong with her engagement? Steve could not say; it had been

suddenly broken off and that was all he knew. Everything Cathy

had learned had come from Steve, whose attitude towards bath

mother and daughter was one of indifference. They resented him,

and he remained calmly untroubled by that resentment. He it was

who had told Cathy about Sheila and her being separated from

her husband. Steve had also, told her that Beryl worked in an office

in Loughborough; she worked only for pocket money, making no

contribution towards the expense of running the house.

So many people seamed to be dependent on Charles, and Cathy

decided she must soon begin looking for a job, so that she could

pay something towards her keep. She would mention it to Charles

when he came home at the week-end.

Beryl rose from the table, bade them a stiff `good morning' and

went out.

"What are you going to do today?" Mrs Blythe inquired, helping

herself to more toast.

"I don’t know. I hope it won't rain all day." Cathy felt awkward,

now that they were some, but it would rude to leave before Mrs

Blythe had finished her breakfast.

"You seem to spend most of your time down the garden with

Steve," the older woman remarked, eyeing Cathy with disdain.

"You appear to have much common."

Cathy could have pointed out that no one else had shown the

least interest in her, or ever made an effort to include her in the

conversation. During the evening or over meals, Beryl and her

mother sometimes talked, discussing some piece of local gossip, but

not once had either of them taken the slightest interest in Cathy,

true, when alone with Beryl, Cathy could talk, and even feel

comfortable, for Beryl seemed incapable of the sites and subtle

insinuations which her mother often directed at the girl whom she

would probably always regard as an intruder.

"He's mort interesting to talk to," Cathy submitted at length. "All

tramps are." The last words were added without thinking, and she

saw Ms Blythe shudder.

"I expect you met a good many, up there on the moors?"

"Yes, we did." Cathy became strangely tongue-tied and

endeavoured to think up an excuse to get away.

"What a queer existence." She watched Cathie through narrowed

eyes. It was not for the first time, and Cathy expected once more to

be cross-examined "What was it your father did?"

With a slight gesture of her bands Cathy passed that off ; she had

no wish to explain. But Mrs Blythe persisted.

"You said it was something to do with geology?"

"He studied the rocks," was the brief and totally inadequate

explanation.

"I can’t imagine why Charles never told us about you before. We

did net even know that Peter's sister-in-law had a daughter." She

paused and Cathy wondered what Charles's mother had been like,

and how anyone could marry this straw-haired person with the

protuberant eyes and sagging chin. "The relationship is extremely

flimsy, you must be aware of that?"

The colour rose in Cathy's cheeks as a stab of pain shot through

her, but she was in no way subdued for all the hurt and sudden

fear she felt. Her eyes began to sparkle with a light that even

Charles had not yet encountered.

"Had my uncle thought this," she retorted in stiff and quivering

tones, "he would not have accepted responsibility for me. Since my

arrival here you have shown unnecessary curiosity regarding Uncle

Charles's action in agreeing to give me a home, but I must remind

you that it's not your affair. If you ask me any more questions

regarding either that, or my life before I came here, I shan't answer

them."

"Why, you--you—impertinent girl. ! How dare you speak to me

in this manner !" Moira's face was red with fury and her voice

trembled as she went on to warn Cathy that the matter would be

reported to Charles the moment he returned. "Hell make you

apologise, my girl—just you wait and see !"

Cathy rose, excused herself, and went out. But once in her room

the items hung on her clashes before she angrily blinked them

back. What that hateful woman said was true, but Cathy clung to

that flimsy relationship, so great her fear of being entirely alone in

the world.

And because of her unhappiness and insecurity Cathy gathered

the courage to visit the Deans. She felt rather like a scarecrow as

the rain dripped from her hair and her coat.

The bell echoed merrily somewhere in the far distance; the dogs

barked riotously, leaping up at her as the door was opened.

"Cathy ! Come in—we expected you before this. Belinda, down !"

But the dogs had not been trained in obedience. They continued to

reveal their delight in the true doggy fashion, and as they licked

her hands and legs she felt suddenly warm and at home.

"I'm so wet," she said, wiping the rein tram her face. "I'll take my

shoes off."

Mrs Dean laughingly told her rot to bother; the place could never

be spotless, with the dogs pattering in and out all the time. Taking

her coat, Mrs Dean handed Cathy a towel, calling to her daughter,

who appeared clad in rather grubby jeans and a sweater. The toy

poodle she held. Under her arm was more sophisticatedly clipped

than the other three.

"You two have met? Yes, of course. Bridget, dear, go and bring in

the milk. Cathy must have known it's coffee time."

Bridget put down the dog and it ran to Cathy, coat white and

fresh after a shampoo.

"How many dogs have you?" Cathy asked shyly, holding the

poodle in her arm.

"Only three, that one isn't ours. Bridget does a little dipping, for

pin-money."

"Pin-money?"

"Pocket-money." Mrs Dean's eyes flickered with amusement, and

she hesitated before continuing. "Pour uncle called on Monday

morning and told us a little about you—and your life on the moors.

We all understand now That you might have certain difficulties.

But we'll do our best to help you to—eell, to adapt to your new

environment, as h were."

"Thank you." Cathy flushed slightly, wondering if, like those at the

Grange, the .Dean considered her to be somewhat odd. "Beryl

works for pocket-money," she said, changing the subject. "You must

all be very rich." Glancing round the ultra-modern kitchen, she

thought

82

of the tiny scullery at the cottage; its whitened gritstone walls, its

Brown earthenware sink and brick washing boiler away in the

comer.

"We'll be years getting straight after all these alterations," Mrs

Dean said wryly. "I daren't think about the money we've spent !"

"Who cares?" Bridget filed the milk pan and put it on the stove.

"So long as Daddy brings in the cash." her apparent indifference

was belied by the warmth in her eyes.

An affectionate family, thought Cathy, a wistful expression on

her face. She snuggled the dog against her, thinking of those who

lived at the Grange and of their coldness which seemed to be

reflected in the very atmosphere of the house itself.

By the time they had finished their coffee Cathy felt she had

known her new friends for years. She had been taken all over the

house; the new part was furnished in the modern style and the

luxury of it all took Cathy's breath away. Bridget's room was

exquisite, with everything in delicate pinks and white and frilly

curtains adorning the window winch took the whole length of the

wall.

But Cathy fait no envy, not only because she had no knowledge

of the emotion, but also because she was ever-conscious off a deep

gratitude to Charles for what she had. In any case, as her eyes

dwelt on the view the cultivated land and man-made scene—she

could not help but compare it with the view from her tiny

whitewalled room at the cottage, and a deep sigh escaped her.

But she was determined to adapt, and when asked if she would

like to accompany Mr Dean and Bridget into town, she stemmed

the impulse to refuse, and ran home to get the money Charles had

given her before leaving on Monday. They were to have lunch at a

hotel, and Cathy did hesitate for a moment, recollecting her

unfortunate experience when dinning with Charles on the way

down here.

Mrs Blythe asked stiffly where she was going, and a faint sneer

touched her lips when she told her. Steve, however, nodded his

approval.

"A nice family," he said. "I'm glad you've made friends with

them."

Lunch proved to be a very different meal from that which Cathy

had shared with Charles. For one thing, it was more informal, and

for another, Mrs Dean and Bridget chatted away all the some, as if

making a deliberate attempt to put Cathy at her ease. She thor-

oughly enjoyed herself and when the bill arrived she asked if she

might pay.

"No, dear," objected Mrs Dean. "This is on me."

"I would like very much to pay," Cathy insisted. "You've brought

me, so it's only fair."

Mrs Dean hesitated. Cathy would obviously derive pleasure and

satisfaction from paying for the meal. And she would learn

something, too...

"Very well, dear, that’s kind of you."

Bridget appeared rather shocked, but any remark she had been

about to make was quelled by her mother's glance.

On looking at the bill Cathy also experienced a shock. There

must be some mistake, for it came to more than she and Paul had

spent on groceries for a whole week. She glanced round, wondering

whether to call the waiter and ask if he had made a mistake—or

perhaps she should ask Mrs Dean. But after a little more

consideration she decided to wait and ask Charles about it

Having made this decision she paid cheerfully, g to be able to

return her friends' kindness in inviting her to accompany them.

The rain had stopped and the homeward journey was pleasant

and releasing. Bridget drove the car and Cathy sat beside her.

Watching the other girl, Cathy became fascinated by her handling

of the controls. That such small and dainty hands could be so

capable ! Much more comfortable than sitting beside Charles,

thought Cathy, remembering how fast he had driven.

Mrs Dean had been to the hairdressers, leaving the girls to do the

shopping. Bridget had bought a dress and some shoes. After taking

these back to the car, they then collected the meat, which was

ordered, and Bridget bought shampoos for the dogs and a collar

for Debbie. Cathy remained serenely untempted, though she

almost succumbed when Bridget, having bought her dress,

indicated a sweater in a vivid green winch she said would suit

Cathy's colouring perfectly.

"But I don't really need tilt," said Cathy, putting it bock on the

stand.

"You don't buy things because you need them," laughed Bridget,

her grey eyes twinkling. "I don't need anything I’ve bought. It's fun

to buy things you don't need."

Unable to agree to this particular kind of logic, Cathy said

nothing.

They dropped her at the gate, telling her to come over just

whenever she wished .She stood and waved to them until the car

turned the bend and became lost to view.

The outline of the Grange seamed more forbidding ever, and the

warmth left her as she neared the t door.

The noisome ivy creeping to the windows, intent on shutting out

the light; the ugly studded door and snarling lion head. She

knocked and Alice came, small and pinched and very tired.

Up in her room, Cathy gazed out to watch the dogs racing across

the lawn at Pinetree Lodge, her new friends' home.

And then she glimpsed the car, winding along the lane, now lost

to sight, now appearing again. Charles had said he might come

Friday night, but it would most probably be Saturday morning

...and it was only Friday afternoon.

Racing down the stairs, she almost collided with Steve, who was

making for the sitting-room.

"What’s all the commotion about?" he wanted know.

"Uncle Charles, he's here !"

She flung open the door and ran down the steps.

"You've come !" she exclaimed, her face glowing as she waited for

him to get out of the car. "You have come !"

"A must intelligent observation," remarked Charles, looking her

over critically.

"You said it might be tomorrow, and that seemed a long time.

I'm happy now!"

"Your delight is extremely gratifying. There's no need to clutch

my sleeve like that, child...I shan't run away !"

CHAPTER V

THE week-end did not begin very well for Cathy. No sooner had

Charles entered the house than Moira descended upon him with

complaints about Cathy's insolence, demanding an immediate

apology. With a sharp discerning glance at his niece Charles knew

that some admonishment would have to be forthcoming, but as he

first wanted to hear her version of the incident, he told her to follow

him upstairs and allowed her in his bedroom.

With an air of unconcern she slipped off her shoes and sat on the

bed, her feet tucked under her. Charles tossed his briefcase down

beside her and put his suitcase on a chair.

"Well?"

"She was rude to me," Cathy informed him, not in the least put

out by the ominous quality of his tone. "She?"

"Mrs Blythe."

"I said you will call her Aunt Moira."

Cathy's chin rose stubbornly.

"I don't like her enough for the. I think she's not a very nice

person" Mechanically, she toyed with the look on the briefcase. It

snapped open and she fastened it again.

"Why were you rude to her?" asked Charles, eyeing sternly.

"I said she was rude to me."

"I heard what you said. Answer my question."

With, a little gesture of resignation she explained what had

happened.

"I fait to see why you should take offence," he remarked when

she had finished.

"She said our relationship was flimsy," Cathy repeated, and

Charles did not notice the plea in her voice or the appeal in her

eyes.

"Our relationship is flimsy," he responded rather absent-mindedly

as, unfastening his case, he began taking out his clothes. "She spoke

only the truth." He went to hang his things in the wardrobe and

Cathy watched his profile through the mirror, noting the thrust of

the chin and the tightness of his mouth. Her own lips quivered, and

there was a distinct catch in her voice when she spoke.

"You are my uncle, though, aren't you? You must be my real

uncle, otherwise you wouldn't have given me a home."

He turned swiftly; she looked up at him, pleading for

reassurance.

"Yes, Cathy," he replied in gentle tones. "I am your real uncle." He

smiled at her; both were aware of the gain of pretence, yet his

answer restored her confidence and when he eventually delivered

his stricture the received it without any sign of contrition.

"I shall not insist on an apology this tune," he told her, "but you

will treat your aunt with respect—" He broke off as her chin rose

once more. "You will not only treat her with respect," he cautioned

darkly, "but you will also call her Aunt! "

Her fingers still played with the clasp of his brief - case; it snapped

open again and this time she made an effort to close it. Charles was

still unpacking, his face dark and set. She felt miserable and

changed the subject, hoping to divert him.

"What's in here?" Raising the flap of the case, she made to extract

some papers. The back of a clothesbrush came down hard on her

knuckles; Cathy rubbed them soothingly and cast Charles a glance

of reproach. "Are they private?"

"Certainly !"

"Paul and I never bail any secrets from one another," she sighed,

and then, "I don't know anything about you, do I? What is your

work? I asked Steve, but he seemed most evasive, saying I must ask

you to tell me."

Charles field up a tie, examined it critically, then put it aside for

cleaning.

"I build roads," he submitted at length. "At least," he added

quickly, "building roads is part of my work." "Roads.... ?" His

statement brought the colour rising to Cathy's checks. "Then you

must know quite a lot about geology?"

"A fair amount."

"But you pretended net to—"

"No, my dear. You took it for granted that my knowledge was

scanty," he put in with a feint mule, and Cathy's flush deepened.

"I feel so ashamed. You must know much more than do. Oh, why

did you let me talk like that?"

"It isn't important—and I found your description of the valley

most interesting." If he derived any satisfaction from her

discomfiture he did not show it. Going over to the bed, he smiled

down at her reassuringly, but her embarrassment remained and

she hung her head. Then suddenly she assimilated the fact that

they had this interest in common; it enabled her to identify him a

little more closely with her father. This brought a ck smile; she

glanced up, revealing the dimple, the glimmer tin those

devastatingly beautiful eyes.

Charles turned away abruptly to continue his unpacking.

He did not take such a lenient view of the next con plaint

regarding Cathy's behaviour. They had just finished breakfast and

were almost ready to go into Leicester when he was called to the

telephone. On his return to the sitting-room, where Cathy was

waiting, his eyes were bard and his mouth compressed as, lifting a

finger he said, very softly,

"Cathy come here."

She approached without hesitation, though profoundly conscious

that his expression portended trouble.

"Was he the farmer?" she asked, going rather pale in spite of her

apparent calm.

"I warned you that I didn't want to hear of angry complaints

about your conduct," he snapped, dark anger in his glance. "What

do you mean by continuing these escapades ! I'm angry enough

that you have disobeyed me, Cathy, but more angry still that you

should be impertinent to Mr Morgan !"

"He argued with me," submitted Cathy with a toss of her head.

"He argued?"

"Well, we argued," she conceded. `But he was very rude to me,

truly. He even threatened me with the police, which was silly. What

ran they do?"

Charles sighed wearily, his anger subsiding, though the muscles

tightened round his mouth.

"I've promised him you will, be over this afternoon with an

apology, and that you will also give hem your word not to trespass

on his land again."

"Apologise for crossing fields? I've never done that in my life!"

"Then it will be another new experience for you,' laid Charles with

amazing calm…

"And a most unpleasant one—if I did it," she retorted. "I don't feel

I owe him an apology—"

"You will do as I say, nevertheless," inflexibility now in his tone.

"I've made the promise on your behalf, and you will keep it." He

paused before adding, very softly, "I warn you, Cathy, don't try my

patience too far."

But still she refused.

"I couldn't--oh, no, that would be impossible! I wouldn’t mean it,

so how could I sound sinicere?" Another sigh escaped him.

"In that case," he said quietly, "you will go to your room

immediately on our return and stay there until you're ready to

obey me."

For an astounded moment she stared at hem, her expression one

of open revolt.

"I'm nineteen, not nine !" she reminded hem, flushed with anger.

Never in her life had she been sent to her room ! In fact,

punishment of any sort was totally unknown to her.

"Were you nine," he short at her grimly, "I should more effectively

he able to deal with you ! Now, what is it to be?—either you agree

to my wishes or you remain upstairs until you change your mind !"

Flinching under the sudden harshness of his voices, Cathy felt the

colour leave her face. She was hurt beyond reason at this dissension

between them.

"I w-won't apologise." her bands were tightly clasped, and her

voice had a sort of defiant desperation. "I can't humble myself

when I know I haven't done anything wrong."

"We all have to learn humility some time in our lives," he said, in

rather softer tones. But Cathy could not visualize Charles in a

position of humility, so she felt it most unfair of him to expect her to

humble herself, convinced as she was that no offence had been

committed.

Charles awaited a reply, but she remained silent; her mouth was

set defiantly but the hint of moisture still hung on her lashes. She

expected some punishment and wondered if he would deny her

the outing to which she had looked forward since he'd mentioned it

the last week-end. His brow was dark, creased in thought, and

Cathy felt certain he was considering this, but contrary to her

expectations he said he would leave the matter for the present, but

he hoped, upon reflection, that she would own to being in the

wrong and offer to apologise to Mr Morgan and at the same time

promise not to trespass on his land again.

Friction remained during the drive, but on arrival in the town a

truce developed and Cathy's talk became light and eager, finding

an equally pleasant response in Charles's own conversation.

He ordered a bookcase for her and, allowed to choose her own,

Cathy experienced genuine pleasure in doing so. Her thanks were

profuse; Charles appeared to be amused about something, but it

wasn't until her revisit to town that she guessed at the reason for

that amusement.

Despite her professed scorn for material things, she had managed

to choose the most costly bookcase in the shop !

They lunched at a small but exclusive restaurant and although

much of her shy hesitancy remained there was no mistaking the

growing confidence in his manner. Charles remained on it and

seemed pleased, bringing a flush of pleasure to Cathy's checks.

The appearance of the waiter bringing to mind colt of the

previous day's lunch, Cathy mentioned Charles anger if she should

have queried the bill.

"Certainly not but I hope you didn't, child !"

"No," she answered seriously, "but it was very dear—I thought

there must be some mistake."

"Sounds reasonable enough to me." He smiled across at her in

some amusement. "That particular place is about the most

expensive in Leicester, so I consider you came off lightly, in fart." A

slight frown appeared. "Mrs Dean allowed you to pay?" he asked,

but almost immediately his brow cleared as comprehension

dawned. "Apparently we're to have some assistance from the

Deans. I must remember to repair the damage to your pocket

money," he added. "Remind me if I forget."

"Oh, no, I've been thinking, Uncle Charles, that I must find a job."

"Must you?" Charles glanced casually at the menu. `What exactly

have you in mind?"

Cathy wrinkled her brow in thought, but appeared to having

some difficulty.

"Do you think I could serve in a shop?" She took e menu handed

to her and fixed her attention on it r a moment. She told Charles

what she wanted for e sweet course and he ordered. He had not

replied to her query and she repeated it, glancing across to see the

suggestion would be received. A smile of pure amusement spread

over his face, bringing an inaudible of surprise to Cathy's lips. She

leant back in her conscious of an entirely new emotion. Was this ? It

certainly was most pleasant to be sitting in luxurious place, with the

orchestra playing sofa and her very handsome uncle sitting

opposite... he was handsome when he smiled in that particular .

Yes, she decided, this must be pride…

To her astonishment she found herself feeling glad he was not old

and fatherly, alter all.

"No, Cathy, I don’t think you could serve in a shop," he said at

last on an emphatic note.

"Why not? The work doesn't seem to be very hard."

"I wasn't thinking of the work, particularly," and then, still clearly

amused, "Do you suppose you could endure being confined to the

back of a counter for about eiGht house a day?" The very idea

added to his amusement and he had to laugh, though Cathy

herself was clearly giving the question serious consideration.

Her forehead creased again, this time with sudden doubt.

"I must earn my living, Uncle Charles," she declared at length.

"Must you, my waif ?" Charles became serious. "I don’t think we

need trouble ourselves about it. There's no immediate necessity for

you to start earning your living."

Cathy began eating her sweet. Was Charles thinking the same as

she?—wondering what sort of work she could do? Endeavouring to

contemplate her future, she could not for one moment imagine

herself in the restrictive atmosphere of any indoor occupation—and

as for taking orders !

Charles was smiling faintly to himself and she shot him a glance

of inquiry.

"Maybe, when you begin going about a little, you'll find yourself

a suitable husband," he said, "and that will solve the problem."

So he was obviously resigned to supporting her until he handed

her over to some other man. Cathy flushed, and tilted her head.

"That time might be a long way off, in fast, I might never marry.

And I can't dive indefinitely on your—your charity."

"We shall have the muter for the present," responded Charles in

tones that brooked no further discussion on the topic.

Lunch over, they did some more shopping, and Cathy began to

feel a certain prude in ownership. Charles bought her some smart

clothes, and also a sweater and some jeans. Mrs Dean had said this

was the most suitable attire for every day, because the dogs had

no respect for cloches or stockings.

"You'll probably be spending a good deal of turne with us," Mrs

Dean had said when advising her about this. "Perhaps you may

like to help Bridget with the clipping later on."

Charles also bought her a handbag and, once in the car, she took

it from its wrapping to examine it, fingering the beautiful leather

with a gentle, caressing movement. Casting her a sideways glance

as he took his eyes off the road for a second, Charles smiled faintly

to himself ... Her curiosity was so appealing, and even more so the

tremulous smile she bestowed upon him as, once again, she

thanked him for the present.

She chatted until they neared the Grange, then became dumb

as he slowed down to bring the car into the side of the road before

the gate leading to a farmhouse.

"I'll wait here while you go and see Mr Morgan," he said, without

expression.

The gate lay at the end of a long driveway, for the farmhouse

was down in a dip, out of sight of the road.

"I can't.... " Cathy hesitated a long while as the inner battle raged;

then the light of rebellion glinted and she clenched her fists tightly

in her lap. "I've done nothing wrong. Paul always said. . . ." But

Charles had started up the car and they drove in silence to the

Grange.

"Have I to stay upstairs?" she faltered as they entered the hall.

"I'm afraid so, Cathy. I meant what I said." And he left her

standing there, her parcels under her arms. She received no

invitation to go down for tea, but a tray was brought up to her.

Later, Alice came to tell her dinner was ready.

Sitting at the table, Cathy was profoundly conscious of the rather

triumphant gaze of Mrs Blythe, and the questioning glance of her

daughter. Charles ignored her throughout the meal, but when it

was over he said quietly,

"You may go now, Cathy. Good night."

Beryl came to her, much to Cathy's surprise.

"What's wrong?" she wanted to know, clearly concerned. "Why

has Charles sent you up here?"

Cathy explained and Beryl pondered over it for a while. The

droop no longer marred her features, and she looked quite pretty,

dressed in bright coral, with her hair, as always, beautifully styled.

"You would be wise to do as he wishes." The advice was given in

gentle soothing tones, yet with a fun emphasis too. "Charles will win

in the end, Cathy there's no point in holding out."

The conviction had already become rooted, yet Cathy still could

not bring herself to submit. Her father's laws and rules were the

only ones she under stood. According to his philosophy the land

belonged to all, and, therefore, she had every right to cross th fields.

Cathy mentioned this to Beryl, who shook her head emphatically.

"The land isn't it yours—or mine," she reasoned. "You must accept

that it belongs to Mr Morgan. It's very different from your wild

moorlands," she went on wit a surprising note of compassion.

"There, you can run at will without doing any damage, but here

that wouldn't do at all. The land is cropped—"

"But those fields aren't," put in Cathy. "They haven't even been

ploughed."

"Then they will be for hay—or perhaps Mr Morgan intends

putting the cocas on those particular fields. But the land is his

business, Cathy, his living. What would happen if everyone

trampled over it as you do?"

Cathy bit her lip as she began to see the sense of this, but she

made no promise to see Mr Morgan and, with a small gesture of

impatience, Beryl left her.

Darkness fell; stars and moon lit the night sky and reflected

themselves in a small pond far away in the distance. Cathy looked

round the room, taking in the shadowed outline of all it

contained—and suddenly it took on the aspect of a cell...

Tears rolled slowly down her cheeks as she stood gazing over the

smooth and undulating landscape, while actually seeing the wild

and heathered moors, bathed in a silver radiance with the far hills

rising to the fretted peaks whose summits were canopied with

snow. She saw the deeply-incised valleys, clefts dissecting the vast

and sombre upland plain; saw the jagged spurs and naked scarps,

carved to their present form by wind and rain and glaciers, nature's

mighty tools.

On a night like this she would have been out, either with Paul or

quite alone, with the cold clear air on her face and legs, and the

great domed sky above, subtly lit by the incandescence of a

myriad stars. A racing moon would pick out the glistening snowy

heights of Shining Tor, rising starkly above Hunter's Clough to

shelter the lonely resting-place of the Fanshawes.

She saw the Hunter's Clough itself, descending from its torrent

stage in a series of miniature cascades until its course become

abruptly checked as it joined the brook which flowed under the

Packhorse Bridge before meeting the Callder. She traced the

Callder, from his headwaters on the wild terrain of Axe Edge, high

in the Macclesfield Forest, to the point where its freedom was

curtailed and it was confined to the pipeline which took it into the

Tordale Reservoir. Confined by man . . . that man!

The following morning she knocked timidly on door and waited

for Charles's permission before attempting to enter his room. He

was fully dressed, glancing through some papers, which he folded

as she came in. He watched her, noting the shadows under her eyes

and the slightly nervous movement of her hands.

"I will do as you wish," she said simply, aware of the softening of

his eyes, and allowing her thoughts to link him with Beryl. Did they

go out often together? Mrs Blythe had said they usually called

somewhere for supper, so Cathy assumed they went out regularly

when Charles was at home. "I'm sorry f-for b-being obstinate." She

hung her head, but only to hide the brightness of her eyes.

A small silence followed her words before Charles said, with

infinite gentleness,

"My little waif, come here." He held out his arms and she went to

him. Resting her head on his breast, she wept—wept for her father

and her freedom . . . and for something else she could not

understand. His arms and comforted her, his voice stilled her tears.

"I know it's hard for you to accept these restrictions, but you must.

A little time, and you'll come to enjoy your new home. I'm quite

sure of this, Cathy." The slanting sunlight and set alight the

burnished copper of her hair d she looked up to see a most odd

expression on his eyes. He bent his head to touch her forehead with

his, then dried her eyes and smiled, noting the faint responsive

tremor of her mouth. "Would you like me to walk with you when

you go to see Mr Morgan?"

"Yes, please." The tremulous little smile deepened. Shall I go

now—or after breakfast?"

`After breakfast will do. I don’t expect Mr Morgan welcome too

early a visit."

Cathy had never had a harder task than humbling 1f, especially

as Mr Morgan was far from grain his reception of the apology. As

she promised not to trespass on his land again she wondered how

she would become used to keeping to footpaths and roads, and it

seemed to her that there was no point at all in rambling under

those conditions. Besides, the fun lay in field-work, whether mental

or practical. How could one reach any sort of conclusion, postulate

a theory regarding the probable evolution of a landscape without

coming into close contact with that landscape? Also, there were

always exciting things to be found, things that the uninitiated never

dreamed existed, and therefore missed.

When she returned to Charles, who had waited by the gate, he

took her hand, patted it and said,

"Good girl; it wasn't so bad, after all, was it?"

She smiled and said nothing. She had pleased and for some

indefinable reason that seemed to be that mattered.

During the next few months their relationship to on an intimacy

which was pleasant, yet slightly disarming to Cathy. Then one

week-end Charles telephone saying that he had had some trouble

at his work and could not possibly get away. The same thing

happened the following week-end, and although Cathy felt utterly

miserable, she was at the same time grateful for the friendship

extended to her by the Deans. She spent most of her time with

them, and very soon she and Bridget had become firm friends,

doing their shopping together in town and usually having a meal

before returning home. The Deans had many visitors; when these

came to dinner Cathy also received an invitation and she soon

began to find a new pleasure in dressing for the occasion. Bridget

introduced her to one or people of her own age, and Cathy noticed

what they wore, how they did their hair and what kind of make-

up they used. She met Bridget's boy-friend, Noel, worked in

Glasgow and therefore did not get do his home in Loughborough

very often. Noel brought a friend with him and almost

immediately he and Cathy discovered they had a common

interest, for although Bill had no knowledge of the technicalities of

land formation, he had recently begun the hobby of fossil

collecting. He and Cathy talked a good deal about this and

eventually Bill suggested that, on his next visit, which would be for

several days, they should go up to Derbyshire and she could show

him the best places to find the fossils.

"I'll hire a car, and if we go early in the morning we should have

a good long day," Bill said eagerly, after Cathy had brought some

of her fossils to show him. "I shall look forward to our outing."

Bill was just twenty-one, and very fair with blue eyes and a

frank, open expression. He had no parents, and at was the reason

Noel had invited him to spend the aster holiday in Loughborough.

Both boys thought it most opportune that Bridget also had a

friend. The four of them went about together and on one occasion

they attended a dinner dance.

I can't get up," protested Cathy, shaking her head terminally as

Bill insisted. All her diffidence returned the other three tried to get

her on to the floor. She not really wanted to go to the dance, but

Bill had looked so disappointed that she had agreed. When he

asked her to dance, however, she took fright and her at actually

contracted with fear. "I haven't ever danced in my life," she said,

her cheeks losing their colour as she looked up at Bill.

In a few words, and with the utmost tact, Bridget explained. Bill

obligingly agreed to sit - out, but requested Cathy to tell him all

about her life upon the moors.

"It must have been jolly interesting!" he added, setting himself

down again beside Cathy.

She received this with some measure of doubt at first because

everyone else except Steve had concluded that her life before

coming to Leicester must have been exceedingly dull. But Bill

seemed quite sincere, and she proceeded to give him a rough

outline of her life and explained the reason for her having to move.

"Will your lonely cottage still be there when we go?" he asked

with genuine interest. "I should like to see the site of that fine

settlement."

Cathy shook her head, telling him of the demolition order.

"The two bridges are still there, though," she we on to inform him.

"They're to be submerged, unless someone saves them, that is. We

did think at one time that the Packhorse Bridge would be saved,

but the m who offered to move it changed his mind because would

have cost too much.''

"What would anyone want to move a bridge for. Bill asked,

frowning. "Where would one put it?"

"Over another stream. You would have to be very selective, of

course, because a bridge like that could easily look incongruous."

She paused in thought don't think any of the downstream

tributaries would do—they're all rather narrow. It could be taken

up-stream—though I can't think for the moment of stream over

which it would look just right." She turned to smile at him, and then

went on to say that could wander upstream from the Callders

Bridge see if they could discover a suitable position for bridge. Then

she gave a deep sigh as she reflected the futility of such an

excursion. As Charles had s no one would be willing to spend all

that money to the bridge from submergence.

Bill and Noel went back to Glasgow the following day, and

although she felt a gap at their departure, Cathy knew it was

Charles she really missed.

Where was he? A month now since he had been home. Each

Friday he phoned her expressing regret at not being able to leave

his work. He obviously had a serious problem on his hands, and

something he had said had given Cathy the idea that it concerned

instabi-1ty of the rocks. That would be troublesome, she knew, for

one had to be so careful when building roads. There must be no

danger of collapse.

Cathy wished she could help him; the next instant he chided

herself for her presumption. Beside Charles e was a mere novice.

He phoned her on Thursday saying he would be own the

following afternoon.

His eyes grew dark and unfathomable as he watched her

running downstairs; then they flickered with admiration—and at

the same time held a hint of regret. Cathy stopped with sudden

shyness, waiting for his comment.

"What is this, my waif? What have they done to you? Turn

around."

Holding out the folds of her dress, Cathy obeyed, literately

moving nearer to him as she turned. `Do you like me?" Her eyes

shone a welcome. No taking her pleasure at his appearance. "I

bought it morning—especially for you !" She sent him a questing

glance, but he said nothing; she sensed his mixed emotions. He had

wanted her to adapt, to tare and be like other girls of her age, and

yet.... A sigh of regret escaped him, but he still made no commet

and Cathy went on, quickly and rather anxiously, have lipstick

on—and do you like the colour of my nail varnish?" She held out a

manicured hand to show him.

"I do not," he returned shortly. "You can remove it"

"I put it on especially for you, Uncle Charles." Her lip quivered at

his tone, and she felt bewildered by the little pain suddenly tugging

at her heart. "I thought you wanted me to be ... modern?"

"Not too modern." His tone softened at her expression. "Don't

change too quickly, my little waif—I find I quite liked you as you

were."

She looked at him in perplexity; she had been so sure he would

be pleased at the change in her.

"You don't like my dress, even?" She kept her eyes on his,

anxiously awaiting his verdict.

At last he smiled, and her world shone again. He held out his

hands, and she put hers into them, acutely aware of their strength

and their warmth.

"You look charming, Cathy. I'm proud of you. The dress is in

excellent taste. I presume all this is the rest of Mrs Dean's influence?"

She nodded.

"And Bridget's—but I chose this dress myself. I choose everything

myself, though I usually ask Dean or Bridget if they like whatever I

am buying She spoke with a certain confidence, and a new

maturity, though the childish innocence still looked out f those

lovely eyes.

"Come into the sitting-room and tell me all that have been doing

while I've been away," he in retaining one of her hands. "I sincerely

hope haven't been up to any mischief?" he added with a quizzical

lift of his brow, and Cathy was quick to declare her innocence of

any further misdemeanours.

Mrs Blythe and Beryl were out, but Steve sat on the side of the

fire, his book almost touching his eyes, and his spectacles hanging,

useless, on the tip of his nose. He glanced over them, and over his

book, to scrutinize the faces of his benefactor and his `new little

friend' as he chose to call Cathy. The colourless eyes finally rested on

their hands, still clasped, and an enigmatical smile touched the thin,

pale lips.

"Hello, Steve." Charles sat down in the deep armchair on the

opposite side of the fireplace, and Cathy sat on the rug at his feet.

"Are you well?"

"Pretty good, on the whole, Charles. And you, what's been the

matter to keep you away so long?" Steve dropped his book on to

his lap. The spectacles dropped on to the floor. Cathy picked them

up, laughing.

"I've told you so many times, Steve. You'll break them. Where's

your case?" She rose to look on the mantelshelf, then moved to the

small table by the wall. `Here it is—now keep them in it!" She spoke

sternly, aware of Charles's prolonged gaze or that Steve was, turn,

staring at Charles.

"I've had some trouble at the works," returned Charles as Cathy

sat down again.

"Fixed now?" His expressionless gaze held that of Charles for a

moment, then moved to Cathy, who waited with sudden interest

for her uncle's reply. "No, afraid hot." A deep sigh escaped him, but

he achnged the subject and the conversation turned to ht and

everyday matters for a while, then Steve ced at the dock and

announced his intention of g a short nap before tea.

Cathy looked up at her uncle as the door closed behind Steve.

He seemed exhausted and depressed and knew he had been

under a great strain. In the most natural way she knelt up to kiss

him on the lips, offering the comfort she had given her father when

he, too, had been wrestling unsuccessfully with some geological

problem.

A little gasp of astonishment escaped him at the gentle,

spontaneous gesture, and there was no mistaking the look of

tender concern in her eyes.

"My waif, what was that for?"

Her eyes became pensive and faintly regretful.

"I wish I had Paul's knowledge. Then I would be able to help

you." She sat down on the rug again, and rested her head against

his knee. A dimness had suddenly pervaded the room as the sky

darkened with the promise of rain. A log slipped to send a shower

of light to catch, fleetingly, the delicate fine of her profile and

lighten her hair to the colour of burnished gold. Charles touched it,

letting his fingers run through it. His touch was gentle, almost

tender, and Cathy suddenly quivered with a strange and new

emotion Charles sensed it and seemed annoyed by it. She felt an

almost physical ache when his voice resumed familiar impersonal

tope as he asked her again to tell him what she had been doing

during the past month.

She told him all that had happened, speaking in the low sweet

voice that seemed to bring the music of the wild moors right into

the room. She told him of meeting Noel and Bill, and of their going

out together. But she made no mention of the projected trip into

Derbyshire; she had a faint uneasiness about her uncle allowing her

to go on to the moors with a young man and should he forbid her

to do so she would either have to defy him or disappoint Bill. Much

simpler, she decided, to remain silent about the matter.

And she felt glad she had done so, for Charles seemed vexed

even at the idea of her going out with Bill at all.

"You were together all the time—the four of you, I mean?" His

voice held a hint of steel, and the hand resting gently on the top of

her head was removed. Yet there was a frown of anxiety in his

glance as he added, you didn't split up into pairs?"

"No." Cathy looked up innocently. "We were together all the

time—except when Bill brought me home, of course."

"He brought you home?" Again that edge of steel to his voice.

"Mrs Dean allowed it?"

She stared blankly for a space and then, in some bewilderment.

"Is there any reason why Bill shouldn't bring me home?" She

waited, still uncomprehending, but Charles did not answer. He

merely regarded her searchingly as if waiting for some sign of

embarrassment or heightened colour. He appeared to be satisfied,

but Cathy was left with the strange conviction that he intended,

once again, to pay a visit to Mrs Dean.

CHAPTER VI

THE tea was brought in and Charles and Cathy took it atone by

the fire, both rather silent, each strangely content in the company

of the other. When they had finished and the tray had been

removed Cathy settled down again at her uncle’s feet. She sensed

once more his depression and tentatively mentioned his work

again.

"Paul knew so much . . . but of course you do," she added hastily

and with rising colour. "I'm sure you will solve the problem, Uncle

Charles." Yet her anxiety remained and she caught his band and

put it to her cheek, as if once more to give him comfort.

He did not speak for a white, but she knew by his sudden frown

that his thoughts were on the problems his work.

"Never Mind about it, Cathy," he said at lest apparent

carelessness. "Let's think of something else. Show me that map—the

geological one—again."

"Yes," said Cathy, "and oh, I meant to tell you, I' found the other

maps—the bundle I thought I'd—But perhaps they aren't of any

interest to you... ?"

Charles's eyes flickered. He told her to bring the maps for him to

see.

She sprang up immediately, eager and happy that should show

interest.

"They're all relating to the Pennines," she said faint apology a few

minutes later as she knelt on rug sorting out the maps. "Which area

would you the limestone, or the grits and shales ?"

"The grits and shales; show me the one you thought you had lost."

She handed it to birr, taking hold of one side as he opened it

across his knees. He examined it carefully, surprising her by his keen

and prolonged interest.

"Paul often seemed to have an instinct," said Cathy, beginning. to

search through the other maps, opening them, then folding them

again. "There's another one somewhere, with more on it than the

one you have, but he never finished it—Oh, yes, here it She spread

out the map, over the one he had. His eyes became darker and his

interest even more pronounced.

He and Cathy talked a long while about the map, with all Paul's

brilliance revealed through his daughter's lips. Now and then,

though, she would bring a quick frown to Charles's face as she

commented scathingly on `that man'. He, too, would be having

difficulty.

"I do believe this is the point where the dam is to join the bank,"

she declared with evident satisfaction. `Here, of course, is the

obvious place--this is area of stability, but he won't know that. I

imagine he's grouting away, trying to reinforce the bank here, but

he's fighting a losing battle because it's completely riddled with

faults."

They spent another half hour examining other maps

Cathy’s pleasure in having someone to share her interest was

obvious. He realised for the first tune how it must be for her here,

having so little in common with those with whom she was forced to

live.

She might have read his thoughts, for, glancing up, he said in

rather pleading though doubtful tunes, "Will you be coming home

every week-end from now? "

"I wish you didn't have this problem," she said, her eyes clouding

"Where do you live all the week? Can I--please can I come with

you?"

"That's not possible, my child," he sounded faintly regretful, sue

thought, and asked,

"Is it because you live at a hotel? If you do, then I'll understand,

for it would be far too expensive for you to have me with you. But

if you live in a house?"

"It's not the expense," he returned with caution. "But there are

other reasons why not practical for me to have you with me." Her

lip drooped and she uttered a sigh of resignation. "Don't look so

dejected, my waif," he added, eyeing her quizzically. "I should have

thought you would feel much more comfortable without your stem

uncle around, giving you orders and scolding you."

She thought about this, and for a moment became detached,

enveloped in that intangible quality which had surrounded her as

she stood atone on the Packhorse Bridge the day Charles had

brought her away from her moorland home.

She glanced up at last, to give him a rather ruff smile.

"I did resent your authority that first day, didn't I ?" she owned,

half expecting a frown to appear on dark brow. "You see, I hadn't

ever been scowled and it hurt ... here, inside—" She raised a hand to

her heart and with a swift, involuntary gesture Charles slipped an

arm around her shoulders, his fingers and gentle as they touched

the delicate curve off her neck. "But now that I love you," she went

on placidly "I don't think I mind at all—" She paused on hearing a

smothered little exclamation, but then went on a "And if I love you

it's neural that I want you around—even though you scold me all

the time. I would rather have that than those separations, Uncle

Charles, for I'm not very happy without you." Her lip quivered and

she moved her head, as though to find comfort by resting it in the

crook of his arm. She felt him move restlessly, become conscious of

his hand on her head. He caressed it absently. She wondered what

his feelings were. Only those of an uncle for his niece or perhaps

those of a father for his daughter. She sighed and asked, "When

you're finished this work will you be living here always?—or will you

go somewhere else?"

"I can’t say, Cathy," he replied at length. "In any case, it will be

another year before I've finished the project on which I’m engaged

at present. You have the Deans. You seem to spend a good deal of

your time there, so I don't think you should be bored, or lonely."

Cathy said nothing; he had not fully understood what she

wanted to convey . . . or alse he was being deliberately evasive;

impossible to tell which. She wanted to explain, to let him know it

was he whom she missed, and that it was not a question of her

being bored or lonely, but rather that of having someone of her

own close at band, someone to provide an outlet for her love. But,

glancing up, she noted in his face that hardness which had

dismayed her on their first meeting, and with a sudden ache of

dejection she left his side and began carefully to fold her father's

maps and turn them to their wrapper.

The following morning they again went into Leicester time to

visit the museum where they spent hours in the geological section.

The new fossil which had been discovered at Broadhouse Haves

was not there, much to Cathy's disappointment. There was,

however, a plaster cast of the fossil, and a leaflet describing it was

on sale.

"Do you know why the fossil isn’t at the museum, Uncle Charles?"

said Cathy, reading the leaflet on the way home.

"No, dear." Charles kept his eyes on the fine of traffic in front.

"They couldn’t extract it the rock was so hard" her voice quivered

with sudden excitement, "The fossil is still in the rock, and the exact

location is given here in the map reference. . . ." The fossil was still in

the rock ! and Broadhouse Eaves was not so very far away.... One

of the world's rarest fossils, over six hundred million years old, and

there for the taking. A frown creased her brow. The experts had

been unable to extract it--but Paul would have been able to do

so—and she acquired much of his skill. "Could we go and see it? she

asked tentatively, her eyes sparkling as she examined the

photograph of the newly-discovered fossil.

"As long as it's not on private property," return Charles in tones of

mild inflexibility.

Cathy's mouth set firmly.

"Surely you're not saying that this fossil belongs someone!"

"If it's on their land, yes." Charles swing the into the narrow, tree-

lined lane; the Grange and the Deans' house came into view.

"Where is this fossil?"

A long hesitation, and then,

"On the golf course—at least, on land belonging the golf course.

That's part of the Charnwood Forest isn't it?"

"This is all part of the Charnwood Forest." "And forest land

belongs to everyone."

"The golf course happens to be private property." Charles turned

into the drive and a few moments later they were standing beside

the car, Cathy's eyes defiant, Charles hard and unyielding. "You will

not go near that golf course, understand?"

"Can't I even look at it?" Unconsciously she gave away her

intention and a dangerous glint added to the severity of his glance.

"What do you mean, `even look'? What else had you in mind ?"

Cathy bit her lip.

"N-nothing, Uncle Charles," Cathie returned meekly, too meekly !

"If I hear of your going anywhere near that golf course, Cathy, I

hall be very angry indeed."

This merely drew forth her militant expression again. "That fossil

doesn't belong to anyone," she asserted with a toss of her head.

"How can it when it was there hundreds of millions of years before

man ever came on the earth? It's a stupid idea—Paul would laugh

at such a ridiculous notion of its being anyone's property !" "In that

case," said Charles with amazing patience, `you will agree that it ns

not —and never could be--your property?"

That fossil, Cathy decided, belonged to whoever could extract it.

Did her uncle really believe she could making the attempt?

"I can’t see the sense of leaving it there—"

"I expect you to do as I say!" He looked at her squarely for a long

moment and when, as if considering argument at an end, he took

a parcel from the car, the door and made to walk away towards

the house. But a light had entered Cathy's eye at his action all that

first resistance to authority took possession her. Neither her love for

Charles nor her fear of his displeasure acted as a brake on her

defiance. Had the fossil been up on the moors she would have been

free to do what she liked with it.

"I shall try to get it out," she announced firmly, though her colour

did fade somewhat as she observed his changing expression.

"Cathy," he said, in a very soft tone, "if you so much as touch it I

sail punish you-severely, do you understand?"

She recalled the misery of Chose long hours when she had been

confined to her room and for a brief space she faltered. But then

the light of determination once more entered her eyes.

"No one can question my right to add that fossil to my collection !

Paul would have been the first to agree about that, and to

encourage me...." Cathy tailed off; the mention of her father

seemed to have an odd effect on Charles, for suddenly his nostrils

flared. Nevertheless, his tone retained that soft inflection when at

last he spoke.

"Cathy ... have you ever been shaken?" Her eyes opened very

wide, but she did not speak and ire added in the manner of one

goaded quite beyond human endurance, "Damned silly question

for me to have asked !" and then, warningly, "You will be, though, I

can assure you—and not before very long ! "

"If you did that to me," returned Cathy, a sparkle I her eyes, "I'd

never forgive you—never!"

"I don't believe you would," he said as, to her surprise, his anger

left him. "No, I'm sure you wouldn't.'

The rugged outcrop glistened in the sun and. Cathy moved this

way and that in order to view the f from various angles. She felt

disappointed, for imprint was far from pronounced. In fart, it was

merest indentation in the rock and became almost in-visible when

viewed from certain angles. For over three hours she had used all

her knowledge and skill, but the rock was too hard. Many others

had been there before her, judging by the damage to the area

around the actual fossil. But all appeared to have been experts, for

no damage had occurred to the fossil itself. Witte a deep sigh she

stooped and collected up her tools and a few minutes later she was

negotiating several strands of barbed wire that had been fixed as a

barrier against intruders.

She should have known of course that, had it been humanly

possible to extract it, the fossil would now be in the museum; the

man who had discovered it would have made sure of that. Having

successfully passed under the barbed wire, Cathy slung her

rucksack over her shoulder and made her way to the bus stop.

There vas one slight consolation; she would not be in trouble with

her uncle !

He had cautioned her again this morning over breakfast. His

voice had been hard and his eyes stem, so Cathy had adopted a

submissive attitude because she didn't bear him to leave her like

this. She was rewarded by his smile, and a quick ides on her brow

he said, as they walked to the car,

"Be a good girl, and I'll try to come down at the week-end—in

fact, I think you can rely on my coming " He hesitated. "I think I've

solved the problem 'that has been troubling me for so long."

Cathy called at the Deans' after alighting from the Mrs Dean was

in the kitchen and she looked up cutting sandwiches, a Swift smile

of welcome on face. She observed the rucksack with some

puzzlement but made no comment on it.

"They're all in the sitting-room, dear," she informed Cathy after

inviting her to cake off her coat.

"All?"

"Noel and Bill are here." Mrs Dean hesitated uncertainly, and

then, "Go on in, Cathy, and Bridget will give you the news herself."

She continued with the sandwiches and Cathy regarded her with

faint curiosity for a moment as if expecting her to explain, but Mrs

Dean told her again to run along to the sitting-room.

Bridget and Noel were engaged; Cathy became overwhelmed

with a strange shyness as she offered her congratulations, and she

wondered the reason could be the way Bill looked at her—with

that prolonged and interested regard. He made room for her on

the couch beside him and when Mrs Dean brought in the tea he

very attentively saw to her needs.

There was to be an engagement party at one of the large hotels

in Leicester and naturally Cathy was invited.

"I wonder if Charles would come?" said Mrs Dean thoughtfully, a

strangely troubled look in her eyes as she saw Bill put his head close

to Cathy's. Charles had called in this morning and requested that

she made his niece and this Big were not left atone together. The

hotel where the party was to be held stood in extensive grounds;

invariably the couples left the balloon wander off onto the gardens.

Watching Bill now there was no doubt in her mind about his asking

Cathy take such a stroll.

Personally, she considered Cathy too timid to come any harm,

but she could understand her uncle’s anxiety and she meant to

respect his wishes as far as she could.

"Uncle Charles?" Cathy's eyes brightened. ` That would be lovely

!" For some reason she remembered her pride as she sat opposite to

him in the restaurant how she had noticed for the first time that he

was handsome, and that the had been glad he wasn't old and

fatherly like Paul. Cathy could think of nothing so wonderful as

having her uncle for an escort—and she could dance a little now,

for alter that occasion on which she had refused to dance with Bill,

Bridget had insisted on giving her lessons. To dance with Charles, to

feel the strange comfort of his arms.... Cathy found her eyes straying

to Bridget's ring; a new and unfathomable emotion swept over her

and the hand that held her cup trembled slightly.

The following day Cathy stood by the sink in the out-house,

watching her friend shampooing Belinda. "Bridget, what does it

feel to be in love?" mater several attempts Cathy managed to

phrase the question, though she felt the colour rising swiftly as she

did so. Pausing, her bands buried in lather, Bridget smiled, her eyes

shadowed in faint compassion.

"Have you never had a boy-friend?" she asked gently.

"No—but I didn't want one," Cathy added hastily and with truth.

"I—I used to like being on my own." he waited for an answer to her

question and then mildly repeated it.

Bridget's eyes shone; absently she began to run her fingers into

Belinda's fur again.

"It's just . . . wonderful !" she laid briefly, and a touched Cathy's

brow.

"There must be more to it than that," she stated. There must be !"

`Must there ?" Bridget raised her eyes from her "Why? "

Cathy searched for an answer. "Well... feel wonderful when you

walk on the moors in the I, or when you watch the water cascading

over the rocks, or when you feel the icy cold wind in your hair—

Love isn't like that !" She looked at her friend, her great eyes cloudy

and bewildered. "What do you feel like, Bridget—here, inside?"

Her friend's eyes suddenly widened.

"Are you—do you think you might be falling in love with Bill."

"Bill?" Cathy blinked at her. "No, it isn't Bill."

"Then who?" Bridget ceased her rubbing again; Belinda shivered

and glanced round at her mistress with a sort of dignified reproach

in her eyes. "We weren't aware you knew anyone else. Have you a

boyfriend we don't know of ?"

"No, no, I haven't. You see it’s—it's—" Cathy broke off, flushing

even more vividly. One did not fall in love with one's uncle. Bridget

would consider that to be very odd. "I just wanted to know what it

felt like," she added lamely, and then, with a shaky little laugh,

"Poor Belinda, you look so unhappy!" Cathy reached for the jug of

warm water. "Shall I rinse her, Bridget? While you get the towel?"

Cathy stood poised on the rooky ledge at the head of the clough,

gazing out a cross the green expanse of heathered moor to the

distant heights of Kinder Scout, snow-sprinkled and glistening in the

sun.

Bill, hammering away in a farad outcrop dose by, paused in his

task to glance up at her. He saw her outlined against the sky, a

remote, elusive figure with all the glace of a nymph. Her eyes, wide

and clear, moved to smile down at him with the candid innocence

of a child. Her long slight hair, whipped from her forehead by the

breeze, seemed on fire. Bill caught hir breath ... and resumed his

labours.

After a while Cathy joined him. He had a fossil in avis hand and

was clearly delighted with it.

"Do you know what it is?" he asked, preparing to wrap it

carefully in a piece of tissue paper.

"Lamellibranch, non-marine." Cathy regarded the specimen with

a frown and asked Bill if he intended keeping it.

"Of course." Bill wrapped it up and placed it in his bag. "I haven't

one of those."

Cathy shrugged, and then remembered that Bill was a very new

and inexperienced collector.

"There's a band of them lower down the clough," she said, "on the

site of an old lake bed. Come, I’ll show you. We can find a much

better specimen than that."

Fascinated; Bill watched Cathy as she ran her hand under the

bank of a small stream which ran through the lake bed before

joining the Hunter's Clough. To his amazement she brought forth a

beautiful specimen of the fossil and, taking out a handkerchief,

wiped it clean.

"There--" She saw his expression and laughed. `They aren't

always embedded in the rocks," she told him "Quite often the

water does the work for you and you merely have to pick them

up. In any case, fossils found in the shales are very easily extracted—

not like the limestones. "

"I always thought fossils were rare," Bill said, taking from her to

examine it admiringly. "But you seem find them everywhere !"

"Not everywhere. But fossils are not rare by any means—it’s just

knowing where to look for them."

They retraced their steps down the clough to the n valley and the

road alongside the Callder, and several times Cathy regarded Bill a

little anxiously as he negotiated the stony path. On one occasion he

almost overbalanced as he missed his footing where the path had

been undercut by the stream and collapsed.

They reached the car without mishap, however, Bill put his

rucksack and 'ode in the bout. Cathy out the picnic basket and the

flasks.

"We'll have our lunch by the river," she said. "W you bring the

groundsheet, Bill, and the mg?"

The lunch was soon spread out, ready and inviting; Bill sat down

on the mg, but Cathy remained standing for a while regarding the

devastation through eyes dimly kindled with halite. They moved

slowly from rutted, mud-strewn river bed to the row of buts on

hillside above. For countless ages the valley had gaining in form

and beauty as nature slowly and d worked its wonders. Then along

comes one man, determined mined to destroy...

The two bridges atone gave evidence of habitation. They looked

forlorn and sad amid all ugliness. The Wingstone Brook still flowed

under Packhorse Bridge, and the main river under the tiers Bridge,

but only a few hundred yards do the bed was dry.

"Where was your little cottage?" Bill's question into her thoughts

and she pointed to a spot below Packhorse Bridge. A terrible

bitterness entered her as she spoke.

"There.... That pile of stones was our—our home." Her eyes

wandered again to the huts, and her clenched as on the day she

had stand on the bridge making that last wish.

She sat down and took a sandwich from the which Bill held out

for her.

"I expect you feel awful," Bill looked at her understanding, but a

moment later added, I’ve been terribly lonely though, up here,

especially winter. What did you find to do?"

"My father and I used to go off no matter what time of the year

it was—or what kind of Luther. You get used to it. We always

found plenty to do." He seemed puzzled and Cathy told him a little

about her father's work, and about the papers he used to write.

"We get many geologists up here," she went on, `and tramps, of

course. "

Bill shook his head in a slightly bewildered way. He ed to

understand this strange girl. How could anyone actually enjoy such

isolation?

"Would you return—if you could, Cathy?" He handed her the

sandwiches again, watching her eyes as they took on a brooding,

reflective expression. "Would u really go back to your old life?"

Her gaze sought once more the row of huts. That had changed

her whole life, and brought about father's death. She knew she

would always hate and yet...

With a sudden catch of wonder she found herself thinking of

Charles and realising that, had this upheaval in her life not

occurred, she would never have him. Confused, and filed with a

heavy sense of guilt, she was gradually forced to accept the

astounding truth.

Her life had held no real meaning until she met Charles !

This feeling she had for him was different from that she had

known for her father—but was it the kind of feeling Bridget had for

Noel? Cathy's heartbeats quickened with fear. If this new emotion

were that kind of ... then what about Charles's feelings for her? She

to view the situation dispassionate , but her thoughts floundered

helplessly and her fear increased.

Charles had accepted responsibility for her merely a sense of

duty; his attitude was ever that of stern guardian. When he loved it

would be someone like Beryl, a girl who shared his interests and his

way life, one who had been brought up in a `civilised' society.

Mechanically, she took the cup of tea which Bill had poured out

for her, aware of his curious gaze as he awaited her reply.

"I—I don't know," she murmured, her eyes on the heap of

gritstone blocks that had once been her home. "I really don't

know.... "

CHAPTER VII

THE following afternoon Charles turned into the narrow, tree-

lined road still uncertain as to how he meant to deal with Cathy.

His face was taut and grim as he recalled John's mentioning the

couple on the clough. He had not shown much interest at first, for

the couple were not trespassing, but a chance remark referring to

the girl's agility caused Charles to take the binoculars from his uncle

and scan the lonely heights above the clough.

Only one girl could stand like that, erect and proud, poised like

some magnificent wild creature surveying its vast terrain, a

graceful slender silhouette against the pine-clad hills sheltering the

desolate ruins of Callderton Hall.

Charles had caught his breath; he could have been anywhere on

the site; she could so easily have seen him. How had Mrs Dean

come to allow the trip? Charles's lips compressed as he realised that

Cathy must intentionally have avoided mentioning it ... as she had

deliberately avoided mentioning it to Him.

She must have guessed he would not give his consent. He turned

into the drive and as usual Cathy ran down he steps to greet him.

But suddenly she paused, a soft flush rising, an unaccustomed

shyness holding her back. Had he stopped to define her attitude, to

mark the glow in her eyes and the faint tremor of her lips, his

reaction might have been different, but in his present mood he saw

only an air of guilt and his mouth tightened again as he closed the

car door with a sharp, deliberate movement, before turning to

regard her with hard and angry eyes.

"Is there anyone in the sitting-room?"

"Yes—''

"Then come upstairs !" he commanded brusquely. I want a few

words with you !"

"I h-haven't done anything wrong," she faltered closing the door

behind her as she followed him into room.

Flinging his suitcase on the bed, Charles rounded on her,

demanding to know why she had gone up to Derbyshire without

his permission. The way the colour le her face and the sparkle

faded from her eyes, the way she flinched under the dark fury of

his voice only served to increase that fury—and his suspicions. "You

knew last week-end, when you were telling me about this young

man—this Bill—that you were planning the trip, didn't you?" Cathy

was too staggered by his manner to utter a word, and he added, in

the same wrathful tones, "Well, is there something wrong with your

tongue?"

"How—how did you find out?" she said at last, staring.

"That's my business!" he snapped, and then, "Answer me—why

did you go up to the valley without my permission !"

She stood erect, very pale, her wide grey eyes hurt and

bewildered, recalling her thoughts of yesterday remembering how

she had wondered at the new, exquisite sensation that had so

unexpectedly entered into her. She had fallen asleep feeling

excited, filled with anticipation, eager for the moment when she

would see the car come winding along the lanes...

His face was more severe, more rigid than she had ever seen it as

he stood there, glaring down at her awaiting a reply. Her chin went

higher; her fists clenched and a militant light entered her eyes.

"I don't know how you could have learned of it," she said, "but I

don't think it matters very much if you're aware of my visit to the

moors. It's not necessary for me to obtain anyone's permission to go

there—to see the place where I used to live." Her voice was low and

calm despite the rapid beating of her heart. "I said that first day

that I'd never been told what to do, that I had always pleased

myself. I told you that Paul—"

"Don't you dare quote another of your father's impractical

philosophies to me," he warned, eyeing her levelly. "Had he

attended more to his duty my own task would have been easier; as

it is, while I'm responsible for your welfare you will regard my

wishes."

"That's a subtle way of putting it !" she flashed. "What you really

mean is that I must obey your orders—well, I won't, so now you

know ! And it doesn't matter how you scoff at Paul's ideas, I believe

in them !" She stopped, remembering that only last week-end she

had said she no longer resented his authority. But that had been

such an intimate occasion, with Charles so gentle and she herself in

a tender, docile mood. Tears started to her eyes, much to her

chagrin. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, and

when she again met his gaze the militant light had returned. "I've

never been meek and submissive—and I couldn't ever be, or give

up my freedom, and—and if you insist I shall find a job and leave

you !"

He actually looked startled at her words. She felt he had

expected a clash of wills but had not doubted that his own will

would prevail. Her expression remained stormy and he spoke more

guardedly, and with some caution.

"Now you're being silly and childish," he began when she

interrupted him, her voice tense and indignant.

"That's how you think of me, isn't it?—as a child, a silly child who

needs to be protected. But I'm older than Bridget and she—she—

Oh, you don't understand ! You want me to regard you as a

father... Her voice trailed away into silence as the impact of her

new emotion again hit her, forcibly; she lowered her eyes, for they

were suddenly brimming with tears.

"A father?" murmured Charles after a lengthy pause. His anger

had subsided now and his mouth curved in a faint smile which was

half bitter, half amused. "No, my waif," he said with unexpected

gentleness, "that's not how I would have you regard me."

She stared, bewildered.

"Not as a father? Then what—?" Cathy trembled, and her wet

lashes blinked rapidly as she tried to read his expression. "How w-

would you I-like me to—? She broke off, lowering her head in

sudden embarrassment, and the moment was lost. Charles gave a

deep sigh and reverted to the subject of the trip.

"You did know, last week-end, that you intended going up to

Derbyshire?"

"Yes," she returned dully. "Yes, we had discussed it."

"Then why didn't you mention it?" She looked directly at him,

unflinching now. "I somehow knew you wouldn't—approve."

Charles noticed her hesitation; he smiled at her way of putting it.

"And if I hadn't approved?" "I should still have gone."

"Yes, I'm sure you would." And then, curiously, "What did you do

all day?"

"Collected fossils, and had a picnic by the river."

"Is that all? You spent the whole day collecting fossils?"

"We wandered over the moors as well." She looked oddly

puzzled as she added, "What else could we be doing?"

Charles laughed, but after a moment he became serious as he

asked her to promise not to go up to the moors again, either alone

or with anyone else. She was too hurt and dejected to note his

anxiety, or the persuasive inflection of his voice. She failed to

understand the request and as he would offer no reason she felt he

was once again assuming a dictatorial attitude, contriving by more

artful means to subjugate her, and she was immediately on the

defensive, sure that any weakness on her part would soon result in

total submission to his will, so she refused. But at the same time she

had no desire that he should construe her attitude as a deliberate

flaunting of his authority, for the idea of his becoming indifferent, of

his leaving her entirely to her own devices, was just as dismaying as

the prospect of his gaining complete mastery. She therefore

qualified her refusal by reminding him that, as she had no

transport of her own, she obviously could not go at all unless Bill

were available to take her. Aware of the sudden tightening of his

jaw again, she moved swiftly to the door, giving him no time to say

anything as she added,

"May I go now?—there isn't anything else you want me for?" She

was still very pale, yet calm and dignified, and her voice was

surprisingly steady and clear. Charles's face relaxed. He said softly,

an odd smile touching his lies,

"You're a wretch, Cathy, a stubborn little wretch and I wonder

why I bear with you. No, I haven't anything more to say; you may

go," and, turning, he drew his suitcase to the edge of the bed and

began to unpack.

Cathy went slowly downstairs, acutely aware of the softening of

his mouth and voice, and yet dominating her thoughts was his

anger, which seemed quite out of proportion, for all she had done

was to remain silent about her intended trip into Derbyshire with

Bill. A deep sense of unhappiness engulfed her as she again

reflected on that eager anticipation with which she had awaited

his arrival. She did not know what she expected, but never had she

visualized the week-end beginning like this. One thing was clearly

revealed; Charles had no feeling akin to hers; no new tender

emotion had entered into him, otherwise he could never have

spoken to her in tones so harsh, or looked at he with that cold and

angry glint in his eyes.

Unable for the moment to face Moira, and probably Steve,

Cathy sat down on the stair, cupping her chin in; her hands.

The dimness, the oppressive weight of oak-lined walls and

massive beams, the shadow-darkened corners and the Bank,

must-tainted air.... She shivered, imprisoned—and suddenly

terrified that she would never escape.

But she did escape.

For a fleeting moment she stood on the precipitous heights

above Hunter's Clough, the pine-scented breeze on her face,

gazing dreamily across the purple moors t where the sun-haze, a

floating film of gossamer, veil and softened the distant ragged

scarps. Above, high and white, tangled wisps of cirrus cloud hung

motionless in a sky of purest blue.

The moors in their warmest, gentlest mood; this w her natural

habitat and only here was she free. Why should Charles try to deny

her this freedom? What right had he to say she must not visit the

moors just whenever she wished? His attitude was unreasonable in

the extreme. She remembered her conviction that he would object

to her going with Bill—though she could not think why. However, it

seemed his objection had nothing at all to do with Bill, for he had

asked her not even to go alone. A sudden frown crossed her brow.

What difference could her returning to the moors make to Charles?

There was no explanation for his attitude and she became more

fully convinced that it sprang from a most illogical desire to assert

his authority. A light sparkled in her eyes; Bill was staying over for

the party tomorrow night . . . in fact, he was staying over until

Tuesday.

Moira glanced up from manicuring her nails as Cathy entered

the sitting room and moved over to the couch. The older woman's

eyes narrowed perceptively as she examined Cathy's face, and a

half-sneer of satisfaction curved her mouth into an ugly line.

"In trouble again, are you?" Cathy said nothing, but shot her a

glance of intense dislike. "No wonder," added Moira, "if you speak

to him the way you speak to me—always snapping."

"I never snap at you !"

"What are you doing now?"

"Well, if I do it's because you snap at me."

Moira screwed the top on the bottle of nail varnish with a slow,

deliberate movement.

"I must say this—and you're not going to like it but this house has

never been the same since you came. I often wonder if Charles had

some particular motive for bringing you here. Seems very odd that

he brought you at all—I'm sure it wasn't out of a sense of duty." he

held out a hand to examine the crimsoned nails, and then

continued, looking straight at Cathy,

"Whatever his reason he must be heartily regretting his action by

now."

Cathy's eyes glittered, but she remained thoughtfully silent for a

moment, her mind dwelling on her recent visit, with Bridget, to the

large house in Leicester where Alison, a friend of Bridget, was

installed in a flat. She had left home, wishing to be independent,

but the flat was too expensive, and she hoped to find someone to

share it...

Moira was obviously awaiting some comment and Cathy said

brusquely,

"If Uncle Charles is regretting it he'll tell me him self. I don't expect

he'll thank you for telling me !" Rising from the couch, Cathy went

swiftly to the door, her face white, her lips quivering with anger.

"Such insolence ! I notice you never let Charles hear you speak to

me like this ! I shall certainly tell him—"

The door opened and Charles appeared, glancing swiftly from

Cathy's pale countenance to that of his stepmother, set and

diffused with colour.

"Tell him now, then !"

"What's this?" demanded Charles, his glance changing to one of

severity as he regarded his niece.

"Ask her !" Brushing unceremoniously past him Cathy ran out of

the house and down the path to join Steve in the summer house.

He was dozing; his spectacles lay where they ha dropped from his

nose on to the newspaper lying acre his knees. As Cathy stood by

the door and watched, head droped further forward, nodding,

then jerking little convulsive movements, and gradually lowering

her eyes clouded with compassion. What was it like be eighty-

two?—eighty-two and alone in the world?

"Steve. . . ." she murmured, and as he lifted his h and blinked at

her, "why don't you go upstairs and have a proper rest?" She sat

down on the stool, smiling at him. Strange how calm she felt now.

But Steve had that sort of effect on her; he was always so quiet and

composed.

"What are you doing here, little friend?" he wanted to know. "I

thought I heard Charles's car? You usually have no time for anyone

when he's around." Putting on his spectacles, he eyed her curiously,

then began fumbling with the newspaper, turning the pages with

awkward, clumsy fingers.

"He's busy," she submitted, and then, still regarding him with

compassion, "Did you never have any relations, Steve?"

The pale eyes twinkled.

"Well now, I expect I did have a mother." Having found what he

wanted he proceeded to fold the paper carefully and very slowly,

watching Cathy all the time. "Yes, I expect I must have had a

mother."

Cathy laughed, and took the paper as he held it out to her. He

indicated a certain column, pointing to the headline, and below

Cathy read, with increasing dismay, that `someone' had been

making abortive attempts to extract a rare and precious fossil from

the rocks in the outcrop above the golf course. The owners of the

land were considering what action to take, for this was private

property. The barbed wire fencing had been cut through and

damage had also been done to other fencing further down the

road. Flushed, and with an expression both frightened and puzzled,

Cathy met the mildly enquiring gaze of her companion.

"Other people had been there ... and the fencing as all right

when I left."

"I removed the paper," commented Steve, taking it from her

again. "I think perhaps it had better be mislaid, don't you?"

Cathy automatically put up a nervous hand to her mouth. If

Charles should discover this, after what had just occurred...

"Thank you, Steve," she said gratefully, and then, "Do you

suppose they can find out who was there? Will they call in the

police?" For the first time she regretted her rebellious action. "What

do you think will happen?"

"I shouldn't worry too much." Steve shrugged and tossed the

paper into a comer. "They'll probably never discover who it was.

You say you didn't damage the fence?"

"You know I wouldn't do a thing like that!" she returned

indignantly. "Someone else must have gone after me, and cut the

fence. I don't know why, though, because I managed to get under

it."

Steve eyed her up and down, smiling.

"I daresay you did—quite easily." He fell silent for a spell, and

then, "You mustn't do such a thing again," he warned. "Charles is

only human, you know, and—" He paused again as though to

make her attend carefully to his next words. `You must own, my

dear, that you've been something of a trial to him."

Her eyes clouding, she again thought of Alison's flat in Leicester.

"I expect this rare fossil was very tempting to you," remarked

Steve after a while. "You mentioned some information you'd let me

have?"

"The leaflet? I couldn't find it and realised I'd left it in the car—

shall I fetch it for you now? Are you really interested?"

"I'd like to read about it, yes."

The car was unlocked; Cathy reached for the leaflet, taking it

from the shelf where she had left it last week-end. Charles's

briefcase was on the passenger seat he had not fastened it securely,

for the flap was open and some of the papers had slid on to the

floor. She picked them up, vaguely aware of charts and plans and

there among them.... But it couldn't be ! Cathy turned back the

comer of the map—Paul's geological map of that part of the valley

in which the dam was being constructed. Her eyes flickered

uncomprehendingly as she recalled his interest in that particular

map. In fact, he had scarcely shown interest in any that had not

covered the region in which the reservoir was being built.... What

could he want with it?—and why had he taken it without asking?

Had he extracted it from the folder after she had put it there, or—

With a shock she realised he must have taken it from her room.

But why?

Staggered by her discovery, she returned to the summer house

and gave the leaflet to Steve, an absent expression in her eyes.

Should she tackle Charles with her discovery? There must be

some logical explanation. She knew he liked maps, and she herself

could sit and read a map with as much interest as other people

could read a book. Perhaps Charles was the same.... She shook her

head, for had that been the case he would simply have asked her

to lend him the map.

It was clear that he had wanted the map, but had not intended

her to know that he wanted it !

Thinking again of the plans and charts, Cathy murmured good-

bye to Steve and, leaving him already absorbed in the history of

the fossil, she made her way back to the drive. But before she

reached the car again Charles had come from the house and had

already taken out his briefcase. Seeing her he paused and to her

surprise he smiled as she came up to him.

She did not reply at once, trying to decide whether or not to

mention her discovery. But she knew he would be placed in an

awkward position, which would not please him at all. Also, as he

had told her on a previous occasion that his papers were private,

he would be justifiably annoyed that she had touched them, even

though they had fallen on to the floor of the car. No, she did not

see how she could inform him of her discovery and, suddenly aware

of some serious misgivings, she deliberately forced herself to dismiss

the matter from her mind. Her uncle would explain in his own

good time.

"Aren't you vexed?" she asked. "About Moira?"

"I daresay you were both equally to blame." He paused, then

added with a hint of amusement, "Would it matter very much to

you if I were?"

Falling into step beside him, Cathy walked in silence for a

moment, wondering at this indulgence while once again recalling

his anger.

"I was so looking forward to your coming," she murmured almost

to herself.

He did not comment for a space and then, with a mixture of

gentleness and regret,

"And I spoiled it, didn't I ?"

She cast him a glance of surprise, then nodded. But he had

yielded ground and she did the same.

"Perhaps I should have mentioned it to you, Uncle Charles—

about going into Derbyshire I mean."

They entered the hall; Charles paused by the table, took a bunch

of keys from his pocket, locked his briefcase, and left it on the table.

Something made her ask if he had solved his problem.

"Yes, Cathy, thank you." He paused uncertainly for a space, and

then, "Soon, dear, I'll tell you all about it.

Cathy frowned in puzzlement. How odd to thank her. He could

of course merely be thanking her for the enquiry ... but she had the

strange conviction that his thanks were for something much more

important than that. The tone in which he had called her dear,

however, made her forget everything else for the moment. She

smiled, a tremulous little smile; all his anger was forgotten and she

felt again that new emotion about which she no longer had any

doubts at all.

"I'm so glad—" She discovered with a slight shock that she could

not address him as usual and found herself adding, shyly, "Can I—

can I call you Charles?" but then she remembered his previous

reaction when she had asked him a similar question. "Perhaps you

wouldn't like it?"

"On the contrary," he returned gently, "I would like it very much."

They joined Moira in the sitting-room; Beryl came in as they were

having tea, an unfamiliar sparkle in her eyes as she greeted

Charles, and then Cathy. Her mother received no more than a

perfunctory nod of the head. A change had come over Beryl

during the past week—ever since her visit to the theatre with

Charles, or so it seemed to Cathy. She glanced at Charles; his smile

was tender, his eyes reassuring and a warm and happy feeling

engulfed her. Whatever the reason for the change in Beryl, it had

nothing to do with Charles.

"Has Mrs Dean been in touch with you?" Beryl inquired of him,

pouring herself some tea. "Bridget's engaged and we're all invited

to her party."

"She phoned a short while ago." Charles passed her the cakes,

smiling somewhat ruefully. Cathy suspected he didn't tare much for

parties and was surprised to hear him say he'd accepted the

invitation.

"You're coming?" she breathed, her eyes shining, and then, "It’s to

be a very swish do. I hope my dress will be suitable."

Charles frowned.

"Where did you find that expression?" he wanted to know.

"Everybody says it," replied Cathy without concern. "Don't you

like it?"

"Not particularly." he noticed the odd expression on Beryl's face

and added, "What makes you think your dress may not be

suitable?"

"Well, I'm wearing a long one," Beryl explained, "and so is

Bridget."

"But I'll look all right in a short one, won't I?" Cathy seemed

doubtful, eyeing them in turn.

"Probably." Beryl helped herself to another cake. "Everyone

won't be wearing long dresses—but they do look nice."

Much later Charles and Cathy walked over to the Deans' and

were urged to stay for supper. Charles seemed proud of Cathy and

gratified to see her so completely at her Base. The Deans had by

now a great affection for her and she felt more at home with them

than she did at the Grange. When the meal was over Cathy and

Bridget automatically cleared away the dishes and washed them

up. They went upstairs, and were laughing and moving around.

Cathy never treated the rooms at the Grange with such familiarity,

and when they returned to the sitting-room, she saw Charles

regarding her with a most odd expression in his eyes.

On their way home he said casually,

"We must go into town tomorrow and buy you a dress."

"Oh, no, Charles," she began, flushing slightly, I don't really need a

new one."

Glancing down, he took in her smart appearance, her exquisitely

tailored coat and expensive shoes, and smiled faintly to himself.

"Spent up?" he asked, and she started in surprise at his tone. Then

a rueful smile appeared, and the dimple.

"I must try to be more careful with my money—but the shops are

so full of lovely things. I know I should resist; I could at first, quite

easily."

"No need to resist, Cathy; it won't do you any harm to indulge for

a while."

She sensed tenderness about him, felt his hand under her arm as

they crossed the side-road leading to Mr Morgan's farm. And- for a

moment she had an urge to clear up the mystery of the map, and

also to ask him again how he knew she had been up to the mores.

But she remained cautiously silent, loath to risk a change in his

mood. Yet the questions continued to trouble her, for in some

inexplicable way she knew the two were linked. After a while she

put the matter from her, telling herself once again that Charles

would supply an explanation of his own accord when he was ready

to do so.

"We'll go into Leicester tomorrow," said Charles as they turned

into the drive. "I'll buy you the dress," and, as she again made to

protest, "I refuse to escort my—er—niece unless she is looking just

right for the occasion." The way he said that, the hesitation and the

slightly increased pressure on her arm gave her an odd feeling of

expectancy. But he did not speak again until they entered the

house, and then it was only to remark on the lateness of the hour

and say it was long past her bedtime. She would have liked to stay

up and sit with him alone, for everyone else was in bed, but Charles

had already picked up his briefcase from the table and made for

the stairs and Cathy had no option but to follow. On the landing he

turned, lifted her face and kissed her on the lips, watching the

colour rise in her cheeks. Then he had to laugh at her expression.

"What are you thinking? That Paul never kissed you like that?"

"How—how did you know?" she asked in surprise, putting a

finger to her mouth, as if to feel his kiss.

"Never mind." He was still amused, although his tone became

serious as he added, "I'm sorry I took on so about your trip to the

moors, but I shall explain to you, very soon." And then, cryptically,

"In the meantime, think about it; think about it carefully."

"Think... ?" She threw him a glance of bewilderment. "Think

about ... what?"

Charles made no reply, but merely kissed the top of her head

and bade her good night.

Cathy was dancing with Bill, but all the time she was aware of

Charles's eyes following her around the ballroom. She was in vivid

green, a billowing creation of net and shaded satin. As usual her

head was proudly held, her movements exquisitely supple; a smile

came swiftly as she caught his glance. Charles responded and

Cathy's heart began to do strange things. She tripped and Bill

apologised.

Charles had the next dance with her; she felt the - strength of his

body against her and his firm cool hand on her back. He

congratulated her on her dancing and her appearance, stating

that the Deans had worked hard and he was pleased with the

result.

"I'm just as you wanted me to be?" She was truly feminine,

glancing up at him coyly and waiting expectantly for his reply. He

brought a deliberate edge of coolness to his voice and her

excitement ebbed.

"Not quite," he said on a cryptic note, and a few minutes later

she was Sitting with Bill watching him dance, first with Mrs Dean

and then with Beryl.

"Do you suppose there's anything between those two?" said Bill,

noting the slight frown which had come to Cathy's brow as they

passed.

"You mean . . . are they in love? No, I don't think so—" She

paused, wondering why she was not quite convinced. "Beryl was

engaged—I don't know what happened, but it was broken off.

Steve thinks that her mother objected because the young man was

quite poor."

"Beryl is old enough to please herself, surely?"

Cathy nodded, recalling what little Steve had told her, though he

had also added that it was entirely supposition on his part, for he

was not in the family's confidence, being, since the death of

Charles's father, considered by Moira and her daughter as

something of a nuisance, and that was why he spent his time either

in bed or in the garden.

"Steve thinks Moira had one big row with this Eric, and he was so

angry that he just walked out and became engaged to someone

else."

"He's engaged again?"

"Yes. Bridget knows the girl—says she isn't nearly so nice as Beryl."

"I wouldn't say Beryl was very attractive." His glance once again

sought out the girl under discussion. She was looking up at Charles

and laughing, and Bill felt he should take his statement back.

"She used to look rather miserable," Cathy owned. "But lately—

this last few days—she's been different, almost happy." She ended

on a faintly puzzled note as she too noticed Beryl and Charles

laughing together. They came closer and there was no mistaking

the softness in Charles's eyes as he looked down at his partner.

"They could be in love," said Bill. "Certainly they appear suited.

How old is Beryl?"

"Twenty-six," replied Cathy in a flat tone.

"Just right." He turned, a grin spreading over his face. "We could

soon be receiving another invitation to, a party."

The colour left Cathy's cheeks at that and as the dance finished

and Charles returned he regarded her anxiously, asking if she felt

all right.

`Yes, I'm fine." She tried to sound light-hearted, and failed.

Charles insisted on taking her home, and as i was past eleven none

of the others made any protest.

"We shah all be moving soon," said Bridget. "Ami you're right;

Cathy dues look rather tired."

"Can we sit for a while?" asked Cathy half an hour later as they

entered the house.

"You're very tired, dear."

"Please, Charles....?" Her eyes were wide and strangely pleading

and after a small hesitation he took her arm and they went into

the sitting-room. The fire had died and although the room was

pleasantly warm from the radiators he switched on the electric

heater

They sat on the couch and for a moment Cathy looked around

her at the sombre furnishings of the room. No one seemed to have

any interest in the house at all; no one thought of brightening up

the place with new covers and curtains or bright coloured paint or

wallpaper. And yet, thinking of the tiny stone cottage on the

moors, she felt that brightness in itself was not all that important,

for the furniture in the cottage was heavy and old and the walls

merely whitewashed over the rough gritstone blocks.

It was the atmosphere, she realised. There was no warmth here,

no affection or love. She closed her eyes tightly; smelled the heady

scent of pine logs burning saw Paul with brow furrowed, delving

into the problems created millions of years ago, saw herself

kneeling beside him, sharing the tank of trying to solve those

problems.

There had been love and warmth and unity of purpose up there

in the lonely moorland cottage. Love and warmth...

"What is it, my—?" His glance flickered over her and he added,

with faint regret, "I'm afraid I've lost my little waif—you're so

elegant and lovely tonight, my dear."

"It's nice like this, you and me—so quiet." She rested her head

against his shoulder and a sense of tranquillity entered into her and

she forgot the cottage and Paul and the secrets of nature which,

she often felt, would in the end defy man's puny efforts at

discovery.

"But you have enjoyed yourself tonight?" His tons were half

amused and yet a trifle dry. "All the boys were wanting to dance

with you, I noticed."

"And I only wanted you," she murmured, trying not to yawn.

"Always it's' you I want, Charles." She turned her head, suddenly

afraid of something she did not understand. She dragged out the

words, "Beryl looked very happy tonight."

"She's certainly happier these days," he returned, and before he

could expound on that Beryl appeared, flushed and smiling.

"Still up, Cathy?" she exclaimed in surprise. "I thought Charles

would have bundled you off to bed right away—you seemed to be

so tired."

Cathy rose, as if impelled by some unspoken request of both

Beryl and Charles. Controlling the sudden quivering of her lips, she

said, with forced lightness,

"Yes, I am tired. Good night, Beryl; good night, Charles." Their

response seemed without interest, perfunctory, and at the door

Cathy turned. Beryl was sitting on the couch beside Charles, in the

place she herself had just vacated.

It was late on Sunday afternoon that the news of Cathy's

escapade on the golf course reached Charles. His visitor, the owner

of the land, had presented him with unmistakable evidence that

Cathy had been trespassing there and had even given Charles the

date. He was a reasonable man, listening to the explanation with

some slight interest, and on Charles's offering to pay for the

damage to the fencing he agreed to let the matter drop.

As he showed his visitor out Charles's mouth was set and grim.

The thought of the expense did not trouble him half as much as the

humiliation of having to ask the owner of the land not to

prosecute.

On his return to the sitting-room he sent for Cathy who, seated

on the stool in the summer house talking to Steve, looked up as

Alice gave her the message.

"I'll come back later," she laid to Steve, "and don't fall asleep with

your glasses on!" she added sternly. "You'll be breaking them one of

these days."

Charles was standing with his back to the window, his face

hardened and darkened by the shadows. Cathy stopped by the

door, blinking at his expression, and trying vainly to think of a

reason for it. With a slow and deliberate movement he picked up a

book lying on the table at his elbow.

"I believe this belongs to you." He held out the book to her, his

eyes hard and cold as steel. Cathy moved hesitantly forward and

took it from him.

"My field notebook?" She gave him an uncomprehending stare.

"Where did you get it?"

"Where did you leave it?"

"In—in my room, I suppose...." Her head suddenly jerked as she

recalled the last entry. With a trembling, mechanical movement

she turned back the cover, unable to meet Charles's icy gaze. "Did I

leave it—?" A lump rose in her throat, preventing further speech for

the moment.

"On a ledge in the old quarry—nicely labelled with your name

and address, and the date on which you tried to extract the fossil."

His voice was frightening in its quietness and her trembling

increased. She swallowed convulsively several times before she

could articulate her words.

"How did you get it–I mean, d-did someone return it?" The way

she looked down at her book, her bands nervously curling round it

one moment and plucking at the pages the next, the slight

trembling of her mouth and the effort she'd made to steady her

voice, all frayed his temper, yet he kept in under control, for he was

fully aware that nothing would afford him greater satisfaction

Than to seize her by the shoulders and shake her unmercifully, and

if he lost his temper that was exactly what he would do.

"Don't stand there asking stupid questions ! What do you mean

by giving me all this trouble? And do you mind explaining why you

deliberately out through the fencing?"

"I didn't—oh, Charles, you don't believe that ! How could I cut

through the barbed wire? I went under it... " She swallowed again

as his eyes darkened even more angrily at her admission. "And as—

as for the fencing further down the road, I didn't even go near it,

and that's the truth."

A long silence followed her words, and during it Cathy realised

her mistake. She put a trembling hand to her mouth, waiting for

his response. He spoke very softly.

"I don’t believe I mentioned anything about any other fencing.

Seeing that you didn't go near it, perhaps you twill tell me how you

know it has been damaged?"

Cathy did not reply; she had lifted her head now and her eyes

were far too bright for the tears to be held in check much longer.

Did Charles really believe she would commit a deliberate act of

vandalism by damaging another person's property? Surely he

knew her better than that ! He stood waiting, glaring down at her

and all she could say was that she hadn't damaged any fencing. He

interrupted her with an angry and incredulous exclamation,

expressing disgust that she could stand there and he to him.

"I'm not lying !" she protested, immeasurably hurt that he could

so readily believe these things of her.

"Then how do you know the fencing was damaged?" he stated,

obviously shocked that she could look him straight in the eyes while

telling him a deliberate untruth.

In order to exonerate herself she at last owned to having read

about the damage in the local paper, and, took the blame for

removing the paper so that Charles could not discover what she

had done. This astounding admission left him completely speechless

for a moment and Cathy seized the opportunity of telling him

about the Her attempts which had been made previous to her

own, and asserting that others must also have gone there

afterwards because there was no damage at all to the fencing

when she left the golf course. If she expected all this to have the

effect of mollifying him she was mistaken.

"I'll have no more of it, understand ! Since the day you arrived

here you've given me trouble. I shall not have people coming to

this house complaining of your conduct—you do realise you could

have been prosecuted ?—nor do I expect to be presented with any

more bills for your wilful damage to property--"

"Oh, no, I didn't—you don't have to pay !" She met his gaze

unflinchingly as she again denied all knowledge of the damage to

the fencing. "Charles, you must believe it wasn't me."

"I don't know what to believe—or what to expect when I arrive

home at the week-ends—"

"That's not fair—" Her mouth felt dry and her throat1 hurt. She

stared at him pleadingly but to no avail.

'From now on you will forget all your father's absurd ideas and

do as I say!" Her eyes filled up, but Charles, still smarting under the

indignity of leaving to ask his recent visitor for leniency towards her,

merely added darkly, "And gars won't help you—in fast, if anything

like this happens again I'll give you something cry for!"

CHAPTER VIII

CATHY went slowly down the path towards the summer house,

considering with deep unhappiness Charles' words, and reluctantly

admitting their truth. Her thoughts then reverted to the flat in

Leicester, and as she entered the summer house and sat down she

hesitated only a moment before saying.

"Steve, what sort of a job do you think could do?"

She watched him take his spectacles from the end his nose, saw

the pale eyes flicker before settling on her as if in keen

interrogation. "I feel it's time I earned m own living," she added,

aware that the expected son further explanation. "Charles can't

keep me indefinitely."

"Sa you call him Charles now," he remarked, for the moment

diverted. "Wondered when you'd get round to that" He paused

and then went on, without mach expression, "I came here when

Charles was nine knew a about the family from his father; knew

Charles couldn't possibly have a niece."

His meaning was clear; she wanted to cry, but the weight of her

misery held back the tears. She asked again if he had any ideas

regarding the type of she could do.

"Does Charles know what you're contemplating?" enquired,

breathing heavily on his spectacles.

"No, I haven't mentioned it to him yet. I thought I find a job first."

She refrained from enlightening Ste as to her intention of leaving

the Grange, for she f the first thing he would do would be to pass

an information to Charles who, although welcoming the idea,

would perhaps feel a little guilty and decide he had better try to

make her change her mind. "I've been wondering what I could

do—I can only think of being a shop assistant."

"Not for you at all," he laid, echoing Charles's statement of a few

weeks ago. "You'd feel imprisoned standing there all day behind a

counter." He began polishing his glasses with a piece of paper he

found in his pocket, taking considerable time over the tank. "Think

you should consult Charles about this, and see what he has to say.

Don’t really think he'll approve, my Little friend; can't see him

letting you do in"

"He can't stop me!" Cathy retorted with a toss of her head. "I'm

qui to determined to get a job, Steve, whether le approves or not !"

"So ... had a quarrel? Now what could the be about, I Wonder?"

He rubbed at his spectacles again, vigorously. "Like to tell me?"

Cathy hesitated, wishing she could take back that indignant

retort that had caused Steve to make a guess at the truth. Not

that she and Charles had actually quarrelled, for she herse1f had

been subdued by the knowledge that her own foolishness had left

her open to suspicion over the damage to the fencing. She hadn’t

argued, only pleaded with him to believe her, but he'd remained

adamant, and that had been enough to convince her that he had

come to the end of his patience, and although le might make some

demur at her going, he would in the end be inexpressibly relieved

to be rid of her for good.

"He found out about the fossil," she told Steve at fast, twisting her

bands in her lap. "I left my field notebook at the quarry and

someone returned it—the owner, :I think it must have been,

because Charles says

147

he has to pay for the damage." Her voice faltered. "Do you

believe I did it, Steve?"

"No, and neither will Charles when he's stopped to think. Was he

in a taking ?"

She nodded, her lips trembling.

"He—he said I'd been a trouble to him from the very first—and--

and I have, Steve. I've been a trouble and an expense, and ifs only

to be expected that he's come to the end of his patience."

"Charles wouldn't cave about the expense . . . but you shouldn't

have gone near that golf course, you know. Knew it was wrong,

didn't you?" and when again she nodded, "Couldn't expect Charles

to be exactly pleased about having someone complaining. But I

shouldn't take it too seriously; he'll soon forget all about art. As for

finding a job—You weren't thinking of leaving us, were you?"

She glanced up sharply; she hadn't expected Steve to be so

astute.

"It much be better," she said miserably, "if I went away before I

cause him any more trouble."

Steve put up his spectacles to the light and then, putting them

on, he peered at her over the top of the thin steel rails.

"Just you go away and think about it, my little friend," he

advised. "We all say things which we don't mean; we all hurt

people at times and are sorry afterwards."

Not all; Cathy heaved a deep sigh as she recalled that her father

had never once uttered a cross word to her . . . and then in fairness

had to admit she'd never provoked Him in the way she had

repeatedly provoke Charles.

After tea she went over to Pinetree Lodge. It was first tune she

had clone so when Charles was at home and Mrs Dean glanced at

her in surprise, asking if Charles had already gone.

"No, not until tomorrow morning." She paused. "Is Bridget out?"

"She and Noel have gone for a walk, but Bill is in the other room,

listening to records. Go in to him, dear." Bill smiled a welcome and

stopped the record player.

"This is a nice surprise; I didn't expect to see you until tomorrow."

His glance held admiration, but he also noted her dejection.

"Would you care to come for a walk with me?"

They walked along the lakes, and Cathy thought of the moors

and the soil carpet of moss beneath her feet. A desperate yearning

overcame her and she asked Bill if be would take her again into

Derbyshire. He agreed eagerly, saying he would telephone the

garage about a car.

"They did say there would be one available any time," he told

hic. "I'll call for you early—about nine." "Make it a little later, will

you, Bill?" Charles usually left about eight, but he ,round just decide

not to go so early. "I’ll be ready at half-post."

They were on the moors by lunch-time. The day was warm and

'the sky dear and they just wandered over hills and down valleys,

taking the easy paths or crossing the moors at .random. They hart

had a snack at lunch time, but by three o'clock day were bath

hungry and made their way bock to the car which was standing on

the verge by the Callders Bridge. After the meal, and when

everything had been cleared away Cathy stood gazing up to the

heights above Hunter's Clough.

"Would you like to see the remains of the old Hall?" she asked,

and Bill quickly nodded. "There isn't very much left standing," she

added on an apologetic note, for she didn't really want to go to the

Hall; it was merely an excuse to climb the rooky path and stand,

high above the Callder Valley, with the clear cold breeze on her

face and legs, for she didn't know how long it would be before she

would come here again.

But they were only about half-way up the clough when she

decided to return. Instinctively she knew a mist was about to fall

with the rapidity to which she was so accustomed, And, apart from

that, Bill 's method of climbing worried her. He did not take

enough heed of her warnings, seemed to think she exaggerated the

danger.

"Me?" He looked all around at the clear sky and sharp outlines of

the distant hills. "There's no sign of must!"

"Nevertheless we shall have to make haste. It comes down so

swiftly that people on the roads are often taken unawares. If we

hurry we'll manage to get through the narrowest fanes before it

becomes really thick. It will be impossible to drive if we don't,

because of the sheer drops and the many twists and turns."

After some further argument Bill at last agreed to retrace their

steps, thought he still maintained she was mistaken about the mist.

"Be careful," warned Cathy as they reached a narrow part of the

path. "Watch for undercutting." He did rot seem to realise what

that was and she went to explain. "The stream cuts into the bank,

although the path appears quite safe, there's often great hallow

beneath it. This path hasn't been repaired for years and the stream

bas clone a great deal damage." It seemed impossible, she mused

for a while that at one time the path had been wide enough a

strong enough to take the carriages, rot only of owners of the Hall,

but of the numerous guests w they so often entertained. "Watch

this here." It was in front of Bill and she turned, but he didn't

appear to take the slightest notice and she realised that he was—

perhaps naturally a trifle resentful of her continually giving out

advice. She site laid silent, praying that he would automatically

follow in her own footsteps.

They continued in silence for some time, then Bill, looking up

from the path to the far summit of the highest peak, admitted she

was right about the mist.

"It's dropping so swiftly !" he gasped, for the sun was already a

yellow bail suspended ominously in a sombre, darkening sky. "I

wouldn't have believed it could come down so--" Without warning

Cathy felt him snatch at her arm for support as he slipped and fell

headlong into the rocky bed of the clough. Twisting in mid-air,

Cathy managed to release herself from his grip and landed on her

feet, though one of her ankles received a nasty jolt and her head

began to bleed profusely as she caught it on a jagged piece of rock

overhanging the clough.

Stunned, she could only stare at Bill's motionless body and then,

forgetting her pain, she lifted his head out of the water and

dragged him to the narrow, boulder-strewn ledge skirting the

clough on the opposite side front the path. She glanced up art the

path, high above her; as she thought, the stream had undercut the

steep bank all dong this area. She had kept to the far side, but Bill

had not noticed that the path had narrowed to a little over a yard

in width. He was unconscious and blood trickled slowly through his

coat from a wound in his arm. Cathy's heart raced with sickening

peed. He was clearly badly hurt and there was not a sign of life for

miles—Her eyes darkened as she looked down at the row of buts.

For one fleeting moment she hesitated, then, taking off her coat

and fixing it under Bill's head as a pillow, she set off at a slow and

difficult pace down the clough to the road. Crossing it, she made

her way on to the site, limping along the babk of the Callder with

all around the deafening roar of machines tearing at the valley

sides, digging into the mud of the river bed. She had a vague

impression that the dam itself was nearing completion, that work

was progressing much quicker than she had anticipated. The work

now going on in the river bed seemed to be in the nature of

clearing up. How soon, she wondered, before flooding would

began?

She staggered and almost fell; men turned to regard her

curiously and then she was aware of someone running towards her,

and of his saying, as he caught her as she swayed,

"What is it, lassie? You're hurt."

She put a hand to her head. The machines, the huts—everything

spun.

"On the clough just above the rapids, a young man. The mist—"

They'd never find him. "I must come with you. . . ." The light began

to fade; she felt the roughness of heavy overalls against her face

and two brawny arms lift her as if she were no more than a baby.

The slanting rays of the sun fell on !the bed and Cathy opened

her eyes, blinking in a dazed and puzzled fashion as she tried to

take in her surroundings. Satinwood furniture and a cream-

coloured carpet; peachtinted walls, a wide low window with cream

velvet curtains touching the floor. She had a vague sense of

movement and turning her head, wincing with sudden pain.

Through a haze she saw a young girl rise and leave the room She

moved her head again; it throbbed and she put up a hand and felt

the bandage.

"Bill !" she screamed, sitting up.

"Hush; Bill is safe--in hospital. He down." Gentile hands placed

her back on the pillow. She stared, still dazed, yet acutely aware

that once again she had brought trouble to Charles.

"They sent for you—how did they find you? How did you get here

so soon?"

"Soon?" He skipped over the previous question and she was too

dazed to notice. "You were brought here yesterday."

Her brow furrowed in an effort at concentration. "You mean it's

Tuesday?"

"Tuesday, and almost lunchtime."

Cathy gazed round again and her eyes became fixed on the

distant heights she could see from the window. Kinderscout. She

turned to phrase a question then paused for a space as she noticed

his expression. His eyes seemed bard and there were tight little fines

about his mouth. The reason was obvious; she had come up to the

moors in defiance of his wishes, had caused him more

inconvenience by having him brought away from his work. In a

dejected little voice she at last inquired where she was.

"I went to the reservoir," she added on a sudden note of

sharpness. "I'm not in his house, am I? I should hate to accept

hospitality from him !"

Charles noted the loathing that entered her eyes and a small sigh

escaped him.

"This is a house in Ferndale-on-Callder," he said, sitting down on

the edge of the bed. "A Mr Riding lives here--he happened to be at

the reservoir and offered to have you until you recover, seeing that

there was no necessity for you to go into hospital."

"What is the name of this house?" asked Cathy after a lengthy

silence. "It is a nice house, with an atmosphere."

The doctor said she must remain in bed for four or 154

"Waters Meeting."

"That is a lovely name—" Her brow wrinkled. "The Raven's brook

runs into the Callder at Ferndale." "By the end of the garden," he

supplied. "Hence the name."'

She looked somewhat curious that he should have learnt that

much and asked how long he had been here. "Since yesterday,"

came the calm reply.

"You've stayed the night?" and when he nodded, "So you've been

kept away from your work because of me.... " The trouble she had

caused him ! What was he thinking? No need to ask herself that

question. He was obviously dwelling on this latest escapade and

wishing wholeheartedly that he had never set eyes on her. Her

defiance, her strict adherence to Paul's beliefs which had led her to

repeated acts of rebellion, had completely upset Charles's placid

way of life. Moira was right when she said he must be regretting

having taken her into his home. She thought of all the money she

had cost him, of the repairs to the fence still to be paid for, and

tears pricked her lids. Was Paul wrong, after all? Had she heeded

Charles's advice, done as he wished her to, none of this would have

happened. Glancing at him again she realised his features were not

grim any more, but drawn and strangely troubled. She herself

became very tired; her interest lapsed and she dozed into a half-

sleep, but through the dimness she could see what she must do.

Before she slept she made a firm resolve to leave him, to make her

own way in life and let Charles return to the peaceful existence he

enjoyed before he made that foolish decision to take her into his

care and provide for her.

The doctor said she must remain in bed for four or five days, but

by the end of the third day the bandage had been removed and

her ankle gave her no more than an occasional twinge of pain. So

the enforced inactivity became irksome and each hour more

boring than the last. Some of the time Charles was around, but on

a couple of occasions when she had asked Sally where he was she

had been told he was out. This puzzled Cathy, for she could not

think where he went, especially as he was absent for several hours.

He did not tell her where he had been and she felt she had no right

to ask him. Another circumstance which puzzled her was the

evasive attitude of Sally whenever Cathy asked her about the

house or its owner. It almost seemed as if she had been told not to

enter into any discussions with Cathy, and although she was always

smiling and pleasant, Sally invariably made some excuse not to

remain talking.

Mr Riding too, seemed unwilling to talk either about the house

or himself, though he did let slip on one occasion something about

a nephew. Cathy liked him on sight; he reminded her of Paul, with

his shaggy brows and good-humoured face and twinkling eyes. She

thanked him for having her; he seemed amused by this, and even

more amused when she said it must be a great inconvenience for

him to have Charles as well.

He sat with her on several occasions, always when Charles was

out. In fact Cathy soon realised that either he or Charles remained

in the house. On the fourth day, however, they bath went out,

leaving Sally and Cathy atone in the house. Cathy read for a time

and then decided to put on a dressing-gown and sit for a while by

the window. The sun was hot and shimmering on the moors and

the distant foothills and she gazed across to the greater heights of

Kinderscout. Then she gave her attention to the scene below; the

garden immaculately kept, with its clipped hews and hollies, its

herbaceous borders and rockeries and its wide smooth lawns

spreading down to the banks of the river. What a lovely place in

which to live ! A tiny sigh escaped her as she thought of the Grange

with its forbidding façade and grim interior. And, her dejection

increasing, she thought of the flat in Leicester where she

contemplated living. It was surrounded by buildings and traffic and

roads...

Sally came out of the house, a shopping basket on her arm.

Cathy's eyes flickered darkly and with a sudden urge to be out of

doors she dressed quickly and sped downstairs, her ankle no longer

giving her any pain. She stood on the bank of the Gander, the sun

glinting in her hair and the soft breeze on her face. There was a

strange clarity in the atmosphere which seemed to cut out height

and distance so that the moors blended subtly into the brown hills

and they in turn folded in pure harmony with the ragged heights

which seemed to tower right above her head.

How eould she go back to what Charles termed a civilised

society? Here life was simple, direct, uncomplicated. No forced

submission to tyrannous conventions, no tiresome restrictions or

ideas of unnatural self-control.

With a deep sigh she turned and went back through the garden

to the house, entering the sitting-room through the French window

and then making her way to the hall with the intention of

returning to her room at once in case Sally should find her out of

bed and report the matter to Charles. She paused in the hall to

look around. Yes, this was a happy house, with brightness

everywhere; no dark comers or musty smells, no massive oak

beams pressing down, no dismal furniture and wood-lined walls.

With a slight feeling of guilt, yet impelled by some irresistible force,

Cathy gently pushed open the door on her left. A study, obviously

Her attention was arrested by the plan almost covering one wall.

`Location Plan of the Callderton Reservoir', she read, her pulse

beginning to race. Almost unable to think, she stood rooted to the

spot, for spread out on the desk beneath the plan itself lay Paul's

map, the map she had found in Charles's car... .

Charles ... it couldn't be ! As if in a daze she entered the room, her

face completely drained of colour. It couldn't be ...and yet so many

things were now explained. With trembling bands she touched the

map, fighting desperately against the truth. But the truth would

not Abe denied or cast off. She dosed her eyes tightly, unable to

bear the shock, and the burden d her knowledge. And as she

fingered the map again the weight of her burden increased as she

realised that Charles had, without the slightest feeling of

compunction or remorse, taken and utilised the skill and know-

ledge of her father, the man whose ideals he bad never hesitated

to scorn and disparage. She dwelt on the stratagem employed in

order to gain that knowledge, remembering how he had asked,

quite casually, to see Paul's maps, adopting the manner of one

whose sole interests was the appreciation of the artistry used in the

making of the map. She remembered her own eagerness, happy

that he should wish to look at her father's work. Only a man who

was completely callous could act like that, and for a moment she

began to wonder about his kindness in taking her into his home....

Moira's words carne to her.... The suggestion that Charles had some

motive for taking her. Mr Johnson's words came, too, stank with the

truth she still tried to avoid. But Cathy knew without any doubt

that what Moira had hinted at was the right. Charles had not given

her a home because of any feeling of pity even; on the contrary he

had merely used her for his own ends, given her a home merely in

order to obtain access to her father's maps.

Cathy's lips quivered as she recalled how very grateful she had

been to Charles, how she had come to regret the trouble she had

caused him and had been so filled with contrition that she had

planned to leave him so that he could return to the peaceful life

he'd known before becoming involved in her problems. The know-

ledge that her gratitude had been misplaced brought a painful

lump to her throat, and despite these terrible truths that had

become known to her she struggled against the revulsion that

threatened to overwhelm her. Yet she could see Charles only in this

new light, as a man whose harassment had led to her father's

death, a man who derived satisfaction from flaunting his

mechanical strength to ravage the beautiful structure of nature, a

man who had no qualms at. all about using people for his own

ends. And he had proved by his destruction of a thousand trees

that he had no regard for, life.

Spurred on as she was by this vision of Charles she forgot all she

had learned in the part few months about control, and slowly she

reverted to the wild state of unbridled emotions. Her hatred had

been directed at an image, a vague and shadowy person whom

she had never really expected to meet and in her new environment

it had gradually began to fade and become unimportant. But now

it was a deep and uncontrollable passion sweeping over her, and

although there intruded into her mind Charles's warning that her

hatred, could one day destroy her, she disregarded it; she forgot,

too, Charles's generosity, his gentleness on so many occasions and

the comfort he had so often given her, all this faded into

insignificance and he became once more the hard, unscrupulous

man she had at first branded him, the man she had sworn to hate

for as long as she lived.

She heard the car stop in the drive, but still she could not move.

A strange calm enveloped her; she realised with a shock that

Charles's warning had again intruded into her mind, but again she

thrust it off and despite her outward calm the strength of her

loathing remained her dominant motion.

Charles stood by the door taking in the situation as his eyes

rested on her hand, still touching the map. He was clearly taken

aback at seeing her in his study; he seemed shocked at the way in

which the truth had been made known to her. Cathy faced him,

white to the lips, her body rigid, her eyes dark with the intensity of

her hate.

Neither spoke and the silence became unbearably long. Cathy's

hand moved automatically over the edge of the map, her fingers

pressed on a crease that shouldn't be there. Charles was the first to

speak; his tones seemed more harsh than ever.

"How dare you come in here, Cathy ! This is my own private

room !"

"I felt the need to go out for a few moments," she began in

explanation, and then shrugged. Her calm amazed her; it was as if

her whole being were numbed by the shock of her discovery. "I

have no excuse for coming in here." She looked at him squarely.

Her face was still very pale, but she became imbued with a singular

feeling of strength and her voice held only a slight tremor as she

continued, "It was meant to be. How long did you think you could

go on deceiving me?"

"I did not intend going on," he snapped, her calmness and quiet

accusatory tones acting as a fan to his anger. "I would have told

you long ago had you not persisted in the stupid assertion that you

hated me. I said I'd tell you, you must remember."

Confronted with that statement, Cathy found herself confused

and shook her head as though to bring her mind into some sort of

order. She had hated a vague image of someone whom she held

responsible both for her own, and her father's, unhappiness, but....

Charles she had loved, first as a benefactor and then as...? She

continued to stare at him, searching his face and finding no softness

there. He seemed so harsh, so cold and remote with neither Shame

nor regret in his manner. Angry at her discovery of his deceit, yet

not in the least troubled that she might be unbearably hurt by that

deceit. She saw him, too, as he was on Sunday, when he had so

callously accused her of bringing him trouble since the day she

came to him. He had been utterly insensible to the fact that he had

taken her into his home solely to suit his own purpose.

"You're the man who caused Paul's—" The words stuck in her

throat, yet she did rot think to ask herself why she could net finish

the sentence. "You broke his heart, threatening as you did."

"I never once threatened him. He had to go, and I gave him

time." He paused on noticing the look of contempt that entered

her eyes. "I'm not making excuses, as you appear to think ! I don’t

need to ! The Water Board gave orders for the clearing of the

valley, not me !" He shrugged angrily. "Your father would have

died in any case—"

"How could he? He was in perfect health !" Again she saw him,

perched on the limestone ledge, bronzed and glowing with life.

"Paul was not a great deal older than you, but his life was cut short

by—by—" Once more she could not go on, and Charles cut in

wrathfully, telling her rot to talk such nonsense.

"Your father couldn't have been in perfect health, otherwise he

wouldn't have died. You're no longer a child and it's time you

accepted the inevitability of his death ! You became obsessed with

a most irrational dislike of someone you didn't even know, and

although there might have been some slight excuse for it the time

of your father's death, there is no excuse for it now !" He paused,

watching the cold metallic glint in her eyes which marred their

usual warm and tender light. "I am not in any way responsible for

what happened—and I will not allow you to put your father's

death to any account !"

Cathy made no comment, for her head was now aching

unbearably. Also, she was aware of a sound sense of caution, for

she was still very much under Charles's protection. She was still in his

home, dependent on him for the very food she ate. Shuddering at

the idea, she wondered what Paul would have thought of his

daughter's being so completely reliant on such a man. She tried to

recollect his attitude towards the `Big Boss' and, strangely, could

not recall his ever having said one word against him. But of course

Paul was so well-disposed towards his fellow men. Whatever his

opinion of Charles he would keep it to himself, and however much

he considered Charles to be in the wrong, he would forgive him.

But she would never forgive him, nor would she ever forget his

wickedness. She thought for a moment of the tender love she had

felt for him and a terrible little pain tugged at her heart . . . for she

knew that at the back of her mind there had dwelt the vague

hope that he would one day return her love.

"I shall find work just as soon as I car," she said, checking the

sudden break in her voice, "and then I'll go."

"There's no need—" All anger left hum; he held out his hands in

an impulsive, almost pleading gesture. She stepped back, widening

the distance between them, and his hands dropped to his skies

again. There was a long silence and then, gently, "If you do leave

me, Cathy—and I believe you mean to—you'll come back—"

"Come back--to you?" Her eyes were dark with loathing and

contempt. "Do you think I can't manage on my own? Well, I can;

I'm quite capable of taking care of myself." And she added, slowly

and deliberately, "When I leave here I never want to see you

again—never as long as I live !"

CHAPTER IX

WITH a feeling of intense satisfaction Cathy stood book to survey

the three she along one Wall of the new geological section of the

museum. She had just finished labelling the specimens of rocks and

minerals, and had also drawn a sketch-map of the localities in

which the exhibits had been found.

How lucky to have obtained this post, she mused, recalling how

the curator, having heard of her father from a friend, and having

been told of Cathy's own suitability for the post, had written to ask

if she were interested in taking over the new project. She had been

diffident, lacking her new-found confidence, but had agreed to

attend for interview. The curator had assured her that she was

quite capable of taking charge of the new section and, because she

wanted fervently to leave Charles, she had eagerly accepted. She

had been curious to know who had recommended her for the post,

for she could think of no one who would be likely to know of her

capabilities regarding geology and land-formation. Tentatively, she

had enquired of the curator, but he had passed over her question

and she had not liked to broach the subject again. But she would

always be grateful to that unknown person, for in her haste to

leave Charles she would have accepted any job, whether she would

have been happy in it or not.

A shadow crossed her face as she recalled those last few moments

with Charles. He had been so hunt, and there were little grey fines

round his eyes and mouth.

He had spoken gently to her, telling her that her hatred was

uncharacteristic, something she believed in but which wasn't real.

She had been puzzled by that, but at the same time so imbued

with her professed hatred abate she had paid no attention to any

show of feelings on his part. It had not taken her long to realise just

how grossly she had misjudged him, how illogical her attitude, She

suddenly saw everything front Ids point of vies', could find reason in

all he had ever clone. True, he had given her a home in order to

obtain access to the map, but once having taken her into that

home he bad denied her no thing—at least, nothing within reason.

She remembered his generosity and kindness, his great

understanding of her problems. And if at times his attitude had

seemed arbitrary and inflexible, it was entirely for her own good;

Cathy could see that all too clearly now. She even excused his

taking of the map, knowing full well the he would have asked her

for it had not she, by her attitude, made it impossible for him to do

so. Strange; she thought with a deep sigh of regret, that she had

resented his action, yet she now felt only pride that her father's

work had been of mine service to him. Paul would have been

proud, too. He would have wanted Charles to have the map.

Having mused on all this for some time, and having recalled

Charles saying that she would return—as if he really wanted her to

do so—she contemplated for a while the possibility of going back to

him. But then she remembered her previous resolve to leave him,

and the reason for it. In an agony of despair she once again

recollected her behaviour, her deliberate rebellion against all that

she now knew to be right. Charles had said she had caused him

nothing but trouble, and of course he meant it. What a problem

she must have been to him, always doing the wrong thing, causing

him anxiety and expense and humiliation. For it could not be very

pleasant for a man with Charles's pride to have people going to

him with complaints about her conduct. No wonder he'd laid he

didn't know what to expect when he came home at the week-

ends. Reluctantly she at last had to admit that he could not

possibly want her back; in fart, he must be heartily thankful for her

hasty departure. Perhaps, after all, it was for the best, she thought,

resigning herself to the ides of never seeing Charles again, for he did

not love her and it would be a strain to be constantly near to hum

and have to keep her own feelings hidden.

Cathy turned at last, bringing her thoughts back to the present

as she regarded two other showcases on another wall, also filled to

capacity. Most of the exhibits were hers, but already a few

interested people had brought in specimens as gifts or loans. In this

way Cathy had begun to build up a collection, but there were still

many empty showcases and Cathy invariably sport her week-ends

searching for something new. Her companion on these expeditions

was a young man who had been so interested that he had lent his

entire collection of semi-precious stones. For several weeks he had

come in, bringing something different, and eventually he had

asked Cathy to dine out with him. A firm friendship had sprung up

between them, but as soon as Cathy realised that Gareth wanted

to be serious she confided in him, telling him about Charles and the

reason for her leaving him. After his initial disappointment Gareth

had accepted the situation, although he maintained that Cathy

merely lad a `crush' on Charles, and that she would eventually see

her folly and forget all about him.

"It isn’t the first time happened," he told her, not without a hint of

amusement. "It's quite a habit with young girls to fall for an older

man."

Cathy had made no reply to this. It was quite impossible to

explain her feelings for Charles, or to convince Gareth that no one

could ever take his place.

Gareth usually called on his way home from work and took her

home in his car. Cathy had a tiny flat in Lowport, and it had

become a regular thing for Gareth to stay for tea on one or two

evenings each week, for he was teaching Cathy to drive, and

immediately alter tea they would go off into the country, with

Cathy, now fully confident, at the wheel.

"Will ever be able to afford a car, do you think?" she asked

Gareth on a rather desolate note.

"You'll have to begin with a second-hand one. We'll start looking

round; there are bargains to be had, and I'm sure we shall find you

something reasonable." He paused as she pulled up at the traffic

lights. "I think you're about ready to take your test," he began,

when Cathy interrupted him, suddenly losing her confidence.

"Oh, no, I'm not nearly good enough yet I—"

"You're very good. I'm quite sure you I will pass first time."

Cathy said nothing, but she did not intend taking her test yet

awhile. For if she took it and failed it would undermine her

confidence; much better too have more practice, especially as she

had no car of her own, and would not have, she felt sure, for

several months yet, for she had spent her money on furniture and

fittings for 'the flat and had very little saved towards a car.

They stopped at a little café and had supper, and as it was late

when they arrived back at the flat, Gareth dropped Cathy and

vent straight home. She entered the flat, lighted the gas fire, and

sat down, feeling strangely relieved the Gareth had not come in

with her. For she was beginning too feel troubled about their

relationship. Gareth obviously still believed that what she felt for

Charles was not very deep and his attitude was clearly one of

patient but optimistic waiting.

She sighed dejectedly. Soon she would have to disillusion Gareth,

and that would mean the end of their friendship, the end of their

expeditions to the country and the seaside in search of new

material for the museum. And it would mean a reversion to the

loneliness she had experienced during those first few months after

leaving Charles. She sighed again, thinking of the Deans, of Bridget

and of the other young people whom she had met at Pinetree

Lodge.

Bridget's had been a fashionable wedding, and Cathy had been

the chief bridesmaid. But now Bridget lived in Glasgow and Cathy's

only contact with her was by letters. Bill, fit and well again after

several months in hospital, was engaged to Alison and they were to

be married in July.

How her life had changed, sighed Cathy, realising just how much

she missed her friends. But she was invited to Alison's wedding, and

for a few hours she would see them ell again.

For several days, ever since she had received the invitation,

Cathy had been conscious of a strange excitement and now, forcing

herself to accept the reason for it, she allowed her mind to dwell on

the possibility of a meeting with Charles. Incidents which she had

thrust to the back of her mind now came crowding roc the fore.

She recalled his kiss, that night after their visit to robe Dean's for

supper. She had been so naïve over that kiss and Charles had

laughed at her reaction. And then he had apologised for his anger

over her visit to the moors, saying he would explain. She had been

puzzled then, but now she knew he'd meant to tell her about

himself and his job, had meant to try to persuade her that she

really had nothing against him because he wasn't in any way

responsible for Paul's death. He had also told her to think about it

carefully. The vague implication there was not so easy to interpret.

It could of course have meant that Charles was jealous of Bill, but

Cathy felt this was not possible, for Charles had never once given

her reason to believe that he had any feelings for her other than

those of a guardian for his charge . . . Or had he? She thought

again of his kiss and she thought again of the tenseness in his voice

when he had said, with such firm conviction, that she would return

to him.

Should she have returned to him long ago when she had first

thought about it? At the time she had been convinced that Charles

must be inexpressibly relieved at seeing her go, and that he hadn't

really meant what his words would seam to imply.

She recalled that Charles had received an invitation to Bridget's

wedding and he had sent an excuse saying that pressure of work

made it impossible for him to attend. Unlikely, then, that he would

be at Alison's wedding, for he scarcely knew her. Cathy had been

surprised to learn from Bridget's last latter that Charles had been

invited to the wedding, but then she remembered that Charles had

visited Bill regularly while he was in hospital. For as Bill had no

relatives, and both Noel and the Deans lived too far away to pay

regular visits, Bill would rarely have seen a visit had it not been for

Charles. So obviously it was because of Charles’s kindness that Bill

had decided to invite him to the wedding.

But Cathy felt that if Charles did decide to attend it would not

be out of a sense of politeness towards Bill, but because.... She

caught her breath. For some reason she could not define Cathy felt

that, if Charles did put in an appearance, it would be for no other

purpose than to see her again.

Cathy wondered if anyone at the wedding felt so utterly

dejected as she. She had never really expected Charles to come, she

told herself, and yet as she entered the church she could not control

the wild beating of her heart as she looked around. With an effort

at discipline she turned her attention at last to the ceremony,

listening to the wards and taking in the seriousness of their

meaning.

And then it was all over and the bridal party vent onto the

vestry. Bridget, hers flushed with happiness, turned to Cathy and

remarked on Alison's dress, and on her new hair-do, and even

mentioned the bride-groom, saying how handsome he looked.

Latter, at the reception, Mrs Dean sought Cathy out and they

had a long chat, Mrs Dean wanting to know all about Cathy's job

and asking with obvious concern how she was getting along all on

her own. Bridget and Noel joined them at the buffet and Bridget

wanted to know why Cathy hadn't yet been up to Glasgow to see

them.

"I'll come when I get my car," she promised, forgetting her

disappointment for a while in her pleasure at being once more with

her friends came and see you, too," she added, smiling at Mrs Dean.

She and Gareth had seen a car, quite old, but in good order

mechanically, and perfectly sale, Gareth had assured her.

"Have you passed your test, then?" inquired Bridget with interest,

and Cathy gave a grimace.

"I take it on Saturday " and then, "I hope I pass, because I want

to go up to Father's grave on Sunday. It's his birthday." Strange

that she could think of Paul now without any pain, and without

that terrible hatred that was so very wrong.

"You visit the moors often, I expect?" Mr Dean offered a glass to

Cathy, watching her curiously and noticing the sadness in her eyes.

"I haven’t been since—since I left Charles."

"The reservoir is finished—at least, the dam and the other

workings are completed. The flooding began a while back, and I

expect it's going satisfactorily, judging by the rain we've had lately."

Cathy remained dent. She knew the work had been completed,

for she had read about it in the newspaper. Where was Charles

now? she wondered. And what was he doing? Was he living

permanently at the Grange? She knew the house at Ferndale was

not his, so it was unlikely that he would retain it once the reservoir

was completed. She would have liked to ask where Charles was

working now, and if he were at the Grange at present, but as she

had difficulty in talking about Charles to the Deans, she

abandoned the idea.

Aware that Mr Dean was still regarding her curiously she allowed

her gaze to travel from him to his wife. Had Charles told them why

she had left? Neither Mrs Dean nor Bridget had ever mentioned

anything about it in their letters. If Charles had mentioned her

professed hatred they must consider that a very foolish reason for

leaving her home. But of course they did not know all. True, she

had left Charles because she thought she hated him, but her return

would have been prompt had it not been checked by the

assumption that he had welcomed her departure and would

probably view with the utmost dismay her intrusion once more into

his peaceful and uncomplicated existence. In fast, the thought now

stroke her that he might even have refused to take her bock; he

was not obliged to give her a home and no one could blame him if

he decided to cast her off completely. Whit a trembling little sigh

she raised her glass as the bride and bridegroom were toasted

again. Mr and Mrs Dean were now surveying her through slightly

troubled eyes and she shook off her dejection and joined in the

gaiety. She moved about, talking to the various people she had

met at the Deans', and very fast she found herself alone for a few

minutes with Alison.

"Are you enjoying it?" site asked anxiously, and Cathy smiled and

nodded. Alison, she had noticed, had gone all round, having a

word with every guest. Cathy thought this charming, for Alison

could have been forgiven for being totally wrapped up in herself

on this, her day.

"I'm having a lovely time—it's wonderful to see you all. What are

you doing? I know you're at the museum, but what about your

evenings and week-ends? You never say much about those in your

letters. "

Cathy gave her a brief outline of her life, saying she spent most of

her week-ends out rock and fossil collection.

Alison wanted to know how she managed this without a car and

Cathy told her about Gareth.

"Oh, yes, someone &d mention that you have a boyfriend," said

Alison with sudden interest. "New who was it?—I can't remember,

but it was Beryl who told me that Charles knew about it." She

paused, eyeing Cathy with an odd expression. "You haven't ever

mentioned him in your letters, and you've said nothing to Bridget

about him. He isn’t married or anything?"

"Of course not" exclaimed Cathy with slight indignation. "But

we're not serious, so there's nothing to tell. Gareth and I are only

friends." So Charles knew about Gareth. Him? Cathy wondered, her

brow cooing in puzzlement. She was about to ask Alison if Charles

were living at the Grange when Alison herself spoke.

"You know of course that Beryl is getting married?"

"Beryl... ?" Cathy felt her heartbeats quicken and she had

difficulty in asking whom Beryl was going to marry.

Alison’s face lifted in faint surprise before she said, in a tore that

suggested her words were unnecessary,

"There's only one man for Beryl—always has been. Surely you

know that" She paused, still clearly surprised. "You didn't see how

happy she became, and you living in the same house?"

"But—but she wasn't going out with anyone."

"She did go out with him occasionally—but he wasn't exactly free,

was he, having complicated his life by—?"

"Darling, I hate to interrupt, but we really must be getting

ready." Bill turned to Cathy, smiling an apology. "We've a train to

catch and we haven't much time."

Half an hour later everyone was outside the hotel, waving to the

departing couple. Then the taxi mingled with the traffic and

became lost to view. Within an hour Cathy herself was on the train,

having politely refused Mrs Dean's invitation to stay the night. She

could not stay so close to the Grange, could not run the risk of

seeing Charles and Beryl together.

She stared unseeingly through the 'window, once again going

over Alison's words. There had always been one man only for Beryl

... So it must have been she, then, who had broken the

engagement, and not he, as everyone believed.

Well, thought Cathy with a terrible little ache of dejection, there

would be no more wondering if Charles had meant those words

about her returning to him, no more wondering whether or not he

wanted her. It meant an end, also, to her tormenting periods of

indecision when she asked herself if she should return and discover

for herself what his reaction would be. It was all very clear now why

he had rot come to the wedding; he had finished with her for good,

probably forgotten her altogether in his new-found happiness with

Beryl. Had he always loved her? No, Cathy felt sure he hadn't

cared anything about Beryl when she, Cathy, had fast come to the

Grange, for although Charles had been kind to Beryl, he had

always been rather cool and she had felt his feelings were

sympathetic yet rot really affectionate.

Cathy found herself recalling again certain incidents which had

affected her and Charles. There was his tender comfort when he

had held her after she had agreed to apologise to Mr Morgan;

there was the time when he had said, with that strange intonation

in his voice, that he did not want her to regard him as a father. As

the incidents crowded in one upon another she realised that,

knowing only of the sort of love Paul could give her, she had in her

ignorance failed to interpret a gentle caress, a tender glance, a soft

word of comfort. But now with startling clarity she understood,

facing the staggering knowledge that Charles had in fact loved her.

Her lips quivered uncontrollably; she put a hand to them, aware

of the woman opposite, regarding her oddly from over the top of

her newspaper, but her lips would rot be stilled; she had lost Charles

through her own folly, lost his love because of a hate which in the

end possessed no substance. He must have waited patiently, for

months—If only she had gone back ! But now it was too late;

Charles had found happiness with someone else, was making a

new life for himself, a life in which she, Cathy, could have no place

at all.

CHAPTER X

THE driver flashed his lights impatiently, and continued to do so.

"I wish," he muttered savagely to his companion, "that stupid girl

would release her handbrake !"

He wasn't to know that he followed a very new driver, and

when at hast she found a place to pull in, he shot her an almost

baleful glance as he accelerated in order to pass.

Starting up the car again, Cathy edged carefully away from the

loft earth on to which she had been driven. Only twenty-four hours

since her test; anyone less intrepid would have hesitated before

attempting to negotiate the notoriously dangerous road through

the moors, but Cathy had been determined to visit the grave on

Paul's birthday.

A few hundred yards further on the new short length of road

widened out, and the new bridge spanned the submerged lower

course of Hunter's Clough. Pulling on to the broad verge, Cathy left

the car and stood on the bridge, leaning against the rail in

bewilderment as she tried to fix the location of the drowned

confluence of Hunter's Clough and the Wildlingstone Brook.

Before her and away to the 1eft the reservoir stretched in a long

expanse of gleaming silver, still and clear under the pale and

promising rays of an early sun. A film of mist hung across the moors,

quivering against the distant heights of Kinderscout. The vast

silence was broken only by the occasional cry of a curlew and the

only other sign of life was a solitary sheep grazing on the hillside

above the Wildlingstone Brook. Cathy brought her gaze back to

the reservoir.

No evidence of the tremendous undertaking, no defacement of

the land, no visible sign that man had transgressed on nature.

While deeply conscious of loss, Cathy at the same Time knew a

profound sense of pride in Charles's achievement. Her eyes scanned

the surrounding hillsides; thousands of young trees had been

planted, replacing those destroyed. They would grow and flourish

to enhance in later years the natural beauty of the valley. She had

spoken of destruction, but this was creation ...man's creative powers

deftly blended with those of nature.

Her throat felt tight and her eyes darkened with regret and

remorse. This beautiful highland lake was the moult of Charles's

endeavours, his expert planning. How clever he must be ! And he

was good and kind, too ... and he had been all hers. How could she

have been so foolish as to lose his love? She recalled his warning

that her hate would prove to be her own destruction, and a little

spasm of pain shot through her.

Returning at last to the car, she drove slowly away, her mind still

on her irreparable loss while her eyes flickered vaguely over the

lake, trying to locate the area in which the Packhorse Bridge lay

submerged. The Wishing Bridge.... With a shudder of recollection

she heard that last wish of all. She had wished Charles would be

punished—and that she would be the one to punish him.

A few minutes later she again drew in to the side of the road

and, taking out the flowers, she locked the car and made her way

along the newly constructed path following the lower end of the

reservoir. How still the water ! The Hunter's Clough had descended

so merrily, now swirling in potholes or around the fallen boulders,

now plunging in a series of rapids or cascades until at last it met

the Wildlingstone Brook before the two flowed on to join the

slower-moving waters of the Callder.

The path soon merged with the original rooky way alongside the

clough. Cathy had lost none of her agility; she trod the familiar

path with the old grace of movement and eventually reached the

entrance gate to the Hall. Making a small detour, she turned off to

take a look at the ruins. Stone front the fellah walls had been used

to reinforce other parts of the building, and the massive gritstone

crest, pride of the Fanshawes, had been cemented into place

before the fallen masonry of the entrance. With a kittle sigh Cathy

turned and continued her accent to the lonely graveyard.

Opening the gate, she stood for a long moment, looking up at

the imposing headstone and cross above the grave of the last of

the Fanshawes. With him were buried his family, and all around

were the graves of his servants, overgrown with heather and ferns

and mosses. Moving over to Paul's grave Cathy frowned in

puzzlement someone had attended to it, not very recently, but not

so very long ago. Who...? Not Mrs Foster; she could never climb up

here. Her puzzlement growing all the mime, Cathy removed the

odd weed or two, but when it came to throwing away the faded

flowers she found herself laying them aside, reluctant even to take

them from the grave. Who could have come up here and done

this? The question nagged and for a long while she stood there, her

eyes moving front her own flowers to the faded ones, and then to

the far comer where the weeds had been put into a heap.

Turning at last, she closed the gate and walked pack through

the bracken, reaching, the path once more. The way down was

pleasant, for the clough was a youthful highland stream, enjoying

its freedom before its activity was stilled and it was a stream no

more but part of the placid moorland lake.

On reaching the car Cathy sat in it for a while, her eyes wide and

dreamy as she gazed across the smooth expanse of water. She saw

the cottages and the bridges, the orchards and the narrow strips of

arable land. Casting her mind still farther back she saw the tiny

school and the shop, the stone farmhouses and the mill. She

remembered Mr Jones who had his one-man coalmine, tunnelling

into the hillside. She thought of the people and their humble

dwellings, of their struggle for existence—and she wondered if they

still suffered pangs of regret at leaving the valley.

M fast she moved away, driving with the windows right down to

enjoy while she could the pure cool air of the moors. She had had

her hair out short and it soon became windswept, flicking in half-

curls away from her forehead. The sun was still to low for comfort

and she reached for her dark glasses, putting them on as she turned

to take one last swift glance at the shining waters of the reservoir.

She drove slowly, and in the middle of the road, for the sheer

drop on her left terrified her. On the rare occasions when she met

an oncoming car bath she and the other driver had to slow down

to a crawl. After a while the river went under the road and as the

drop was now on her right she was able to relax and enjoy the

scenery.

Noticing a car several tends away, she brought her attention

back to her driving, concentrating for a few moments on the

manoeuvres necessary for a successful passing of the other car, for

the road was made even narrower by a shale bluff protruding

into it at the point where the two cars would probably meet.

Better to draw into the side and come to a standstill before

reaching the bluff, allowing the other driver plenty of room

because of the drop on his left. Yes, that would be the courteous

thing to do. Having decided on her action Cathy gave herself up

to the contemplation of the scenery again, though her mind

remained alert to the fast that her full attention must be on her

driving immediately beyond the point where the Heatherstone

Clough came under the road to joie the main valley of the

Callder....

And then she saw it ... merging with the landscape and looking

so right over the dough, just as if it had always been there.

The sight of the bridge blotted out all else, though even as she

jammed on her brakes Cathy, realised her mistake. The car

swerved dizzily on a film of shale and came to a halt with the boat

literally clinging over the gorge. She stared, petrified, as the other

car approached. Would the driver realise that one touch would

send her hurtling into the gorge? Her heart thudded sickeningly,

but the scream died in her throat as, making a split-second

decision, he turned his car into the bluff.

Under her terrified gaze tons of rotting shale slid down the bluff

burying, first, the bonnet, then rising threateningly to the roof. Her

legs could scarcely support her when, at last, She managed to get

out of the car and move away from it to the centre of the road.

The man had already made a hasty escape from his car; he

stood regarding it for a moment before turning to advance

wrathfully upon her. Cathy gave a little gasp, put a trembling

band to her mouth, and stared at him unbelievingly from behind

her dark glasses.

"What the devil do you think you're doing?" he burst out

wrathful1ly. "I've seen some stupid women drivers in my time, but

you—" He stopped. Cathy had taken off her glasses; she held then

at arm's length, pointing in the direction of the bridge. She was still

dazed by the shock and her voice trembled when she spoke.

"It was the bridge.... You did it, for me—you saved the bridge for

me !" She began to feel light-headed, almost hysterical. "You spent

all that money to move the bridge—It was for me, wasn't it? It

must have been!" She swayed unsteadily and Charles took her

hand and led her to the narrow verge on to which she had

intended shopping her car.

His eyes were dark and brooding and there seemed to be about

him a strange humility she didn't litre to see. A muscle twitched in

his throat, but no sound came at first from his moving lips. Then she

heard his voice, deep with emotion.

"Cathy ... so you did come." His words implied that he had been

hall expecting her—hoping. "My dear, I—I—" And then the saw that

his whole being rebelled at this humility, that strength reasserted

itself. His eyes glinted and his voice became cold and harsh. "Is the

key in your car? I'll move it."

"No—no !" White to the lips, she clung to his sleeve. "It's too near

the edge. You—It isn't safe !"

Charles gazed towards her for a space, then with a firm,

deliberate movement he uncurled her fingers and walked towards

the car.

"The gears !" she cried. "Don't put it in reverse !" "I think I know

where the gears are ! "

They both turned as the sudden screeching of brakes told them

another car had pulled up by the bluff. Four young men emerged

and stood staring in amazement onto the half-buried car which

they had so narrowly missed.

"What a mess !" one of them exclaimed. "How could you manage

to drive it into—Oh, I see !" He caught sight of Cathy's car and thus

last three words spoke volumes. The hot colour returned to Cathy's

face as she realised that all four men had taken in the situation at

a glance, obviously assuming the older car to be hers.

"What can we do to help?" another said practically. "Can we tow

it out, do you think?" He glanced at his own car, which was not

very large. "It's going to take some moving from under that shale."

Charles, his face taunt and grim, surveyed his damaged car for

some moments, and then,

"There's a farm about two miles along the road—you passed it.

Perhaps one of you would see if the farmer has a tractor

available?"

The driver of the car went off at once, and another of the young

men suggested they try to remove some of the shale from around

the wheels. Charles was already opening the boot of his car; he

produced a spade, and Cathy's eyes widened. She moved over to

the car and glanced into the boot. A beautiful spray of roses, a

garden fork and a pair of hedge clippers. Her eyes became dark

and intently thoughtful as they moved to the bridge—and then

back to the flowers.

One of the men had taken the spade, and Charles went over to

move Cathy's car. She held her breath in a sudden access of fear as

she watched his hands on the steering wheel. For one sickening

moment the wheels spun on the wet shale, and then the car

moved gently forward. Charles parked it on the verge and then,

taking off his coat, he held out his hand for the spade.

Cathy moved over to him and, oblivious of the watchful interest

of the three young men, she put a hand on his arm.

"You're net going to be married—it was all a mistake? You aren't

engaged to Beryl, after all?"

Charles stopped digging and looked up with a frown. "Beryl?

What are you talking about?"

"I thought—I thought—" She spoke in a cracked, high-pitched

tone and Charles put down the spade.

"Better sit in the car," he suggested. "You're suffering from shock."

Walking over to her car, he opened the door, but Cathy did not

move. She just stared at him, her lips parted, her heart throbbing

with hope.

"No, it isn't shock. I don't need to sit in the car. Perhaps I can

help—"

"Get in." The old familiar quiet authority; Cathy did as she was

told; she watched the operations and yet saw nothing, for the

sudden realisation that Charles was not marrying Beryl blinded her

to all else.

How stupid she had been ! Charles had laid she would return to

him, and he had assumed she would have the sense to do so once

she found she didn't hate him . . . once she realised that, on the

contrary, she loved Him. Yes, Charles must have known she loved

him ... but if he loved her, too... ?

She recalled his words of a few moments ago; he had hoped to

see her, no doubt of that. She supposed she must at some time

have mentioned the date of Paul's birthday, and although Charles

had come up to attend to the grave, Cathy felt sure that his chief

reason for being here was the hope that he would see her. She

frowned suddenly in bewilderment. Had Charles really wanted her

he could have made the first move, for he could easily have

obtained her address from the Deans. He was proud, yes, but she

could not believe he'd allow his pride to intervene where his

happiness was concerned. And another thing suddenly struck her;

they could so easily have missed one another. In fact it seemed

incredible that they should have met, because her obvious way

back to Lowport was along the road she had already travelled.

She had come this way merely for the change of scenery, merely to

prolong the journey, for it was still early in the morning and she

preferred to be here rather than to sit alone in the flat.

Her confused thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the

tractor. The farmer stared at the car, took off his cap to scratch his

head and spoke rather sadly about a 'white—off'. Charles gave a

shrug of resignation and the hot tears stung Cathy's eyes. From the

very first she had been a source of trouble to him, she mused again.

Perhaps he had now come to the end of his patience with her and

her hopes of a reunion were to be dashed. Perhaps this, the

absolute destruction of his lovely car, would be the limit beyond

which his endurance could not be stretched. He would scarcely be

human if there came no halt to the wrongs he would forgive.

She watched the car being towed away. Charles picked up his

coat and extracted a card from the pocket.

"Better let me have a bill for the damage to your clothes. " He

handed the card to one of the young men who, although

accepting it, shook his head firmly.

"Not at all. Only too glad to assist."

"Thank you, then; I do appreciate your help."

The men were soon driving away; Charles put on his coat and

then went over to the stream to wash his hands. Taking a towel

from the shelf, Cathy left the car and followed Him, stopping to

pick up a shining white pebble from the bank as she did so.

"I have a towel...." She offered it, hesitantly.

"Thanks—I can manage." Producing a handkerchief from his

pocket Charles dried his hands. Cathy watched him, swallowing the

pain in her throat. Then, dropping the towel on the bank, she

walked along the clough and stepped on to the bridge. Slowly she

moved to the centre and stood gazing down at the clear, sparkling

stream below.

He made no immediate move to follow her; she seemed

surrounded by a haunting solitude as, lifting her head, she scanned,

pensively, the heather-strewn moorlands which folded away in a

series of gentle inclines to the distant massive heights.

But at last he stood beside her, drawn by some dominant,

irresistible force. She turned, and it hurt not to be able to touch

him, to move into his arms and coax away that harsh expression

frown his eyes.

"How long has the bridge been here?" Cathy spoke in a low

voice, profoundly conscious of the strain between them.

"Two months." His tons were clipped and distant.

"It looks exactly as it did before," she murmured in some

wonderment. "People who didn't know would think it had always

been here." Charles made no comment on that; he stood erect,

gazing across to the ragged cliffs lining the gorge. "How did you do

it?" asked Cathy with gentle perseverance.

"It wasn't difficult." He turned now to survey her coolly. "We

numbered every stone before dismantling it, so we knew exactly

where each must go when we came to erect it here."

"What a lot of trouble ... and expense." Cathy spoke with an odd

mixture of apology and satisfaction. A bitter smile curved Charles's

lips but he merely said,

"I agree with what you said at first; it would have been a pity to

submerge it." His tone implied disinterest; Cathy heaved a little sigh

and changed the subject.

"What are you doing now—now that the reservoir is finished?"

Again that bitter twist of his lips.

"Building another," he replied harshly. "Defacing another valley."

"No—oh, no, Charles... !" His hand rested on the wall of the

bridge; he sensed her intention of touching it, and removed it

abruptly. "I've seen the reservoir. It’s a beautiful highland lake. The

valley hasn't suffered at al"

His only reaction was to move impatiently as if wishing the

subject to be dropped. Cathy's lips trembled; his pride was in the

ascendancy and she almost despaired of getting through to him.

She fell silent, unable to find anything to say which would bring a

response while he remained in his present mood.

The moors, too, were hushed; patterned in colour and softened

by filmy shadows as puff-balls of cloud passed lightly before the

brilliant sun. What a contrast to the season of merciless wind and

blinding snowstorms, of lashing min that left the wild bleak land-

scape shrouded in a sinister writhing mist.

Even the blackened gritstone walls were velvetclothed, spread

with the golden-green of lichens and mosses, and fringed with tiny

red-brown cushions of liverwort. In the far distance the outline of

Black Edge was a purple silhouette folding imperceptibly into the

violet-blue of the summer sky.

"Tell me about the new reservoir," said Cathy at last on a note of

pleading.

"What?—technical details?" His eyes flickered indifferently. You

don't want to hear about those."

Tears threatened; she felt for a handkerchief and found the

pebble. For a long while she held it between her fingers, then it

sank into the water and became lost in the foam.

"Don't you want to know what I wished?" She turned to him, still

undaunted.

"Not particularly." His voice was curt, but Cathy sensed the

tremulous note there, saw the deep lines round his mouth and the

pain in his eyes.

"I wished that you would forgive me—that we could begin all

over again." He remained silent, his hands clenched on the wall of

the bridge, staring broodingly into the stream. His pride still held

him aloof, but she again recalled his first words, `Cathy ... so you did

come', and a wise little smile curved her lips. "I said I could take

care of myself—" She broke off, noting the faintly bitter light in his

eyes as they swept over her in an all-embracing glance. She looked

a typical modern miss, sure of herself, with all her confidence

revealed in the way she dressed, the way she did her hair and even

in her bearing. "I said that, but I was wrong." She ventured to touch

his sleeve and felt the muscles of his arm relax. "I need you, Charles;

I need you for always, to care for me and—and to guide me."

For a long moment he stood there, unrelenting, his gaze still on

the stream below, but when at last he turned to look at her the

pain had left his eyes, although he still seemed disinclined to speak.

"Charles ... I've been stupid and stubborn, but you are wiser." She

spread her hands indicating the bridge. "I know you love me, and I

love you..." Her eyes suddenly lighted on the fallen shale, partly

blocking one side of the road, and a little catch entered her voice

as she added, "I’ll try very hard not to be such a trial to you, I

promise I will."

He resisted her no longer, but drew her tenderly into his arms

and kissed her.

"Cathy, my dear...." His voice deepened with emotion and his

body quivered as if casting off the last remnants of pain. "It's been

so long. I felt you'd be back in no time at all—surely you soon

realised that you didn't hate me? Why didn't you come back to

me?"

"I wanted to, but then I remembered what a trouble I'd been

you said I had, Charles, and I knew you were right. "

"Darling, you let that stop you ! You must have known I didn't

mean all those things I said. What a muddle ! There was I, waiting

and hoping and wondering why you didn't come. And then," he

added, a grim note entering his voice, "just when I had decided to

come to you some friend of Beryl's said she'd seen you several times

with a young man—"

"A friend of Beryl's? But how could she have seen us?"

"She had moved to Lowport on her marriage. Knew you by sight,

it seems, having seen you with me in Leicester."

"And you believed that he and I were . . . serious?" she began,

then leant away from him, a puzzled frown touching her brow.

"But you came here today to see me. Did you find out that Gareth

and I were only friends?"

"I had a card from Bill—he's on his honeymoon, as you know—

and he mentioned you and said it was a pity you couldn't get

yourself settled down with a young man. He seemed faintly

troubled about you, saying he and Alison were disappointed that

you weren't serious about this Gareth." He paused, drawing her

close again. "That's why I'm here today. I thought you would come."

"You were going to Paul's grave?" She spoke softly, her head

against his breast. "I've already been there."

"I guessed it. My intention was to stay up there, waiting for you. I

expected you to come as far as Tordale by bus and then walk—it

never occurred to me that you'd manage to get here so early." A

slight shudder passed through him and his voice was tight as he

added, "I could have missed you—I almost did."

Supposing they had missed each other? Cathy's heart jerked; she

pressed closer to him and put the thought from her. She

remembered Beryl and asked him whom she was going to marry.

Instead of answering her question he wanted to know what gave

her the idea that he was going to marry Beryl, and Cathy

explained, adding that although she had in fact come to realise

that Charles had once loved her, she concluded that he had found

consolation with Beryl.

"You idiot !" He took her face between his hands, looking deeply

into her eyes and shaking his head as though unable to understand

how she could possibly have imagined he would find consolation by

marrying someone else. "She's going to marry her old boy-friend.

They'd been seeing each other on odd occasions even while he

remained engaged to the other girl. A most unsatisfactory

arrangement, I should have thought, but Beryl certainly seemed

happier for his renewed interest. He's finished with the other girl

now, of course, and he and Beryl seem happy enough—though in

my opinion she'd be far better off without anyone so fickle." He

went on to tell Cathy the reason why the original engagement was

broken. It had been Moira's fault; she and Eric had never agreed

and one evening there was a serious quarrel between them and

Eric went off in a temper, telling Beryl that he would never

entertain marrying a girl with a mother like hers.

"I do hope they'll be happy now," said Cathy when he had

finished. "Are they going to live in Leicester?"

"Shouldn't imagine so. If they've any sense they'll live as far away

as possible from Moira."

Neither made any further comment on the subject and silence

fell between them. They stayed on the bridge a long while, content

to be close, to have found each other at last. The depth of silence

around them was broken only by the gentle flow of the stream

and the whisper of wind stirring the heather until, from afar, came

the plaintive cry of a curlew, floating across the sunlit moors to echo

faintly against the naked sides of the ravine. Witte a sigh of

contentment Cathy looked up at Charles, her eyes reflecting all her

love. His arms tightened about her in a tender protective

movement as he bent his head to kiss her gently on the lips. The sun

was high in the sky when at last he said,

"What about lunch? Shall we go into Buxton, or shall we go

home?"

"Home?" Cathy blinked at him. `Home' was the Grange—eighty

miles from here !

"I've bought Waters Meeting," he informed her with a smile. "I live

there permanently now."

Witte a swift movement she leant away, her eyes wide and

shining as the full significance of his words registered.

"It's yours—for keeps? Oh, how marvellous—"

"It's ours—for keeps," he corrected softly, and then, "The Grange is

being sold. Moira bas found a small house and will move as soon as

Beryl gets married. I have no desire to keep that old place on; it's

far too big, and too dismal."

"Steve... ? Cathy murmured, her face going pale. "Is he all right?"

"He's with me at present." His face wore a look of amused

resignation. "Do you mind, darling? I'm afraid we're stuck with him

because, frankly, I haven't the heart to put him in a home, and

there isn't anywhere else he can go. I brought him here because I

discovered Moira wasn't being very kind to him."

The colour returned to Cathy's face.

"I don't mind at all if Steve lives with us," she said in tones of relief.

"I should hate to think of his going into a home." And then, after a

thoughtful pause, "The Grange, though—hasn't it been in the

family for generations?"

"It has, but that's no reason for keeping it on. I have no desire at

all to return to Leicestershire." He smiled tenderly down at her. "I

can understand your feelings at having to leave these wild

moorlands, Cathy, for I too would find great difficulty in doing so

now that I know them in all their changing moods."

Before them, the perilous road and the gorge; behind and

around them the heathered moors, still and warm. In the distance,

Shining Tor rising above the valley, with the headwaters of Hunter's

Clough emerging from its rocky cliffs to gleam like a silver ribbon as

it sped on its way to join the clear calm waters of the new

Calderton Reservoir.

"I would rather go home," said Cathy in a soft and husky voice.

And then, more brightly, "I'll drive you just to let you see how good I

am I"

"Good—?" A smothered exclamation left Charles's lips. "You're not

serious !"

Cathy flushed, her eyes straying to the fallen shale. "That was a

mistake," she began when Charles interrupted her.

"Hand over the key."

"But, you see—the bridge—"

"The key !"

"It's in the car you left it there." She paused, then tried again. "It

was an understandable mistake. I saw the bridge and forgot

everything else."

"I'm fully aware of what happened," said Charles, accepting her

admission with amazing calm. They were walking to the car; Cathy

increased her pace and was already in the driver's seat when he

reached it.

"Move over," he commanded, and reluctantly she obeyed,

though a slight pout touched her lips. She had been rather proud

of her driving until that disastrous mistake occurred.

"I know you want to show off," said Charles as he eased the car

from the verge, "but do you really expect me to risk my life ... when

I have so much to live for?" He spoke with tender humour and

Cathy laughed then and as he glanced at her for an instant he saw

the dimple appear. He caught his breath—and turned his attention

to the road.

A few minutes later they were following the winding lane

downstream into a deeply-incised part of the valley where the high

steep sides were clothed with ferns; and then the valley widened

out and there before them shone the lake, blending so naturally

with the lands-cape, and h was with a sudden shock of surprise

that Cathy remembered that its function was entirely one of utility,

that of maintaining the vital supply of water to the people of

Lowport.

She turned to watch Charles's face. No hint of pride there, but

the faint flickering of his eyes portrayed his satisfaction.

They continued alongside the reservoir for a while and then left it

as the road followed an ancient terrace, formed long ago when the

river flowed at a much higher level than at present. Then they

were descending again and into view came the river, flowing more

sedately now as it reached maturity. And down from the hillside

tumbled the youthful little Raven's Brook, speeding along joyously

as if in eagerness to reach its destiny ... the union with the main

river at Waters Meeting.