ADVENTURE FOR TWO

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 66, Issue 196, 1 June 1946, Page 7

ADVENTURE FOR TWO

| BY HOLLOWAY HORN |

Serial Story:

| (Copyright). |

CHAPTER VI.

ELLEN’S LEGACY “Everything, Ellen. The poor old chap acted unwisely, I’m afraid according to the solicitor —in guaranteeing the Company’s overdraft. The Company itself is being wound up. It’s in what is called voluntary liquidation, I understand. The Debenture Holders stepped in and took control, apparently, as soon as they heard Dad was dead.” “But your father was a Debenture Holder” ! “The Bank hold his shares as part of the guarantee, I gathered.” Ellen’s face was grim: “I don’t understand it at all,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s only too clear, Ellen. This cake is good, by the way.” “It’s; just good solid dough cake.” Rossiter smiled: “You’re a wonderful woman, Ellen.” “I’ve just done my duty as I saw it, Barney.” , i “I saw Dad's; will,” he told her, after a silence. “So did I, years; ago,” she replied, to hie complete surprise. “He left those cottages in Meadow Lane to you. Thank God, they’re all right. They’re not mortgaged, I mean.”

“Ail’ one’s empty at the moment. It’s a verra guid cottage. Smallish after this, but there’s every reasonable comfort. A bathroom that you’re so keen about, and electric light.” “Do you mean you’re going to move there?”

“We’re going to move there, Barney. A wise man cuts Iris coat according to liisi cloth.”

“Well . . . ’2 > “You’ve just got to adjust your poi'nt of view,” she told him. “You’re a poor man, Barney. An’ you’ve no job. I’m feared that there won’t be a deal left from the wreck. An’ it is a wreck.” She thought a moment before she added: “It would have broken his heart.” | “That’s so,” he said miserably. “Your .father started with even less than you’ve got. You’ve got an education and that counts in the long run. It was the one investment the poor dear made that has turned out successfully.” ’ “Sending me to Cambridge?” “Yes. Education’s a grand thing. It’s something they can’t take away from you, Barnqy. You’ll fall on your feet and there’ll always be a home in Meadow Lane for you whilst I’m alive. I shall buy some of the furniture here at the sale.” , “My dear Ellen . . ” “It’ll have to be sold. I’ve suspected that all along. An’ it’s a bad time to sell.” “I tell you' what, Ellen. You’d bette)* flake what furniture you wan;t from here ’’and we’ll sell the rest.” “Just as you say. But I’m. not penniless, Barney. I’ve got a bit away.” “Good!” “And there’s my old age pension.” . “Your what?” he demanded incredulously. “My Old Age Pension. I’ve been insured since the scheme began. And now I’m sixty-five, which I am, I draw ten shillings a week for the rest of my life. It was a very good investment.” ' “Splendid. I wish I could get one too!” “And there’s the- rents of the other cottages. They are let to good solid tenants. They’ll be a home for you, Barney, whatever happens. And in these jumbled days that means a lot.” “There’s; something simple and direct about you, Ellen, that’s beyond me, as an Englishman.” “Verra likely,” the old Scotswoman said. “Verra likely.” “I’ve been thinking over things rather a lot to-day, Ellen. There seem to he two things I can do. I can teach —I think I should be able to get a job in a decent school —or I could go on the stage.” “Can you get on the stage?” “I don’t know.” “Twenty years ago I should have said become a teacher. To-day I’m nO’ so sure,” she said after a silence in which she was obviously thinking. “People who speak several languanges have a big pull in the talkies, I’ve been told. You see, Ellen, they produce a play in several languages at once now-a-days.” “Youve got the looks,” she said appraisingly. “But they seem to me to be a racketty lot. Not that I’m frightened of them spoiling you. You’ve been trained properly.” “You don’t think Cambridge undid your work?” he asked solemnly. “No,” she said. “You’ll fall on your feet; you’ll be all right.” “Anyway, Ellen, you should know.' 1

“I do. I knew your father and your mother —you come of good stock, Barney, and never forget it. Your father wasi wrong-headed in many matters — as I told him time and oft —hut he was a good man. It’ll he a come-down moving to a cottage, but you’ve got the strength to face it. Besides, I don’t suppose you’ll be there much.” “It’ll he home, Ellen.”

“Aye,” was all she said, but nothing he could have said would have pleased her more.

“What money have you now?” she asked, after a silence. “I’m all right. Eighty quid or so.” “Then you’ll go away as you arranged for a few days. And while you’re away I’ll have the bits of furniture we shall need taken to the cottage. I’ve given the maid and gardener notice today.”

“I suppose that’s wise?” “It’s done. The rates on this house come to over a pound a week. They’ll cease the day we close it up.” “You do what you like/ Ellen.” “Of course,” she replied calmly. “I think a job’s more important than a holiday,” he said, later in the evening. “No. A few days’ quiet will give you a clearer outlook on things. You go, as you meant to.” “I was going to Berlin.” “Then go. A few days alone will do you a world of good. And when you come back, I’ll have things fixed up here.” “Won’t the people talk? ‘The Maples’ to Meadow Lane!” “Aye. But they won’t talk to me,” said Ellen. •1; $ 3fC He smiled: “That’s true.” “I had Mrs Outlaw and her daughter up here this afternoon.” “Meriel?” “The same.”

“I must go in to say good-bye to them.” “Why?” “Oh, hang it all, Ellen, they’re friends of mine.” “They aren’t,” said the Scotswoman. “What makes you say that?” “Because I know. I told them that this place would be sold ,and that you were starting where your father started.” “Well?” “They were very polite,” said Ellen. “What did Meriel say?” “Very little. Go in and say good-bye to them if you want to, but unless you’ve got to . . . don’t. That’s my advice.” “I see. It doesn’t matter, anyway.” “There was a man came here, too, this afternoon. A Mr, Malcolm Tennant.” “What, old Male?” Rossiter cried. “He was very little older than you are. And he stuttered.” “He’s an entertainer!” “He didn’t entertain me.” “You’re in one of your astringent moods, Ellen. What did Male have to say?” “Lots. And said it. He wanted to see you.” “Male might be a useful man. He was at St. Crystobel’s with me.” “So he said.” “His father crashed rather badly last year. He used to be a Manchester warehouseman or something.” (To be continued.)