Evening star. [volume], June 13, 1932, Page B-7, Image 23

About Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
INSTALLMENT L
MAJ. BURNABY drew on his gum
boots, buttoned his overcoat
collar round his neck, took
from a shelf near the door a
hurricane lantern and cau
tiously opened the front door of his
little bungalow and peered out.
The scene that met his eyes was
typical of the English countryside as
depicted on Christmas cards and in old
fashioned melodramas. Everywhere was
enow, deep drifts of it—no mere pow
dering an inch or two tnlck. Snow had
fallen all over England for the last four
days, and up here on the fringe of
Dartmoor it had attained a depth of
several feet. All over England house
holders were groaning over burst pipes,
and to have a plumber friend (or even
a plumber's helper) was the most cov
eted of all distinctions.
Up here, in the tiny village of Sit
taford, at all times remote from the
world, and now almost completely cut
off. the rigors of Winter were a very
real problem.
Maj. Burnaby, however, was a hardy
soul. He snorted twice, grunted once
and marched resolutely out into the
snow.
His destination was not far away. A
few paces along a winding lane, then in
at a gate, and so up a drive partially
swept clear of snow to a house of some
considerable size built of granite.
The door was opened by a neatly-clad
parlormaid. The major was divested
of his overcoat, his overshoes and his
aged scarf.
A door was flung open and he passed
through it into a room which conveyed
all the illusion of a transformation
scene.
Although it was only half past three
the curtains had been drawn, the electric
lights were on and a huge fire blazed
cheerfully on the hearth. Two women
in afternoon frocks rose to greet the
stanch old warrior.
“Splendid of you to turn out, Maj.
Burnaby.” said the elder of the two.
"Not at all. Mrs. Willett, not at all.
Very good of you to ask me.” He shook
hands with them both.
“Mr. Garfield is coming.” went on
Mrs. Willett, “and Mr. Duke, and Mr.
Rycroft said he would come—but one
can hardly expect him at his age in
such weather. Really, it is too dreadful.
One feels one must do something to
keep oneself cheerful. Violet, put an
other log on the fire.”
The major rose gallantly to perform
this task.
auow me, miss v loiet.
He put the log expertly in the right
place and returned once more to the
armchair his hostess had indicated.
Trying not to appear a* though he
were doing so, lie ca'-t surreptitious
glances around the room. Amazing how
a couple of women could alter the whole
character of a room—ana without do
ing anything very outstanding that you
, could put your linger on.
Sittaford House had been built 10
years ago by Capt. Joseph Trevelyan,
R. N., on tne occasion of his retire
ment from the navy. He was a man
of substance, and he had always had
a great hankering to live on Dartmoor.
He had placed his choice on the tiny
hamlet of Sittaford. It was not in a
valley like most of the villages and
farms, but perched right on the shoul
der of the moor under the shadow of
Sittaford Beacon. He had purchased
a large tract of ground, had built a
comfortable house with Its own electric
light plant and an electric pump to
save labor in pumping water. Then, as
a speculation, he had built six small
bungalows, each in Us quarter acre of
ground, along the lane.
The first of these, the one at his very
gates, had been allotted to his old
friend and crony, John Burnaby—the
others had by degrees been sold, there
being still a few people who from choice
ox1 necessity like to live right out of the
world. The village itseir consisted of
three picturesque, but dilapidated cot
tages, a forge and a combined post
gffice and sweet shop. The nearest, town
%as Exhampton, six miles away, a
Steady descent which necessitated the
Sign, "Motorists engage your lowest
gear,” so familiar on the Dartmoor
roads. •
capt. Trevelyan, as nas Deen saia, was
a man of substance. In spite of this— t
or perhaps because of it—he was a man !
who was inordinately fond of money. I
At the end of October a house agent in
Exhampton wrote to him asking if he j
would consider letting Sittafurd House.
A tenant had made inquiries concerning
it, wishing to rent it ior the Winter.
Capt. Trevelyan's first impulse was
to refuse, his second to demand further
Information. The tenant in question
proved to be a Mrs. Willett, a widow
with one daughter. She had recently
arrived from South Africa and wanted
a house in Dartmoor for the Winter.
"Damn it all, the woman must be
mad," said Capt. Trevelyan. "Eli, Burn
aby, don't you think so?”
Burnaby did think do, and said so as
forcibly as his friend had done.
"Anyway, you don’t want to let,” he
said. “Let the fool woman go some
where else if she wants to freeze. Com
ing from South Africa, too!"
But at this point Capt. Trevelyan's
money complex asserted itself. Not once
in a hundred time would you get a
chance of letting your house in mid
winter. He demanded what rent the
tenant was willing to pay.
An offer of 12 guineas a week
clinched matters. Capt. Trevelyan went
into Exhampton, rented a small house
on the outskirts at two guineas a week,
and handed over Sittaford House to
Mrs. Willett, half the rent to be paid in
advance.
"A fool and her money are soon
parted." he growled.
But Burnaby was thinking this after
noon as he scanned Mrs. Willett cov
ertly, that she did not look like a fool.
She was a tall woman with a rather
silly manner—but her physiognomy was
shrewd rather than foolish. She was
inclined to overdress, had a distinct
colonial accent, and seemed perfectly
content with the transaction. She was
clearly very well off and that—as Burn
aby had reflected more than once, really
made the whole affair more odd. She
was not the kind of woman one would
credit with a passion for solitude.
As a neighbor she had proved almost
embarrassingly friendly. Invitations to
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Sittaford House were rained on every
body. Capt. Trevelyan was constantly
urged to "treat the house as though
we hadn't rented it.” Trevelyan, how
ever, was not fond of women. Report
went that he had been jilted in his
youth. He persistently refused all in
vitations.
Two months had passed since the in
stallation of the Willetts and the first
wonder at their arrival had passed
away.
Burnaby, naturally a silent man, con
tinued to study his hostess, obvious to
any need for small talk. Liked to make
herself out a fool, but wasn't really. So
he summed up the situation. His
glance shifted to Violet Willett. Pretty
girl—scraggy, of course—they all were
nowadays. What was the good of a
woman if she didn't look like a woman?
Papers said curves were coming back.
About time. too.
He roused himself to the necessity of
conversation.
"We were afraid at first that you
wouldn’t be able to come,” said Mrs.
Willett. "You said so. you remember.
We were so pleased when you said that,
after all, you would.”
"Friday,” said Ma.i. Burnaby, with
an air of being explicit.
Mrs. Willett looked puzzled.
"Friday?”
Every rrtaay 1 go 10 rreveiyans.
Tuesday he comes to me. Both of us
done it for years.”
"Oh! X see. Of course, living so
near-”
"Kind of habit."
"But do you still keep it up? I mean
now that he is living in Exhampton——’’
“Pity to break a habit,” said MaJ.
Burnaby. “We’d both of us miss those
evenings.”
“You go in for competition, don’t
you?” asked Violet. "Acrostics and
crosswords and all those things.”
Burnaby nodded.
“I do cross words. Trevelyan does
acrostics. We each stick to our own
line of country. I won three books last
month in a cross-word competition," he
volunteered.
“Oh! really. How nice. Were they
interesting books?"
"Don't know. Haven t read them.
Looked pretty hopeless.”
"It's the winning them that mat
ters, isn't it?" said Mrs. Willett vaguely.
"How do you get to Exhampton?”
asked Violet. "You haven't got a car.”
“Walk.”
"What? Not really? Six miles.”
"Good exercise. What's 12 miles?
Keeps a man fit. Great thing to be
fit."
"Fancy! Twelve miles. But both
you and Capt. Trevelyan were great
athletes, weren't you?"
"Used to go to Switzerland together.
Winter sports in Winter, climbing in
Summer. Wonderful man on ice.
Trevelyan. Both too old lor that sort
of thing nowadays.”
"You won the army racquets cham
pionship. too. didn't you?” asked Violet.
The major blushed like a girl.
Who told you that?” he mumbled.
"Capt. Trevelyan."
“Joe should hold his tongue." said
Burnablv. "He talks too much. What's
the weather like now?”
Respecting his embarrassment, Vio
let followed him to the window. They
drew the curtain aside and looked out
over the desolate scene.
"More snow coming," said Burnaby.
“A pretty heavy fall, too. I should say."
“Oh! how thrilling.” said Violet. “I
do think snow is so romantic. I’ve
never seen it before.”
"It isn't romantic when the pipes
freeze, you foolish child,” aald her
mother.
"Have you lived all your life in South
Africa. Miss Willett?” asked MaJ.
Burnaby.
Some of the girl’s animation dropped
away from her. She seemed almost
constrained in her manner as she an
swered.
"Yes—this is the first time I’ve ever
been away. It’s all most frightfully
thrilling.
Thrilling to be shut away like this
in a remote moorland village? Funny
idea. He couldn't get the hang of these
people.
Tne door opened ana uic parlormaid
announced:
“Mr. Rycroft and Mr. Garfield.”
There entered a little, elderly, dried
up man and a fresh-colored, boyish
young man. The latter spoke first.
"I brought him along. Mrs. Willett.
Said I wouldn't let him be buried in a
snowdrift. Ha. ha. I say, this all looks
simply marvelous. Yule logs burning.”
“As he says, my young friend very
kindly piloted me here,” said Mr. Ry
croft as he shook hands somewhat
ceremoniously. “How do you do. Miss
Violet? Very seasonable weather—
rather too seasonable, I fear.”
He moved to the fire talking to Mrs.
Willett. Ronald Garfield buttonholed
Violet.
"I say, can't we get up any skating
anywhere? Aren’t there some ponds
about?”
'I think path digging will be your
only sport.”
"I’ve been at it all the morning.”
“Oh! You he-man!”
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“Don’t laugh at me. I’ve got blisters
all over my hands.”
“How’s your aunt?”
“Ohl She's always the same—some
times she says she’s better and some
times she says she's worse, but I think
it's all the same really. It's a ghastly
life, you know. Each year I wonder
how I can stick it—but there it is—if
one doesn’t realty round the old bird
few Christmas—why, she’s quite capa
ble of leaving her money to a cat’s
home. She’s got live of them, you
know. I’m always stroking the brutes
and pretending I dote upon them."
“Mr. Duke," announced the parlor
maid.
Mr. Duke was a recent arrival. He
had bought the last of the six bunga
lows in September. He was a.big man,
very quiet and devoted to gardening.
Mr. Rycroft, who was an enthusiast
on birds and who lived next door to
him, had taken him up, overruling the
section of thought which voiced the
opinion that, of course, Mr. Duke was
a very nice man, quite unassuming,
but was he, after all. quite—well,
quite? Mightn't he. just possibly, be
a reared tradesman?
But nobody liked to ask him—and,
Indeed, It was thought better not to
know. Because If one did know. It
might be awkward, and really In such
a small community It was best to know
everybody.
"Not walking to Exhamptcm In this
weather?” he asked of MaJ. Burnaby.
"No, Trevelyan will hardly expect
me tonight.”
"It’s awful, Isn’t It?" said Mrs.
Willett with a shudder. "To be buned
up here, year after year—It must be
ghastly."
Mr. Duke gave her a quick glance.
Matj. Burnaby, too, stared at her curi
ously.
But at that moment tea was brought
in.
After tea Mrs. Willett suggested
bridge.
“There are six of us. Two ean
cut In.”
Ronnie’s eyes brightened.
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“You four start,” he suggested. "Mbs
Willett and I will cut in.”
But Mr. Duke aald that he did not
play bridge.
Ronnie's face felL
‘‘We might play a round game,”
said Mrs. Willett.
“Or table turning, or tipping.1* sug
gested Ronnie. “It's a spooky evening.
Mr. Rycroft and I were talking about
it this evening as we came along
here.”
“I am a member of the Psychical
Research Society,” explained Mr. Ry
croft In his precise way. “I was able
to put my young Mend right on on*
or two points.”
"Tommyrot,” Mid Maj. Burnaby,
very distinctly.
‘Oh, but It’s great fun, don't you
think?” said Violet Willett. “I mean,
one doesn't believe In it or anything.
It's Just an amusement. What do you
My, Mr. Duke?'
‘‘Anything you like. Miss Willett.”
"We must turn the lights out and
w* must find a suitable table. No—
not that one. mother. I'm sure It’s
much too heavy."
(To be continued.)
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