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“This was my mother’s favourite room,” he told her nostalgically. “In fact, we called it Mother’s Room, though I’m afraid we gave her very little peace to enjoy it! It was our favourite room as well, you see—because she was here. And because we knew that no matter how often we interrupted her in whatever she was doing, we were always welcome.”

There were no words which could answer a confidence like that without sounding trite and trivial. But instinct taught Meg how to answer him. Impulsively, she laid her hand on his arm and gave it a gentle pressure. Just for a moment Hector made no response. Then, as her grasp relaxed, she felt her hand taken in his and lifted very gently to his lips.

The magic moment vanished into the past as Hector replied matter-of-factly to a question from Uncle Tom, who had been examining the panelling of the walls. But for Meg, the seal had been set on the evening, for now she knew that her instinct had been right. She
had
met a Hector she had never known before. A man who had revealed that he was capable of a deep and abiding love which neither the years nor death could obliterate. But yet a man who was too sensitive to wear his heart on his sleeve, reluctant to risk profanation of something so dear to him at the hands of those who were themselves incapable of such feeling. To the world he showed himself as a harsh man, capable of riding roughshod over others and insisting that he had no use for sentiment.

But now Meg knew that all that was only a cloak. This—this was the real Hector, and she thrilled to the knowledge that however much he might keep others at bay, to her, he had not been afraid to show his true self.

To her the rest of the evening seemed to pass in a dream. She was hazily aware of a very good dinner, of conversation in which, somehow, she managed to take a part, of Hector’s face being the only one which she saw clearly—and above all, of her own erratically beating heart which told her beyond misunderstanding just why it was that it mattered so much that she had discovered this new Hector.

MEG’S dreams that night were very sweet but reality, when she woke early the next morning, was even more sweet. For a time she lay on her back, her hands linked behind her head, thinking of all that had happened. Not, in actual fact, very much, perhaps, but enough to make her forget the past and see only the future— a future full of promise and happiness.

After a time, early though it was, she could no longer stay inactive, but because breakfast, she knew, would not be ready yet, she lingered over her bath and dreamed her way through dressing.

When at length she decided that it was time to see about breakfast, she went to the dining room and to her surprise—and regret—found that Fiona was already there. This was surprising, for Fiona was usually last to put in an appearance. However, she seemed to be in an unusually amiable mood and though her conversation wasn’t of any particular interest, she did at least do her part in maintaining an easiness which didn’t usually exist when the two of them were together. Unconsciously, Meg relaxed.

Suddenly, as she was pouring out a second cup of coffee, Fiona asked casually:

“Did you enjoy yourself last night?”

Instantly alerted by the overdone carelessness of the remark, Meg was on her guard.

“Yes, thank you, very much,” she replied unhesitatingly.

“I thought you would,” Fiona replied musingly. “Hector makes a good host, doesn’t he?”

“Very,” Meg acknowledged even more briefly.

“Yes,” Fiona went on reflectively. “I always think he’s at his best when he’s entertaining. All charm and good manners! But last evening, of course, he had every reason to be in a particularly good mood!”

She paused as if she expected to be asked just what she meant by that, but not for worlds could Meg bring herself to do that. Her chin set doggedly, she waited in silence, quite sure Fiona had every intention of telling her without any prompting, and after a moment or so she found she had been right.

“You see, Hector and I have got things sorted out,” she confided complacently. “We’ve decided to get married at Christmas.”

It was said so confidently, so positively, that Meg had no choice but to believe her. She felt the blood drain from her face and the room seemed to swirl round her. For one ghastly moment she thought she was going to faint. Then, with a terrific effort, she pulled herself together.

She had got to face up to it. Her dreams of happiness had no foundation in fact. She had just let her imagination run away with her. Even that gentle little kiss into which she had read so much had been no more than a charming gesture of thanks such as Hector might have bestowed on Aunt Ellen or any other woman who had answered up to his mood of nostalgic memory. How could she have been so stupidly blind, so eager to indulge in wishful thinking? She had never felt so shamed in all her life—but at least no one should ever know of her folly, least of all Fiona!

“I’m afraid I’ve startled you,” Fiona said softly. “But I did warn you, you know.”

There was amused mockery in the way she said it and Meg’s pride was stung into sharp activity. Knowing that her slightest move, her least word, was being noted and analysed, she deliberately raised her eyes and met Fiona’s cold blue ones unflinchingly.

“I don’t think startled is the right word,” she said consideringly. “But surprised, yes. I mean, after all, yesterday—”

For a moment she had the satisfaction of knowing that she had at least pricked Fiona’s complacency, but she rallied quickly with a little tinkling laugh.

“Oh, that!” she said lightly. “But, my dear, that was exactly what brought things to a head. You see, afterwards—well, Hector didn’t exactly apologise—he’s not the sort of man who could ever bring himself to do that. But I’m not sure that what he did do wasn’t even more effective! Actually, he—well, he rather swept me off my feet. He told me that he’d had enough of being held at arms’ length and I’d got to make up my mind then and there whether I was going to marry him or not. Of course, I kept him on tenterhooks for a bit—he deserved that! But—” a pensive note came into her voice, “it’s astonishing how appealing it can be to have a man play the brute, isn’t it? Honestly, he was quite irresistible. In fact—do you know, I believe I’m beginning to fall in love with him. And he certainly is—”

Meg pushed her chair back quickly and stood up. Just for a moment she wondered if it was any good to try to make Fiona understand that there were things that should be shared only by the two people concerned. That to discuss a love scene with anyone else was a desecration. But what was the good? At the best, Fiona simply wouldn’t understand what she meant, and at the worst she would assume that Meg was the victim of sickening jealousy.

“I wish you—both--every happiness,” she said steadily. “Perhaps you’ll tell Sir Hector that.”

“But why not tell him yourself?” Fiona asked innocently. “It would be more—personal, don’t you think?”

“Yes, perhaps,” Meg agreed nonchalantly. “Well—I will, if he tells me of your engagement. Otherwise I shall presume that he would prefer that I waited until the official announcement is made.”

Just for a second an expression flickered in Fiona’s eyes, but it was gone too quickly for Meg to interpret it. Then came that tinkling laugh.

“My dear, how conventional! Your manners are as good as Hector’s are—sometimes!’

Meg went back to her bedroom to stand staring unseeingly out of the window. After Fiona’s revelation, how could she go downstairs to work with Hector? She flinched at the thought of facing up to those keen blue eyes which, she was convinced, would not only be able to read all that was in her mind but would also reveal just how much he despised her for having made herself so cheap.

And why shouldn’t he? She despised herself. She had behaved like a sentimental adolescent, all starry-eyed and wearing her heart on her sleeve for anyone to see. Scornfully she lashed at herself, longing more than anything else to be able to walk out of Heronshaw House that very minute and never see it or Hector again. But that, of course, was out of the question. For a while, at least, Aunt Ellen needed her here, and in any case, what possible reason could she have given for her sudden departure? Certainly not the true one, and nothing else would be convincing.

Clenching her teeth, she knew that there was only one thing for it. Since she had got to stay, she had got to behave in such a way that Hector would soon decide that he had been mistaken. She must be casually friendly, showing no hint of the agony which was burning her up. That way and that way only could she save her pride—

But it wasn’t going to be easy. Meg had no illusions about her ability to play a part, but what else was there to do? Resolutely she faced herself in the mirror, deliberately assumed an expression which, if not exactly carefree, at least showed no signs of heartbreak. Then, because she knew the longer she delayed, the more difficult it would be to meet Hector, she lifted her head gallantly and went downstairs. Outside the study door, she set her lips into the line of a smile and mentally rehearsed just what she would say to Hector in greeting.

Unfortunately, her efforts were wasted. When she went into the room she found that Hector was speaking on the telephone and what was more, was clearly very angry.

“There’s no point in you coming to see me, Bradley,” he was saying bluntly. “What I’ve already told you is my last word. I’ve already written to my solicitor and you’ll be hearing from him—what?
Hard!
On the contrary, I’ve been too easy-going for far too long and you know it—you’ve taken advantage of it! What? Yes, I know that, but—oh, very well, come if you must, but I warn you, you’ll gain nothing by coming. Eleven o’clock? All right. Don’t keep me waiting.”

He hung up, his face bleak and forbidding. His fingers tapped an impatient little tattoo on the desk top and he was so deep in thought that Meg, seeing that he hadn’t even realised that she was there, moved nearer to his desk. He looked up.

“Oh—Meg!” he said in a preoccupied way. “I’ve put some work for you on your desk. Details of the results of my visits to two of the farms. I want you to enter them up in their respective files—you’ll see how from earlier entries. Don’t hurry too much over it. Speed is less important than absolute accuracy. That’s all. No, one other thing—” Meg held her breath—“Look out the file for Woodvale Farm, will you, and let me have it. The farmer’s name is Bradley.”

And that, Meg thought bitterly as she went into the inner room, could hardly have made it more clear that last night was to be regarded as a pleasant but unimportant interlude on which he had no intention of allowing her to presume.

Angry tears stung her eyes as she got out the file he had asked for. Automatically she opened it to make sure that it was the right one and her attention was caught and held by what she saw.

With the meticulous care she had come to take for granted in any of Hector’s work the details regarding Woodvale Farm were all set out—its number as recorded on the estate map, its age and size, the number and acreage of its fields and the crops they had born in successive years. It was all there—and so were details of the farmer and his family. Herbert Bradley, just into his early thirties. His wife, Marylin, twenty-four. The date of their marriage some six years or so earlier and then their family. Five children, including a pair of twins, the latest arrivals. Goodness. Meg thought sympathetically,
five
in just over six years! Mrs Bradley must have her hands full!

She took the file in to Hector, who simply said: “Thanks”, without looking up and returned to her room. It was just as well that Hector had told her not to hurry over the work, for it took an enormous effort to concentrate on what she was doing, and more than once she had to make a correction. However, at least the work occupied her mind almost to the exclusion of anything else, and it came as a surprise when she heard another voice than Hector’s in the study and glanced at her watch. Eleven o’clock! It must be Bradley—

She glanced at the door between the two rooms which, as usual, was open, and wondered if she ought to close it. She decided not to since Hector hadn’t bothered to tell her to when his visitor came. As a result, she heard all that was said by the two men, although from where she was sitting she could see neither of them.

“Now then, Bradley,” Hector began crisply, “so that there shall be no misunderstanding between us I propose to repeat what I’ve already said to you. You’ve been my tenant at Woodvale Farm now for five years. During that time you’ve allowed it to deteriorate to such a poor condition that I’m not prepared to extend your tenancy. Consequently, I shall expect you to be out of the farm within a month—and from that stand I utterly refuse to withdraw. Is that quite clear?”

“But you can’t do that, Sir Hector,” Bradley said, and the whining note in his voice made Meg flinch. It was dreadful that a grown man should be driven to such a state of despair. “Turning us out without a roof over our heads and no work—”

But Hector was adamant.

“Bradley, did I or did I not warn you what would be the result if you didn’t pull up and make something of the farm?” he asked sternly. “Well?”

“Well—yes,” Bradley admitted weakly. “But I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think I really meant it.” Hector finished.

“You thought that when the time came, you’d be able to hide behind your wife and children—”

“That’s not fair!” Bradley said with more spirit. “I’ve been unlucky—and in poor health—”

Hector evidently glanced down at the file before him, for he said, categorically:

“As regards your health, you had a mild attack of ’flu two years ago. Apart from that and a sprained left wrist you’ve enjoyed reasonably good health. As regards luck—” He left the sentence unfinished, and Bradley, evidently thinking that he had discovered a weak spot in Hector’s arguments, jumped into the opportunity he felt that offered.

“You know yourself, Sir Hector, that the farm lies low and twice in the last five years we’ve been flooded—”