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“That’s right,” Hector confirmed. “Actually, I’m
a
nervous wreck, though not many people realise it. In fact, what I really need is feeding up—on your bread, Bessie. How about it?”

“There’s the first batch all ready over there,” Mrs Chapman said with a nod of her head at a side table. “Give me a minute and I’ll see to it—”

“Don’t worry,” Hector said easily. “I’ll get it.”

And to Meg’s astonishment he went to the old-fashioned dresser, took a couple of plates from the shelves and two knives from a drawer. He fetched butter from the dairy which opened off the kitchen and then hacked off a couple of chunks from a crusty loaf.

“Try that for size!” he suggested to Meg, and sitting down on one the old kitchen chairs, began to tuck in himself.

There was no doubt about it, both bread and butter were delicious, and Meg was tempted into eating until she felt that another mouthful and she would be really uncomfortable. To her relief, since she didn’t want to hurt Mrs Chapman’s feelings by appearing unappreciative, Hector evidently felt the same, for he stood up, brushing a few crumbs neatly into his hand and tipping them on to his plate.

“That was great, Bessie!” he announced with a sigh of repletion. “But now we must be getting on. We’ve another call to make yet.”

He took Meg’s plate and knife from her, stacked them with his own on the sink draining board and waited while Meg thanked their hostess and said good-bye. Then, smiling with something very much like real affection, he laid his hand lightly on Mrs Chapman’s shoulder.

“Everything all right, Bessie?” he asked.

Mrs Chapman smiled and patted his hand with her own floury one.

“Yes, indeed, Sir Hector,” she replied unhesitatingly. “Can’t you tell that?”

“Yes, indeed I can,” Hector admitted. “It always does me good to come here.”

“Then come more often,” Mrs Chapman said warmly. "You know Joe and me always have a welcome for you. And Miss Ainslie, too, if she cares to come again.”

“I’d like to,” Meg said impulsively, and meant it. There was something good about this house. And it wasn’t just due to Mrs Chapman’s obvious competence. There was an unmistakable atmosphere that spoke of love and loyalty and contentment—it was a real home.

Out on the road again, Hector led the way in silence back the way they had come until, on the opposite side of the road, they came to another turning. They had gone only a short distance along what Meg assumed to be the approach to Woodvale Farm before she realised just how badly it compared with the lane leading to Broadmead Farm. That had been reasonably dry and well kept, hedges had been neatly trimmed and ditches were clear of obstructions. Here, the reverse was the case. The track was deeply rutted and mud and puddles were the rule. Verges and hedges had been left so long to their own devices the ditches which were presumably there were completely hidden. Long, barbed brambles grew rampantly—

There was no need for Hector to draw any comparisons. They were self-evident, and though Meg made no comment, when the farmhouse came into view she was startled into a little cry of distress. As regards its shape and size, it was practically the twin of Broadmead. But there the likeness ended. That had been trim, clean and in good repair. Here, everything was dirty, untidy and neglected. The fence was broken in several places, the gate off its hinges, paint scaling and litter everywhere. Once again they dismounted and Hector led die way to the back door, but this time, instead of walking straight in, he knocked formally and waited.

There was no reply, which was perhaps not surprising, for a radio was bellowing vociferously. Hector knocked again more loudly and this time, after an appreciable delay, the door was opened half-way and a woman’s face peered out.

Meg’s heart sank still further. That first glance was enough to make it clear that Mrs Bradley was a slattern. Her streakily bleached hair hung string-like about a face which definitely needed washing and the fingernails on the hand with which she supported herself against the door frame were black and broken.

“Oh, it’s you!” she said rudely. “Well, you can’t see Bert. He’s out.”

“Yes, I’d expect him to be at this time of day,” Hector commented drily.

“He’s not on the farm either,” Mrs Bradley blurted out. “He’s gone—” A flicker of belated caution showed momentarily in the pale grey eyes. Caution—and something else. Shrewdness? Slyness? Meg couldn’t be sure, but it was something that wasn’t very nice. She knew that. “Well, what do you want, then?” Mrs Bradley asked resentfully.

“I want to leave a message for your husband,” Hector explained evenly. “I’ve written down just what information I want, but I should like to explain it to you in case I haven’t made myself clear. May I come in?”

“I suppose so,” Mrs Bradley said ungraciously, and retreated into the kitchen. Hector followed and with a sign of his hand indicated that Meg was to follow him.

Meg obeyed, though she didn’t want to see what further horrors there might be indoors. And horrors there were. The ragged linoleum might at one time have had a tiled pattern. Now it was a uniform slatey grey. The old-fashioned kitchen range, the twin in design of that in which Mrs Chapman had produced such delicious bread, was cold and rusty. Instead, an equally rusty oil stove which flamed ominously in the draught from the back door gave the room such warmth as there was. The table, covered with a dirty cloth, still had the debris of breakfast on it and crockery from still earlier meals was piled in the sink. From somewhere upstairs a baby howled loudly. But worst of all was the sickly, sour smell which pervaded the whole room. Meg felt nauseated, but Hector didn’t turn a hair. Coolly he lowered the volume of the radio, handed Mrs Bradley a sheet of paper and explained what it was all about. Mrs Bradley listened with so little sign of really attending that Hector was driven to ask sharply:

“You’re sure you understand? It’s most important that I should have the information as quickly as possible.”

“Oh, if you say so,” Mrs Bradley said indifferently. “But it seems a lot of fuss to me, seeing that you’re kicking us out. I mean, why should Bert worry?”

Hector didn’t reply immediately and Meg, her eyes intent on Mrs Bradley’s face, saw a sudden change in it. For the first time there was an alertness there—

"You
are
kicking us out, aren’t you?” she demanded sharply. “Bert was telling the truth?”

“I’ve told your husband that I’m not renewing his lease,” Hector said precisely. “I’ve also made it very clear to him that there’s no chance of me changing my mind. Thank you, Mrs Bradley, I think that’s all. Good morning.”

They made their escape as quickly as possible and Meg noticed that Hector was breathing deeply as she was. Suddenly he spoke.

“Meg, are you game to risk being as stiff as the very dickens tomorrow?” he asked.

“I shall be anyhow,” Meg said ruefully. “A bit more won’t matter—if you don’t want to go back to Heronshaw yet.”

“I don’t,” Hector said decisively, and pointed with his crop. “Look, do you see those hills? There’s always a breeze there, and that’s what I want.”

“Me, too!” Meg told him fervently.

It took them longer than she had expected to reach the hilltops, but it was well worth the effort. There was a sweet freshness up here which was surely the best cure for their unsavoury experience.

Once dismounted, Hector flung himself down on a flat outcrop of stone, relaxed, his eyes closed. But Meg, puzzled and restless, wandered aimlessly over the short, springy turf. Suddenly she made up her mind and came over to Hector.

“Hector, you’ve got to explain,” she said peremptorily.

The deep blue eyes opened and regarded her gravely but he made no effort to help her out.

“Mrs Bradley,” she said slowly. “In her place, I’d be feeling frightened and bitter—and I’d tell you just what I thought of you! But she wasn’t like that—”

“No, she wasn’t, was she?” he agreed, still fixing her unflinchingly. “So—?”

Meg drew a deep breath.

“I said she wasn’t frightened—but that’s not true. She
was
afraid, not of being turned out but of the possibility of you changing your mind and giving Bradley another chance! Well, why Hector? I must know
—why
?”

HECTOR was on his feet in one quick, lithe movement.

“Yes,” he said reflectively, “That’s the important thing, isn’t it? Well, I can and I will tell you that, Meg. But first, I wish you’d indulge
my
curiosity by telling me what you read into it?”

“It seemed to me—” Meg began hesitantly, and stopped, shaking her head impatiently. “I don’t see how it can be true—but it did sound almost as if she
wanted
you to turn them out!”

“Not ‘almost’. Quite!” Hector corrected decisively. “It’s something I’ve suspected for some time, though I wasn’t entirely sure. But this morning she gave herself away completely, as you, though you can hardly credit it, heard for yourself.”

“But
why
?” Meg urged. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Oh yes, it does,” Hector assured her dryly. “When you want something as desperately as Mrs Bradley does, it sharpens your wits and you’re prepared to go to all lengths. She’s a town girl, you know, and she’s determined to get back there. And I for one don’t blame her. She loathes living in the country.”

“But she must have known she’d have to when she married Bradley,” Meg objected.

“Oh no, she didn’t. Bradley was working in the same factory that she was when they met,” Hector explained. “He stayed on there until they’d been married about six months and their first child was on the way. Then he decided that he didn’t really like factory work—I fancy there was rather too much supervision to suit him —and he sold his wife the idea of going back to farming so that he could be his own master. Of course, she didn’t realise just what that meant. To her, as to most town dwellers, the country means new-laid eggs, fruit trees in blossom and young lambs skipping about in lush grass.

Well, of course, all these things are here, but only as the result of hard work and know-how. Well, Bradley is work-shy, and Mrs Bradley—” he shook his head.

“Hasn’t got any know-how,” Meg finished. “Or the wish to have it. Mrs Chapman—”

“Ah yes, Bessie,” Hector’s face softened. “She knew just what she was taking on because she comes of farming stock and learnt it all as a child. But make no mistake about it, Meg. She’d be utterly out of place living in a town—and as for working in a factory—! It takes all sorts, you know.”

Meg considered this in silence. What he said was true, of course, yet she didn’t feel entirely satisfied.

“When they first came here, Mrs Bradley was a pretty little thing,” Hector went on. “Rather empty-headed and there was an ominous slackness about her mouth. But she was happy. Now—!”

“She’s hopeless,” Meg acknowledged.

“If, by that, you mean that she’s without hope, then I entirely agree with you,” Hector replied precisely. “That’s her trouble. What has she to hope for, married to a man like Bradley?”

“But she
is
married to him,” Meg protested quickly. “Surely in loyalty to him, she should have backed him up—”

“If Bradley had had his heart in farming, then I’d agree with you. But he never has had. And anyway, a family of five has kept her pretty well occupied, however indifferently she looks after them. So the situation is just this—She’s determined to force Bradley to do factory work again. I’m equally determined not to put up with his laziness and incompetence any longer. Which makes Mrs Bradley and me allies! Odd, isn’t it?”

“But will it make any real difference?” Meg asked dubiously. “Will either of them change, no matter where they live?”

“Possibly not,” Hector conceded. “But it’s their one chance to make out—and she knows it even if he doesn’t. What’s more, I think she’ll do her best to make it work. It could, at that. She’s one of a large family, and that means the possibility of baby-sitters which, in turn, could mean that they could have at least an occasional outing together, which at present they can’t. And with a regular pay packet, she’d be able to afford to buy make-up—which heaven knows, she needs,” he concluded fervently.

Involuntarily Meg laughed.

“You are the most surprising person!” she told him. “That’s not the sort of thing a man usually realises. But you’re quite right. The only thing is, it all depends on him getting a job, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Hector acknowledged. “But with a family the size of hers, it may be that she can pull a few strings. She may have done already, because it was pretty evident that he was away seeing about a possible job. Well, with all my heart, I hope he gets it.”

“And keeps it!” Meg said as emphatically. “If only it didn’t seem rather hard luck on the children—I mean, country children are much better off than town children, don’t you think?”

“In some ways,” Hector agreed. “But as against that, wherever they live, children are better off when parents get on well together than where there’s everlasting discord, as there has been in this case for years.”

"You know—” Meg dimpled mischievously, “you
will
be claiming that you’re their guardian angel!”

Hector’s hands shot out and he gripped her shoulders with considerable strength.

“For heaven’s sake, Meg, don’t make a jest of this!” he besought urgently, his face twisted with emotion. “It’s too damn serious for that! Don’t you see,
I hold these people's future in my hands
! Oh yes, I do! No matter how difficult Mrs Bradley makes herself, it’s
my
decision that really counts. If I were to give Bradley another chance—it’s a hell of a responsibility, and I simply daren’t make a mistake.”

Startled, Meg gazed at him, wide-eyed. Hector, unsure of himself! Hector showing, if not quite the sort of sentiment to which he had taken exception in her, then certainly a concern which was against his own interests! Would this man never stop revealing different and conflicting facets of his many-sided nature?