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“Because Mr. Nicholls will have to send away to get them printed and we haven’t got too much time to spare,” she explained.

Her aunt nodded in an abstracted way, and Fenella went off on her errand. There were two ways down to the village. One, the shorter, was by the road. The other, through the grounds of Lyon House and round by the cliff path, was considerably longer but infinitely more pleasant. Fenella decided to take that.

It was a glorious day. Gorse was blazing in the May sunshine and high overhead, larks were singing. In spite of the ache in her heart, Fenella’s spirits rose and by the time she reached the gate in the hedge that bounded the grounds of the house, she was feeling positively lighthearted.

She shut and locked the gate carefully and turned to find herself face to face with a young man who had evidently come up from the beach below and was now going to the village by the same route that she herself was taking.

He gave her a smiling greeting natural in such circumstances and Fenella found herself responding in the same easy, friendly way. Then, almost inevitably, they fell into step with one another and found no difficulty in discovering topics of conversation.

He, so he told her, was doing some skin diving off the ship moored off the coast,

“Not one of the regular team, though. Just an amateur. But they’re very decently allowing me to make a nuisance of myself because I need the information for a book— and it’s the sort of thing you can’t write up convincingly if you only know about it second hand.”

“It must be very interesting and exciting,” Fenella said with a touch of envy in her voice.

Her new acquaintance laughed.

“Interesting, yes. But only occasionally exciting. There’s an awful lot of drudgery for every discovery, you know.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Fenella agreed. “But you have discovered things, haven’t you? At least that’s according to local gossip.”

“Is it?” He glanced at her with the first hint of reserve she had seen in his frank brown eyes. “You surprise me, Miss Calder—it
is
Miss Calder, isn’t it? From Lyon House?"

Fenella nodded, surprised that he had placed her so easily. That he knew Lyon House by name and had realised that she must have come from there was not remarkable, but that he should have identified her by name—”

“Martin Adair,” he introduced himself, and went on : “I'm surprised because I'd come to the conclusion that the local people are taciturn to the point of being—well, it would hardly be exaggerating to say—unfriendly.'' He looked at her enquiringly.

“Ah well, you see, you’re a stranger," Fenella explained gravely. “A foreigner, really. Everybody is that who wasn't born in Cornwall, you see. It's by way of being a world of its own.''

“I’ve realised that,'' Martin replied. “After all, the County is all but an island so that even these days, there must be a feeling of being a place apart. And yet—'' he paused and shook his head.

“Yes?'' Fenella asked encouragingly.

“I can't help feeling that there’s something more to it than that,'' he said slowly. “A personal animosity directed specifically against me.”

“Oh, not you, particularly,” Fenella assured him. “Just everybody on the salvage ship."

“Really? But why?”

“Oh, it’s rather difficult to explain to someone who doesn’t belong here,'' Fenella told him hesitantly.

“Please do try,” Martin urged. “It’s really rather important to me.''

“The wreck you’re looking for—”

“We've found it,'' Martin interpolated.

“Yes—well, you see, it's so near in that people have come to regard it as—as being theirs, in a way. And so they resent any outsiders coming here to take things away—'' she left the sentence unfinished.

“I think what you mean is that since their ancestors went to all the risk and trouble of wrecking the
Nimrod
they don’t see why anyone else should cash in!'' Martin said quietly. “Isn't that it?''

“Who said she was wrecked purposely?” Fenella demanded swiftly. “It’s never been proved."

“Oh yes, it has,” he told her very positively. “Beyond all doubt!”

“I don’t see how it can have been,” Fenella objected stubbornly. “But whether it has or not, if you’ve been going about saying that it was, then no wonder you can’t get people to talk to you! And if you don’t mind, Mr. Adair, I’d rather not discuss it any more!”

“I’m sorry, I’ve embarrassed you,” Martin said regretfully. “It was thoughtless of me—they’re your friends, of course—forgive me! ”

“Oh, please, it’s quite all right,” Fenella assured him, “but I do really advise you not to spread this story, because it’s only natural for people to resent such aspersions about their families, isn’t it?”

“After all this time?” he raised his eyebrows doubtfully. “Nearly two hundred years? Rather an exaggerated sensitiveness, isn’t it?”

“It might be in town where people are constantly moving from one district to another. But not here where families have lived in the same cottages for far longer than that!” Fenella told him.

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said good-humouredly, and then : “I’ve some shopping to do—fishing tackle and what not, so I’ll say goodbye, and apologise again for having bothered you! ”

He smiled, raised his hand in salute and turned into the shop in question. Fenella, continuing down the hill, frowned at the memory of their conversation. Of course there were quite a lot of people who thought it probable that the wreckers had been out the night the
Nimrod
went down, and Anthony had said more than once that though he was quite sure there was no written record to that effect, none the less, a lot of the fisherfolk had had the story handed down by word of mouth for generations. But somehow Fenella had got the impression that Martin Adair had been more emphatic in his statement that he would have been had he only had verbal confirmation. Proved
—beyond all doubt,
he had said. It almost suggested that he had at least seen that proof, perhaps even had it in his possession. Well, she’d tell Anthony about and he could decide if there was anything that ought to be done. In the meantime, she was approaching the place where the road took a sharp bend before it staggered crazily downhill to the harbour.

It was at this point that Miss Prosser had her home, conveniently situated on the outer curve of the road so that from her bay window she could see both up and down the hill. It was, in fact, impossible to pass without her seeing you if she happened to be looking out, as she almost always was. Fenella’s heart sank as she heard the all too familiar rap on the window. She stopped. There was nothing else she could do.

The window opened directly on to the street with no intervening garden, and as Miss Prosser now opened it and leaned out, the stiffly starched Nottingham lace curtain draped her grey head like an incongruous wedding veil. Her peculiar eyes, one green and one brown, which gave her the odd appearance of being able to look round comers, bored unmercifully into Fenella.

“Well,' she demanded, “what do you think of the news?”

“What news?’’ Fenella asked as pleasantly as she could manage.

Miss Prosser regarded her suspiciously. When anyone professed ignorance like that it wasn’t always easy to decide whether it was genuine or just a trick to gain time. However, she had every intention of finding out! Fenella’s position at Lyon House intrigued her considerably, but it was rarely that she had a chance like this to find anything out.

“The Lancings are coming back to Poldean House! ” she announced dramatically, and drew back a little to see what effect that had had on Fenella.

“The Lancings!” Fenella exclaimed, startled by the coincidence of having spoken of the family so recently to Aunt Gina.

“Yes, you remember them, surely! You used to play with them when you came for holidays here when you were little. Hugh and Dennis, the twins, Sheila and Lynn. And, of course, Rosemary!”

“Of course I remember them!” Fenella declared.

“I’ve never forgotten them. It was just that I was surprised. I am glad! They were always wonderful to me, although I was so much younger that I must have spoilt their games! It seems ages since they went away.”

“It is,” Miss Prosser agreed. “All of ten years. Sir Geoffrey was appointed governor of one of those islands in the Indian Ocean and he took the whole family with him. But they never sold the house. Now he’s completed his term of office and Mrs. Dingle, the housekeeper, has just told me that she’s had instructions to get the house ready at once. Of course, the three eldest are married and they’ll be bringing their children, so it’s going to be quite a full house! Mrs. Dingle’s worried whether she’ll be able to get enough help or not.”

Fenella sighed.

“It’s horrid, the way one drifts away from old friends,” she remarked regretfully. “Rosemary and I wrote to one another for a time, but it got longer and longer between letters and then we stopped. Somehow or other people never seem quite real when they’ve been away for a long time!”

Miss Prosser sniffed.

“
She’s
real enough—you can take my word for that! But changed a bit from what you remember, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Fenella agreed, refusing to take notice of the unpleasantly meaning tone. “But she’ll probably find me still more changed than she is because I’ve grown up since we last met.”

“So you have,” Miss Prosser admitted thoughtfully. “Yes, that may come as quite a shock to her!”

Fenella laughed.

“Hardly that, Miss Prosser!” she protested. “She may be surprised because one forgets that other people don’t stand still, but that’s all.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Miss Prosser conceded, and then, so suddenly that Fenella jumped. “I wonder what Mr. Anthony will have to say about her coming back?”

“Anthony?” Fenella spoke more sharply than she had intended, for every instinct told her to beware—that Miss Prosser’s venomous tongue would make capital out of anything she said. Yet to have refused to answer would have been even worse—“He will, I’m sure, be delighted. They were great friends, years ago.”

“They were more than that!” Miss Prosser cackled triumphantly. “Didn’t you know, Miss Fenella, Rosemary Lancing was the girl that jilted Mr. Anthony?”

Fenella’s mouth went dry. Naturally, Anthony had never told her this and nor had Aunt Gina, but instinctively she knew that it was the truth—

“And so you think Mr. Anthony will be delighted that she is coming to Fairhaven again?” Miss Prosser purred, her head on one side.

Fenella looked her straight between the eyes.

“Miss Prosser, you really must not read something into my words that I didn’t intend to convey," she said, trying to assume the tone of chilly reproof she had heard Aunt Gina use on similar occasions. “You’re referring to an old story which we never discuss. And you should remember that to a man like my cousin Anthony, whatever the past may have held, the fact that Rosemary is a married woman—”

“Was, you mean!” Miss Prosser’s queer eyes riveted themselves on Fenella’s face so that she might not miss a single fleeting expression. “Her husband died over a year ago. She’s a widow!

And with a vicious snap, she shut the window in Fenella’s white face.

HER errand to the newsagent completed, Fenella went on down the hill to the harbour, and sat on a low wall in the sunshine.

From here there was a wonderful view. On either side of the estuary were grass-topped headlands. The Fairhaven side was rather steeper than the Poldean cliffs, but both were worth looking at. The rather dull grey of the rock was broken at intervals with patches of colourful lichens and the brilliant blue of the sky was reflected in the gently lapping water. Little boats bobbed at anchor and gulls swooped and glided as if they were thoroughly enjoying themselves.

Fenella loved it all just as she loved the little village that staggered so crazily down hill. It was all part of home. Part of Anthony, too.

But now she was so deep in thought that she hardly noticed her surroundings or the few men who were at work and who, more than once, gave a half curious, half apprehensive glance in her direction.

Rosemary was the girl whom Anthony had loved and who had jilted him.

Rosemary was coming back to Fairhaven—and she was free because her husband had died.

It explained everything. Why Anthony had taken so little interest in women—including Fenella herself—all these years, and why now, quite suddenly, he had announced that it was high time he got married. It all added up to one thing and one thing only. Despite the way in which she had treated him, Anthony had never ceased to love Rosemary and never would.

Yes, that made sense, though only, she began to realise, up to a point. It didn’t explain why Anthony had bothered to make such an announcement as he had done this morning at breakfast, nor why he should have fallen in so willingly if not exactly enthusiastically with her suggestion that they should have a garden party.

After all, in the natural course of events, he and Rosemary would have been bound to meet, for, quite apart from the old friendship between the two families, Fairhaven wasn’t a very big place. You simply wouldn’t be able to help meeting people. So why—?

The answer came only very slowly, but when at last it did come, she was convinced that it was the right one.

Anthony had heard that Rosemary and her family were returning to Fairhaven, and
for the first time
heard also that Rosemary was a widow. As a result, his entire outlook had changed.

Fenella knew that she had spoken nothing but the truth when she had told Miss Prosser that whatever the past might have held, Anthony was not the sort of man to run after a married woman.

She knew, too, that there had been a lot of speculation, led by Miss Prosser, as to the possibility of a romance between herself and Anthony. And Anthony must have been equally well aware of it. Not that either of them had ever referred to the matter to one another. They just ignored it. Or rather, Anthony had, and Fenella had been quite sure that she had given every indication of doing the same thing.