The mountain that went to the sea by Lucy Walker Read Free Book Online

acquaintanceship, is it?
     
    Dear Jane is always so cheerful. Such a blessing because none of the rest of us feels that way. Not till we've had a good cup of tea.'
    'Thank you,' Jeckie said as the cup of tea was handed to her.
    `Do you have early morning tea before breakfast on your farm, Jeckie?' Jane asked across the sugar bowl as she passed it. She was making conversation to change the subject, and Jeckie was grateful.
    'Oh yes. We're terrific tea drinkers at Beckonning. Of course we all have to get up so early. Because of the horses, you know. Baxter, who is in charge of them, has them out before daylight — ' she broke off. Aunt Isobel's eyes were fixed on her as if not so much impressed as wondering if Jeckie was stating a case for the defence. Of what? Why was this uneasy child putting up a defence for herself?
    'Jane dear, do fetch the hot scones now, will you?' she said. 'I think I'll do without a cereal this morning. We did have such a late supper last night, didn't we?'
    'Of course, Miss Isobel.' Jane slipped out of her chair and disappeared into the side passage almost as noiselessly as a wraith.
    Now I'm for it! Jeckie thought as she poured milk on her wheat biscuit. She's sent nice 'Jane dear' away so as not to embarrass her.
    `Do you cook, Juliet?' Aunt Isobel asked pleasantly. 'If so, I do hope you can make good scones. I always like hot scones for breakfast.'
    'Yes. I can cook,' Jeckie said. 'Mostly farm cooking. But when we have a party I can do the fussy things too.' 'You do have parties? On the farm?'
    'Oh yes. We're only five miles from the Siding.'
    'Yes, of course. I remember Andrew telling me how convenient your father's farm is to the wheat silos at the Siding.'
    'Andrew?' Jeckie asked, surprised. 'How did he know? I mean, I didn't imagine he would be interested. That is— '
    'Of course we are all interested. Though it is such a pity the two branches of the family never really meet. I've written to your mother about it several times.'
     
    'There are more than two branches, aren't there, Aunt Isobel?' Jeckie said politely. 'Even at school I seemed to meet people who were called Ashenden. We'd put our heads together and work out we were cousins way back two or three generations. But we'd never met before.'
    `Yes, of course. Andrew Ashenden the First had four sons and two daughters. My mother was the eldest daughter. So I inherited a share, you see. But one of them, his third son John's grandson, sold his share out to strangers. He doesn't have the Ashenden name because his mother, being an Ashenden, inherited. And she married, of course. Just as your mother and Sheila's mother inherited. So many different surnames! Such a pity!'
    Aunt Isobel had a subdued graveyard tone in her voice as she said this.
    `Do you think he should have kept his share as a duty, Aunt Isobel?'
    'Oh dear me — not necessarily — if he needed the money. But he should have given Andrew or Barton the first offer. It has all caused so much trouble that Mallibee owners are what you might call divided amongst themselves over the issue. The share should have been kept in the family. As it is, it has gone to that inhuman monster — a Mining Company.'
    'You think my mother and Sheila's mother should give their shares back to Andrew? Or Andrew and Barton?'
    'Not give, child. Don't be foolish. But, well — if they wanted to sell some day, it would be pleasant for Mallibee if they did think of the Company first. They're very valuable shares. Nevertheless, the share is your mother's rightful inheritance: the same as with Sheila's mother. I only hope—' she broke off.
    Jeckie saw that Aunt Isobel's face, from being very contained and almost negative, now looked troubled.
    'What do you hope?' Jeckie prodded gently. 'I'm sure my mother would not sell to anyone outside the family.'
    `No, no. Of course not. It's just that this other wretched share has gone out of the family. Not even to a person. He had the impudence to say it was a