Return to Spring (17 page)

The empty stackyard lay before her, with the wooden rick-rests ready to receive the harvest of hay from the two fields still under cultivation; Pete, the collie, lay on the cobbles of the yard, his nose cradled on his paws; there was a gentle, contented lowing from the end byres, a familiar clatter of pails from the dairy, and, beyond, the long stretch of the old cinder track ran down to the white gate which led into the avenue. Dear, familiar scene! Ruth’s eyes were misted over with tears. The Conningscliff, which meant so much to her father, had come to mean as much to her. It had sheltered her during those most impressionable years of life, the years between eighteen and twenty-five. It was the home she would never forget. And the new Conningscliff she had tried to build up ...

How could she bear to leave it now?—to give up everything? Yet she could never, never bring herself to accept Edmund Hersheil’s “advantageous” proposal. Surely there would be some other way out for her father and herself? Marriage could not be the only way—marriage with the Squire’s nephew! She had told him she couldn’t marry anyone.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Keeping her information to herself all the evening had been a difficult task for Ruth while she felt the need for some kindly and understanding confessor so much. Aware that her father seemed to be sensing her growing anxiety, she had tried to avoid him, and had taken longer over the task of filling the water-troughs and closing the hens up for the night than she usually did. Even when she had completed her duties, a glance at her watch told her that it was just eight o’clock.

The night was mild, and the sun had gone down behind the Border hills in a blaze of glory. The flush of it still tinted the sky and left a warm glow along the sea. She walked slowly in the direction of the dunes and stood on the cliff top looking down at the tide running smoothly over the yellow sand. The beauty of the place had power to hurt her now because she would be gone from it so soon. The dark cliffs seemed to bow their heads, and the bosom of the sea heaved in sorrow. It was the prelude to a farewell as poignant as any between two human creatures torn with the ache of parting. Ruth sank down on the dry, tufty grass and gazed out across the little bay that had always been so dear to her, her eyes dimmed with unshed tears.

She sat there for an hour, and was about to make her way back to the farm when she saw John Travayne approaching across the dunes. He was smoking the pipe without which he never seemed wholly at his ease, and he took it from between his teeth as he drew near to say:

“I saw you from the lane. I waited, but after a while I got the impression that you wanted to stay up here all night!”

She could not smile, even to please him.

“I felt that I could not go back just yet,” she confessed.

“Ruth,” he said gently, “is there anything wrong?”

“The Squire is going to put Conningscliff on the market.”

The truth had come out quite naturally. She knew that John would understand how she felt and the blow that Edmund’s information had been to her earlier in the day. Travayne stood motionless for a moment and his dark brows drew together.

“Who told you this?” he asked, at last.

“Edmund Hersheil. He came over to tell me this afternoon.”

“Especially to tell you?”

“I—suppose so,” she said, looking away again over the darkening water.

“How much does he want for the place?” he asked.

“Much more than I could ever afford to consider,” she told him. “Somewhere round about six thousand.”

Travayne turned and looked back down to Conningscliff. His glance seemed to take in each detail of the farm and the surrounding land, and then it swept across the moors to the grey wall which shut in Carbay Hall.

“This is—quite definite?” he asked.

Ruth stirred and got to her feet.

“As far as I know, and I don’t suppose Edmund Hersheil would have any reason to tell me a lie. His uncle means to sell.” She paused, hesitating, as if some thought had just presented itself to her for the first time. “I can’t believe that the Squire knows how much this really means to us,” she said.

“You believe that he might think things over?”

“He might!” A strange light gleamed in her dark eyes. “Do you think if I saw him—begged him to see things from our point of view—he might agree to change his mind and let me keep Conningscliff?”

Travayne looked away from the eagerness in her eyes. “He might,” he said, with very little enthusiasm. “What do you intend to do if he refuses?”

Ruth’s face clouded over.

“I—don’t know,” she confessed. “I wish I had someone to advise me.”

“May I offer my advice—for what it is worth?”

She looked at him uncertainly. He had sounded almost brusque.

“Wait a day or two,” he suggested. “Wait and see what— turns up.”

“You mean that you think the Squire may not sell after all?”

“I can’t hold myself responsible for the actions of the Squire,” he said, “but I have a feeling that everything will turn out all right, Ruth.”

There was a measure of assurance in his voice and she let it give her a like measure of comfort.

“I have business in Newcastle to-morrow,” he added. “It’s Tuesday, and I know that butter never turned out of a churn successfully on a Tuesday! Couldn’t you take a holiday and come along with me?”

She smiled in the dusk. She knew she wanted to go more than anything else in the world, and the news she had heard to-day might be forgotten for a few brief hours in his company. Why not?

“If I can persuade Peg to look after things in my absence,” she half promised.

“That will be the least of your troubles, I should think,” he smiled.

They had turned with one accord and were walking slowly down the narrow lane. Although it was almost ten o’clock, it was not wholly dark. It was a moonless night, but the thick powdering of stars shed a luminous radiance over the sea and cliff that was like some strange enchantment. Ruth thought that she had never felt the spell of night quite so forcibly. The man by her side puffed at his pipe in silence, walking slowly, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket, his head flung back in keen appreciation of the cool breeze which swept up from the south.

They were on the high ridge of the road when the drone of an engine came to them out of the sky. Travayne saw the aeroplane first, and they stood watching as it drew nearer and began to circle overhead.

“The fellow’s attempting to land!” he said incredulously.

Instantly Ruth was reminded of the last occasion on which she had watched an aeroplane circling low over the dunes. The incident had escaped her memory, but now she remembered the shafts of light which had undoubtedly come from the headlamps of a sports car driving at a mad speed between the trees of the avenue. Whether the two had any connection, she had not stopped to think.

The aeroplane was banking towards the sea, and they noticed that it was flying much lower now. They watched silently as it turned once more and flew directly above their heads, swooping low over the Long Meadow, so low that for a moment Ruth thought there must be a crash. She drew in her breath sharply as the machine rose steeply into the air.

“Whew!” Travayne whistled. “The fellow must be mad— stunting at this time of night!”

“I think I’ve seen that ’plane before,” Ruth told him. “It did the same sort of—stunt then, too.”

He turned back towards the lane.

“A sensation-seeker in the district, probably,” he opined.

They were at the bend where the path led across the fields, and, suddenly, Edmund Hersheil was standing before them. The momentary look of confusion fled from his face as he recognised Travayne and was replaced by a scowl.

“Good-evening,” he said to Ruth, and passed on.

“I’m afraid I have made myself unpopular with our friend!” John mused, as they went slowly across the patch of lawn to the house.

On the cliffs behind them another late walker had noted the passing of the aeroplane, and when Victor Monset saw Edmund striding hurriedly between the stone gateposts of the Hall, his lips curved downwards in a characteristic expression.

“I wonder what the Squire’s nephew is up to now,” he thought, as he sauntered back to the house by the gateway in the south wall.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Ruth was astir by six o’clock the following morning, doing all she could to make the tasks of the day lighter for Peg in her absence. She was spreading the table-cloth in the dining-room when John made his appearance, and he insisted on taking his early breakfast with her father in the kitchen to save her extra trouble.

They left the farm shortly before nine o’clock and walked across the moor path to the village. As they stood waiting for the Newcastle ’bus, more than one villager acknowledged Ruth, glancing with frank curiosity at her companion.

“Village curiosity—the same all the world over, I expect!” Ruth laughed.

“Very much the same,” John replied dryly, cramming tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “Here comes our friend of the widow’s cottage—Martha Something-or-other.”

Martha Harrup approached slowly, standing a few yards from where they were waiting. She was obviously going somewhere by the ’bus, for her habitual garb of beret and knitted jacket had been exchanged for a tweed costume of a style popular many years before. A large umbrella—a necessary part of Martha’s best outfit even on the sunniest days—hung over her arm.

Ruth acknowledged her with a smile and a nod and turned back to John.

“I think the ’bus must be late,” she observed. “It’s due here at nine-fifteen.”

“It’s just that now,” Travayne said, glancing at his watch.

Ruth turned to look up the road and was surprised to find how much nearer Miss Harrup had edged towards them in those few minutes. She was now quite within earshot. Ruth could not help smiling at the village gossip’s exaggerated look of indifference, and at that moment the ’bus came round the corner. Ruth boarded it first, and Travayne stepped back to allow Martha Harrup to get in before him. They were the only passengers, and the fact seemed to be adequate excuse for Miss Harrup. She began with a remark about the weather, and before the ’bus had reached Alnwick she had obtained sufficient information about Travayne to keep her busy for a week or two.

When the ’bus drew out of Bondgate and started on its way to Newcastle, John sat back in his seat and laughed.

“Thank heaven she’s gone! I hope I have satisfied her—up to a point!”

Ruth smiled.

“Martha has always been like that,” she assured him. “I’m afraid it has come to be all she lives for.”

“ I experienced one terrible moment when I thought she was going all the way to Newcastle!” he confessed.

“I had hoped she was just going as far as Alnwick,” Ruth laughed.

The remainder of the journey seemed to fly past now when, left to themselves, they watched the changing panorama of the scenery; the wooded denes cleft by the broad North Road; the glimpses of white-washed farm buildings; the tiny hamlets with an air about them as quiet as sleep, and the collieries like black scars on the green land.

As they approached the town the ’bus began to fill up. People from outlying villages were flocking to the various places of entertainment which were a feature of the local Race Week.

They were held up at Gosforth Park while two large horse-transport vans turned in through the gates on their way to the racecourse. Ruth was gazing out of the near window when her companion remarked:

“We seem destined to run up against Hersheil!”

Ruth looked up quickly and was just in time to see the back of the familiar sports car disappear down the straight road in front of them.

“He didn’t mention he was coming to town this morning,” she said, as their ’bus moved forward with the stream of traffic.

“Probably he’s come down to the race meeting,” John replied, and dismissed the subject as being of little importance.

Suddenly, on their right, the houses gave place to a great stretch of open grass land.

“That’s the Town Moor,” Ruth explained. “In a moment we’ll be coming to the shows.”

Many happy memories of youth rose in her heart as she spoke, and there was a joyous light in her eyes as she waited for the ’bus to draw level with that part of the moor which was set aside each year to accommodate the gigantic fair.

“There it is!” she cried at last. “The Temperance Festival, or—more familiarly—the hoppings! It is said to be the largest fair in the country,” she went on to explain to John, eager that he might share her enthusiasm. “There’s literally everything there!” “It might bear investigation—later,” he mused. “Unless you have any other suggestions to make?”

“I’d love it!” she smiled. “It would be like getting back to—to a time when there was nothing in the world to worry about!”

“I hope I can take you back to that time,” he said gravely. John’s destination was Grey Street, and they arranged that Ruth should spend an hour in the shops and they would meet again in Blackett Street for lunch. He left her under the Goldsmith’s Clock, and, in an hour’s time, he came slowly down the stair from the solicitor’s office and stood for a moment in the arched doorway.