Return to Spring

by Jean S. MacLeod

  “I don’t suppose it’s any use saying I’m sorry, Uncle. Ten thousand is a lot of money and it would take me a lifetime to pay it back to you ...” He hesitated, waiting for Veycourt to speak, but the Squire made no sign. “I can assure you it will be the last time you have to complain of me,” he continued. “I will even look out for a job.”

  He offered the last remark in the nature of a feeler. It was essential that he should know what the Squire was about to do.

  Veycourt continued to gaze at him steadily. He had long deplored his nephew’s idleness, but he remembered, only too well, the result of trying to force his own son into a job from which he shrank. The Squire was a proud man, proud of his name and his inheritance, and Edmund was his sister’s son. His name could be changed by deed-poll. He had Veycourt blood in him— somewhere! Even Edmund was preferable to extinction, the Squire thought, half angrily.

  “We’ll talk no more of paying back,” he said gruffly, “but we may talk again of a job for you. When you’ve made up your mind what you want to do, come and see me and we’ll talk it over.”

  Edmund left the study with a lighter heart, although he had not yet found a solution to the problem of his existing debts. He could not very well ask his uncle for any great sum of money now, he reflected. Not, at least, until he had mollified the old man by making a show of working. He wondered idly what he could find to do that would be of interest to him and keep him amused, in the name of work.

  He passed along the narrow corridor which led to the gunroom, his dark brows drawn together in thought. Swinging the heavy door open, he was surprised to see Victor Monset seated before the bench which stretched the length of the long window, his charcoal poised above his thick sketching block.

  “Drawing guns, Monset?” he asked.

  The artist looked round and shrugged expressively.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve ever noticed the view from this window,” he said laconically.

  “Not particularly,” Edmund admitted. “When I come here I come to clean my guns—not to moon out of windows!”

  Monset’s remark had irritated him, and it annoyed Edmund that it should do so, for he knew Monset was given to such remarks. It was the fellow’s way—intriguing enough when you were in the right mood for it, but out of place sometimes.

  “Did you see your uncle?” Monset asked, without looking up from his work. “He was asking for you after lunch. He was in one of his lion moods, I believe.”

  Edmund’s face darkened.

  “Yes, I saw him.”

  He came over to the window and stood looking down at the half-completed sketch which lay before the artist. Monset had captured all the beauty of the view from the gun-room window with a few light strokes: the rolling moorland sloping away from the Hall; the line of trees which was the avenue of Conningscliff; the farm itself, nestling in its sheltered hollow, and beyond, the gradual sweep of the land towards the shadowy hills of the Border with the snow-capped peak of the Cheviot shimmering vaguely in the background.

  Hersheil raised his eyes and gazed out on the scene his companion had reproduced so faithfully, but there was little appreciation of beauty in his regard.

  “I’ve landed myself in a complete hole,” he confessed. “I persuaded my uncle to invest quite a bit of money in some stock I could have staked my reputation on, and my infernal luck being what it is at the moment, the bottom’s fallen completely out of them. He’s in for ten thousand, and he’s not too pleased about it, I can assure you!”

  Victor Monset whistled.

  “And what are you in for?” he asked.

  “A hundred or two—not a great deal, if one had the money,” Edmund confessed.

  “And I take it you—haven’t?”

  Hersheil laughed.

  “Not a bean! And I’m up to the ears in debt into the bargain.”

  Monset wondered if he was expected to feel sorry for this man who was even beyond his contempt.

  “Why don’t you look for work?” he asked abruptly.

  “I’ve already promised to do that.”

  Edmund was still gazing out of the window and his eyes were fixed on the tops of the thatched stacks in the Conningscliff yard. Suddenly his expression changed, and there was a strange gleam in his eyes when he turned towards Victor Monset.

  “You’ve heard of the saying about killing two birds with the same stone, I suppose,” he said lightly. “Well, I’ve just discovered how I might be able to please my uncle and amuse myself at the same time. Also, I believe I might say that I have found a job at last!”

  “If it’s a job to your liking, it might be interesting to know what it is,” Monset remarked.

  “I’ll tell you—all in good time!” was Edmund’s only reply.

  CHAPTER SIX

  During that Easter week Ruth noticed that John Travayne spent a good deal of his time with her father. She often heard them deep in their discussions of crops and new methods of tilling as she went back and forth about her many tasks, and it gave her a gentle sense of well-being to feel that the invalid had congenial company that might keep him from dwelling too much on his unfortunate state.

  That this new friendship was not conducive to the peace of mind of another dweller under Conningscliff’s red-tiled roof was very obvious. Valerie Grenton had done everything in her power to make Travayne join the small, organised trips which the rest of the guests took each day, but in vain. Travayne, without offending anyone but Valerie, declared that he preferred to wander about the place and see the countryside without the aid of a high-powered car. Valerie, who had never walked more than half a mile in her short, pampered lifetime, quite frankly could not understand his preference. Once or twice she told herself jealously that Ruth was the attraction in the vicinity of Conningscliff, but when she stayed back from a drive to the Lake District to prove her surmise correct, she was forced to admit that Ruth had little time from her duties about the farm to be much in John’s company.

  It was on the day of the run to Scotland that Ruth first noticed signs of Valerie’s desire to monopolise John Travayne. Ruth, with the help of her father who knew the road well, had mapped out a full day’s run to the famous Melrose Abbey.

  “I thought if you went by Wooler,” she explained to the Finchleys, who were growing more enthusiastic about this northern corner of Northumberland with each passing day, “you could visit Flodden Field either going or coming back.”

  “Oh yes—of course, it’s near here, isn’t it?” the younger Mrs. Finchley exclaimed. “I’d love to do that. It’s all so romantic!”

  “There isn’t very much to see at Flodden,” Ruth warned her. “I’m afraid it’s just a rather bleak moor, but if you have imagination, it might help you to see something of the struggle which took place there.” She paused, turning to include Valerie in the conversation. “I’d suggest the road from Coldstream to Kelso along the banks of the Tweed after that,” she went on. “It’s part of the glorious Scott country, and well worth a visit.”

  “I’d like to go to Jedburgh,” someone remarked from the edge of the group.

  “You can come back by Teviotdale,” Ruth told them, “and either branch off there for home or continue over Carter Barr to Otterburn. Otterburn is the longer way, of course, but a better road. In fact, it might be safer to choose that route.”

  “We’d better have it marked on the map,” George Finchley said, drawing out his road map, and Ruth leaned over the table with him and traced the route she had suggested.

  The remainder of the guests began to pile into the waiting cars, and the two Finchley children clamoured round their father, urging him to hurry before most of the day was gone.

  “Run and tell Mr. Travayne we are ready to start,” Valerie commanded Ernestine Wilton. “Tell him he’s holding up the procession!”

  Ruth, who knew that John Travayne was over in the North Meadow with Will Finberry examining a sick cow, felt the telltale colour mounting to her cheeks. She had asked Travayne to jo
in the party for Melrose earlier in the morning, and he had told her that he preferred to stay at the farm.

  “I don’t think Mr. Travayne is going to-day,” she said to the party in general, but she knew that Valerie Grenton’s antagonistic stare was upon her the moment she had spoken.

  “Oh, well,” Valerie said sharply, her face flushing with suppressed anger, “there’s no need to keep everyone waiting. Are we all ready?”

  Valerie would go with the party, Ruth knew, because she was angry and piqued by John Travayne’s desire to remain at Conningscliff.

  “We’ll have some lunch at Jedburgh,” George Finchley called back as the cars moved away. “We should be back in nice time for tea.”

  Ruth watched them go, Valerie Grenton’s big white car the last in the short line. As they passed the North Meadow, John Travayne and Will Finberry came to the hedge to wave to the children. There was spontaneous response from every car but the last. Valerie drove past looking fixedly ahead.

  After seeing the party off, Ruth found Peg Emery in the kitchen collecting the bowls for the morning’s baking.

  “That cow’s fair sick, Miss Ruth, hinny,” Peg said. “I’ve just been tellin’ the farmer here, we’ll be havin’ her laid up on our hands afore the day’s over.”

  “I hope not, Peg,” Ruth replied. “Have you started the butter yet?”

  “I’ve had no time, hinny,” Peg replied. “Breakfast was late, as you know, an’ that Sally Bingle, she’s never come in this morning, so I’ve had all the washin’ up to do myself.”

  Ruth smiled. She knew that the remark was a gentle reminder that she had wasted precious time gossiping to the guests before they left. She crossed to the table and took the baking utensils from Peg.

  “I’ll do the scones, Peg,” she said. “You get on with your butter.”

  “What about them Sally Lunns Mr. Travayne is so fond o’?” Peg asked.

  “I’ll try my hand at them, too,” Ruth laughed. “Let’s see, now.

  How does the recipe go? Half a pound of flour, one egg, half an ounce of yeast, some salt—”

  “Sugar—not salt!” corrected Peg, who was the Sally Lunn expert.

  “One ounce of butter and quarter of a pint of tepid milk!” Ruth finished triumphantly.

  “Well, there’s your flour in the bowl,” Peg said. “I’ve creamed the yeast an’ the sugar, an’ the butter’s melting in the milk on the hob. Can you manage?” she added doubtfully.

  “Perfectly!”

  Ruth brought her bowl over and sat down beside her father, beating the mixture on her knee.

  “Peg doesn’t believe that anyone who was trained at an Agricultural College, as I was, can do anything right. She insists that I’ve learned all my useful attributes since my return to Conningscliff!” She paused to grease three cake rings and put her dough into them. “Now these have to be left for an hour and a half to rise, then baked in a hot oven for twenty minutes. I’ll leave you to keep an eye on them, Dad.”

  She smiled as she returned to the table to sieve more flour. An hour passed as her busy hands went about a hundred and one tasks, but the Lunns were cooked and Ruth was glazing them with a mixture of castor-sugar and milk when John Travayne appeared at the kitchen doorway.

  She put the Sally Lunns back into the cooling oven to dry.

  “What about the cow?” she asked, as he came through and sat down beside the farmer.

  “She’ll do, I think,” he said. “Finberry is going to stay with her for a bit, and if need be he’ll bring her inside.”

  “It was kind of you to go down with Will,” Ruth said gratefully.

  “Nonsense!” he laughed. “Look at the practical experience of farming I’m getting!”

  He turned to her father and held a taper to the fire for the farmer to light his pipe. Until she called them for lunch Ruth heard the pleasant cadence of their voices in conversation, filling the kitchen and her heart with its pleasant sound.

  The table cleared and the last plates stacked in their place, she reached for her basket and prepared to collect the eggs from the hen-houses in the far enclosure. Will Finberry was with her father now, and they were deep in discussion about the sick cow.

  “Now, if I were on my feet,” the farmer was saying, “there’d be no sick cows, Finberry!”

  Ruth slipped out at the open door. Sometimes she could not bear to see her father sitting there, his body so useless, while his mind was still as alert and keen as ever.

  It took her half an hour to gather the eggs, and the basket was fairly heavy when she lifted it at last to return to the farm. She walked quickly along the lane and, rounding a bend, came upon John Travayne leaning over the low gate which led into one of the fields. He did not seem to see her for a moment: his eyes were gazing out across the field and the moorland beyond in sombre contemplation of Carbay Hall.

  Ruth laid her basket down on the grass and he turned immediately.

  “Finished for the day?” he asked.

  “Almost,” Ruth replied. “I’d forgotten about these eggs, though. Are the others back yet?”

  “Not yet.” He paused, looking down at her. “You’re working very hard.”

  Ruth looked into the field beyond the low gate. It had been opened up in the late autumn and prepared for a crop that had never been sown. She remembered the day before her father’s accident, when he had come stamping into the kitchen complaining because the big harrow had broken and he would be held up until the smith came from the village to put it right. The broken harrow was still in the field, lying uselessly on one side. It seemed to Ruth like a symbol of the farmer’s broken life. Her eyes dimmed a little as she looked at the rusty implement, and Travayne, seeing the expression in them, guessed her thoughts.

  He said slowly:

  “The local doctor has stopped visiting your father, I hear. I suppose that means he has done all he can for him?”

  Ruth nodded.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so ...”

  There was a long pause, and then Travayne turned towards

  her.

  “Ruth—I happen to know a man in London who specialises in such things. He’s a very clever surgeon and a great friend of mine. If you don’t consider it interfering on my part, I’d like this friend to see your father some time.”

  “Interfering!” Ruth’s eyes were alight with mingled hope and thankfulness. “Oh, if you would—if you really would ask your friend to examine him!”

  He drew her hand gently within his. “Don’t bank too much on it, Ruth,” he said. “All I can promise you is that it would be another opinion—one of the finest authorities on the subject in England.”

  A strange lump had risen in Ruth’s throat when she tried to thank him. He smiled down at her and lifted the basket of eggs.

  “Shall we go back?” he said.

  When they reached the farm there was a great stir in the paved yard. Three of the cars had returned from the trip to Melrose, but Valerie Grenton’s big white tourer was nowhere to be seen. The Finchleys were obviously disturbed.

  “I know we shouldn’t have let her go off alone like that,” Mrs. Finchley was saying, “even though she was rather awkward about it.”

  “Well, she was quite convinced she could find her way back,” Mrs. Wilton pointed out. “She strikes me as being extremely fond of her own way, and quite determined to get it. I think she would be a nicer young woman if she were thwarted more often!”

  “What’s the matter?” Ruth asked anxiously.

  George Finchley turned to her.

  “It’s Miss Grenton,” he explained. “We decided to take your advice and come round by Otterburn, but she insisted on leaving us at Jedburgh and taking the shorter way back.”

  The rest of the party were concerned, too, but some of their faces cleared when John Travayne stepped forward.

  “We must organise a search-party immediately,” he said, and turned to Finchley. “Can you let me have your car, if you feel too tired to come along?�
�� he asked.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Valerie Grenton folded her arms over the steering-wheel and glared through the windscreen at the bonnet of the offending car. She knew that it was more or less useless to get out and explore under that bonnet, for the engine of a car was new territory to Valerie. She had never strayed far from a main arterial road in all her driving life, and there had always been mechanics around when she had needed them.

  “What has h-happened?”

  Miss Amelia Strayte’s plain features were creased by a little frown of anxiety.

  “I don’t know,” Valerie said, “but whatever it is, there’s no earthly reason why it should have happened here!”

  Miss Strayte looked around her nervously. Yes, she admitted inwardly, it was a terrible and lonely place to be stranded—if indeed they were stranded! It was half an hour since they had passed through the last village, and the barren moorland stretched away before them as far as they could see, with the narrow ribbon of the road winding up and down until it was lost in the haze of distance. She looked through the windscreen at her companion.

  Valerie had got out and heaved up the bonnet and was poking about fruitlessly inside. She emerged at last, her gloves, which she had not thought to remove, stained with oil, her face flushed with her growing exasperation.

  “I can’t see a thing wrong!” she said. “Why it should have conked on that last hill, I’m darned if I know!” She looked about her. “Nice place to be stuck for the night, Amelia, isn’t it?” she observed.

  Miss Strayte gave a little involuntary shiver.

  “Surely,” she said, “there’s something we can do?”

  Valerie got up with an impatient shrug of her slim shoulders and took a couple of restless paces up and down the road.

  “There’s nothing we can do!” Her voice held a high- pitched note which brought a vague look of fear to her companion’s eyes. “We’re stuck here—stranded bung in the middle of no-man’s-land with no food and no shelter!”

  She looked round rather furtively at the hills, which seemed to be crowding in upon them in the waning light of late afternoon. There was still the trace of snow on them, lying like some mantle of white fur along the summits, but the beauty of it was lost to Valerie. Born and bred in London, her acquaintance with hills had been a passing one. She had motored in Switzerland and the Tyrol, but the noisy company in the big car had taken the edge off any feeling she might have experienced among such aweinspiring majesty. Here, however, it was different. They were alone. The giant hills seemed to take on the semblance of monsters crouching in the gathering gloom—waiting, waiting! How near one can be to fear without actually realising it. Valerie began to work like one possessed, and Miss Strayte watched her dumbly. At the end of an hour she had probably done more damage with her spanner than she was aware of.