Return to Spring

by Jean S. MacLeod

  Gradually a rather desperate silence had fallen between those women, so utterly divided in nature and position, yet bound together by their unfortunate plight. Valerie was cold and not a little hungry for the first time in her life, but the sick feeling within her was not solely from want of food. She was afraid— mortally afraid of the leering hills and the fleeting shadows of dusk which crept down upon the moor, bringing a dank white mist with them. The approaching darkness had intimidated her; she had ceased to rage and storm about Northumberland in general and Conningscliff in particular. Her lips were trembling a little, and this spoiled darling of society was beginning to wonder why she had been born.

  A star pricked out in the greying sky and seemed to rest for a moment on the hill-top just above them. Valerie watched it, oblivious to its beauty. The handkerchief in her hands was being torn to ribbons.

  “Amelia,” she said at last, “it’s damn stupid of you not to smoke!” She lit her fifth cigarette from the end of the last one, her fingers trembling as she strove to hold the ends together. “It keeps your nerves from fraying altogether.”

  “I don’t think it would do me much good,” poor Miss Strayte said. “I’m sure it would only make me sick.” She lapsed into silence. Valerie turned to her at last, as if she could bear the silence between them no longer.

  “Why don’t you say something, Amelia? Why don’t you even ask why I was so cussed when they told me not to come this way?” She puffed a cloud of smoke against the windscreen, watching it curl round and upwards. “Why did I come? Huh! Because I wanted to get back and spy! Because I wanted to see what John Travayne was doing in my absence—if he was running around after the farmer’s daughter! What did it matter, anyway! What does anything matter? Why should I care a toss for a man who prefers the company of a sick cow?” She laughed aloud. “Huh! That’s good, Amelia! Playing second fiddle to a cow! What would all her elegant friends say if they heard that about Valerie Grenton?”

  “You’re excited. All strung up. You know you haven’t been very well.’

  “I’ve never felt better in my life!” Valerie flung the remains of her half-smoked cigarette into the road. “How far can you walk, Amelia?” she demanded.

  “A mile or two,” Miss Strayte said hesitatingly. “It depends how far it is to the nearest house.

  “Suppose there isn’t a house?”

  The proposition seemed to unnerve Valerie again and she felt for her cigarette-case once more. Then, far across the moor, twin lights rose out of the haze and came steadily, purposefully, towards them. They both saw them in the same instant.

  “Oh,” Amelia Strayte gasped, “help at last!”

  Valerie did not reply. She was trembling from head to foot and her eyes closed suddenly. She relaxed against the cushions of the disabled car and gave vent to a storm of hysterical weeping.

  Amelia Strayte sat looking helplessly at her. She had seen Valerie in an excess of temper before, but never quite like this. The oncoming car was almost upon them now. Desperately Miss Strayte tried to pull her companion round.

  “We must stop this car and ask for assistance, you know.”

  Valerie raised her head.

  “Heavens knows who they might be,” she said childishly. “Bandits probably—!”

  Her eyes were unnaturally bright, straining through the gloom towards the car which was pulling up beside them. She could not see beyond the yellow circle of the headlights, and she waited, every muscle tensed, for the occupants to alight. Amelia Strayte was visibly agitated, and when John Travayne stepped into the circle of yellow light she stumbled out of the car towards him with thankfulness in every line of her face. Before she could speak, however, Valerie was past her and, with a little hysterical cry, had flung her arms round Travayne.

  “Oh—oh!” Valerie gasped. “You’ve saved us! You’ve saved our lives!'

  Travayne looked quickly from one to the other and then back at the stranded car, and he seemed to take in the situation at a glance. He had a hysterical woman on his hands, and his experience with hysterical people in the past had known only one remedy. He unclasped Valerie’s clinging fingers and, taking her firmly by the shoulders, shook her forcibly.

  As if a cloak had fallen from her, the wild sobbing subsided, her lips ceased to tremble and she was herself again, a little bit resentful, wholly relieved.

  “Pull yourself together,” Travayne commanded, not unkindly. “You’re all right now.”

  George Finchley had come from his car with a brandy flask in his hand, and he held some out to Valerie and Miss Strayte in turn. Amelia, who was cold and fatigued, drank liberally.

  “I’ll have a look at your car,” John offered, striding off towards the stranded tourer to see if he could locate the source of the trouble.

  He found it easily, and was back with the others in less than ten minutes.

  “What was the trouble?” Finchley asked.

  “A choked jet,” he explained. “We can drive her back now, I should imagine. There’s nothing else wrong, as far as I can see.” Valerie, who had recovered some of her former selfpossession by now, crossed to the white tourer. She opened the door and got into the driver’s seat.

  “Do you think you should attempt to drive back?” George Finchley said kindly. “Perhaps you’d be better coming along with me and Mr. Travayne can bring your car.”

  Valerie moved along the seat and said to John, with a little pitiful gesture of entreaty:

  “Please drive back for me. I think Mr. Finchley is right, I’m too shaken to take control of the wheel.”

  The two men exchanged glances.

  “Don’t think me a dreadful nuisance!” Valerie implored. “I feel that I simply can’t drive. It was all rather a shock ...”

  Travayne got in without a word and switched on the engine. “Amelia can ride back with Mr. Finchley,” Valerie said, but George Finchley was already helping Miss Strayte into the back seat of the repaired tourer.

  “Miss Strayte will be quite comfortable there,” he said firmly. He turned to Travayne. “ I’ll back my car to that bay we passed just along the road. I can turn there, and I’ll speed ahead to the farm with the good news.”

  “Thanks!” Travayne said. “I wish you would.”

  Ruth was standing anxiously in the porch when the first car drove up the cinder track to the farm. When she saw that it only contained George Finchley her heart contracted with a strange fear. Finchley, however, assured her immediately.

  “Everything’s all right,” he called out before he had brought the car to a standstill. “They’re following on behind.”

  The other guests were crowding into the porch, anxious to know what had happened, and as George Finchley began to explain, the second car swung round the corner and drove up the cinder track.

  Travayne, from his seat at the wheel of Valerie Grenton’s car, saw the crowd in the porch. He turned to his silent companion.

  “You’ve caused quite a stir,” he said, conscious, as he spoke, of a strange tension in the atmosphere.

  Suddenly Valerie moved along the seat and relaxed against him.

  “Oh!” she said, “I don’t want a fuss! Don’t let them make a fuss, will you, John?”

  Travayne had brought the car to a standstill and eager hands opened the door. Amid the babble of voices he was aware of Ruth standing there, a little apart and silent, her deep, grave eyes upon him. He moved Valerie’s head gently but firmly from his shoulder and got out.

  Ruth came forward then, slowly, as if she was not quite sure whether she would be needed or not.

  “Is Miss Grenton ill?” she asked.

  “No. Just shaken up a bit.”

  If John Travayne’s tone was curt it was because he was annoyed with Valerie, but Ruth, keenly sensitive, saw in it anxiety and perhaps a measure of reproof because it had been her suggestion that the party could return by the shorter route which Valerie had chosen. She turned away, hurt by his manner, and led the way into the dining-room, whe
re a meal had been prepared and set out near the blazing log fire. Miss Strayte, drowsy with the effects of the brandy and the warmth, settled down in a chair before the fire. Valerie, however, elected to go up to her room, and Ruth prepared a tray and carried it up there.

  Miss Grenton had changed into a pink negligee and was reclining on the bed, staring rather absently at the ceiling.

  “You’ll feel better when you’ve had something to eat,” Ruth said kindly. “I’m sorry you had all that trouble. I should have warned you not to attempt to come that way without the other cars.”

  Valerie, whose one idea had been to get back to Conningscliff to discover what Travayne found to do there when the others were away, smiled up at her.

  “I know you warned us, and it must be a great satisfaction to you to be able to say, ‘I told you so! ’ ”

  Ruth flushed. It was hard not to be able to reply, but, after all, Valerie Grenton was a guest under her roof, and perhaps it was just the effect of her adventure that made her speak like this. She ignored the taunt in Valerie’s words.

  “Well,” she said, “I’m glad you’re back safely now.”

  “Thanks to John!”

  “Yes,” Ruth said, turning to re-arrange the tray. “ It was good of him to volunteer. We were all so anxious.”

  John was so kind,” Valerie mused, as if to herself. “Perhaps the

  accident to the car wasn’t such an unfortunate occurrence after

  all!”

  There was a wealth of meaning in the well-thought-out words

  which Ruth was not slow to detect. She turned towards the door.

  “If there’s anything else you require, Miss Grenton, perhaps you will ring?”

  Her voice had a flat note in it which she could not conceal, and, as she went slowly down to the kitchen, there was a heavy feeling at her heart. Perhaps it was only natural that John Travayne should be attracted by Valerie.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Good morning!”

  Squire Veycourt looked over the edge of his newspaper at the speaker.

  “Ah! it’s you, Monset,” he said, as the artist helped himself to bacon and grilled kidney at the long sideboard. “Been out early this morning?”

  Monset set his plate down on the table and seated himself.

  “Yes. I took your advice and had one of the horses harnessed for me. I quite enjoyed the ride.”

  “The beasts need exercising,” the Squire said. “They don’t get half enough. Did you find any further subjects for your brush?”

  He had never felt any interest in Edmund’s friends before, he confessed inwardly, even as he asked the question. Somehow, though, this fellow was different.

  “Quite a few,” Monset admitted, with his quaint one-sided smile. “Enough to keep me here long after I should be gone!”

  Alric Veycourt laid down his paper and bent forward across the table.

  “You’re welcome to stay here just as long as you like, my dear fellow,” he told the other man. “I’m glad to have you.”

  The invitation was straightforward and sincere. Monset met it with a truthfulness characteristic of him, a truthfulness which had gained him friends and made him enemies.

  “I’ll be glad to stay,” he said. “I’m on my beam ends at the moment, but I’ve found subject-matter around here that I feel I can make something of, so I’ll accept your hospitality—and thank you!”

  The Squire’s lips twitched under the clipped grey moustache, and there was almost a twinkle in his eyes. Yes, dash it! he liked the fellow!

  He watched Victor Monset making a hearty breakfast, and something about the artist’s bent dark head made him think of his son. He had thought of that son with increasing persistency of late, and it was becoming much harder to remember the anger of those bygone days and the grievous disappointment which he had suffered at the lad’s hands. Half imaginary that disappointment, he had acknowledged in a recent moment of enlightenment, and with each passing day he began to see that he had made one of the greatest mistakes of his life when he had let the boy go in anger. He was his own flesh and blood ...

  Yet, confound it! the young cub had defied him! Wanted to be a farmer, indeed! Alric Veycourt wondered where his son’s farming tendencies had led him. There were worse things than farming, maybe. Idleness, for instance. He thought of his nephew and frowned.

  Monset rose and offered the Squire his cigarette-case as Edmund made his first appearance of the day.

  “ ’Morning!” the Squire’s nephew said none too brightly, as he approached the sideboard and lifted the lid of one of the silver entree dishes. “What is there apart from cooling bacon and kidney?”

  “Cold coffee and rolls!” his uncle informed him acidly. “Breakfast is served here at eight-thirty.”

  The corners of Monset’s mouth went down as he moved out into the hall. He had no desire to be a witness of one of the frequent scenes between uncle and nephew.

  In the morning-room Edmund was helping himself to coffee with a bad grace. He would have liked to answer that last remark of his uncle’s, but there was too much at stake at present to risk an open quarrel or even an argument. When he had disposed of several rolls and two cups of coffee, he lit a cigarette and turned to the Squire.

  “Have you a minute or two to spare this morning, sir?” he asked in a deferential tone that did not quite ring true. “There are one or two things I’d like to discuss with you.”

  The Squire had risen to his feet and was leaning heavily on his stick. He turned back towards the table.

  “To say to me?” he questioned. “Well, let’s hear what they are.”

  He expected a request for money, he reflected, as he waited for Edmund to come to the point, but he wasn’t going to bowl the boy out before he actually asked for it. Edmund took a deep breath.

  “If you remember, we were discussing the prospect of my finding a job the other night,” he began, and was gratified by the

  immediate look of interest which spread over his uncle’s face.

  “Yes, I believe you mentioned something of the kind,” the Squire said cautiously. “Have you anything in mind?”

  Edmund blew a series of smoke rings ceilingwards before he replied.

  “As a matter of fact, I have.”

  “Well?”

  “It’s like this,” Edmund went on. “I’ve a feeling that I’d like to find something to do near the Hall—I’ve become quite attached to the old place recently, you know!”

  The Squire raised his eyebrows, but he made no comment. His nephew continued: “People are going in for all kinds of unusual jobs nowadays, and there’s been a venture started near here that, with expansion, might prove a paying proposition.”

  “Before you go any further, Edmund,” the Squire interrupted evenly, “I think you’d better know that I’m not in a position— financially—to put up a great deal of money for your—er— venture at present.”

  Edmund waved his cigarette in a gesture of confidence.

  “That’s just the attractive part of this scheme of mine,” he explained. “There’s no demand for any great capital. It’s more or less a going concern now.”

  “What exactly is this gold-mine of yours?”

  “Conningscliff Guest House.”

  “Guest House?” he echoed. “Oh—the farm!”

  “Exactly!” Edmund came over to seat himself on the edge of the heavy table. “You’ll remember that you gave the Fardays permission to run it as a holiday Guest House?”

  “I remember some such idea,” Veycourt admitted. “Hollow and Gilling dealt with the matter, though. Everything was done through the two solicitors, and I must confess I took very little interest in the matter. I believe in conducting all such business through my solicitors.”

  “Well,” Edmund said, rising to crush the end of his cigarette in the ash-tray, “that’s my idea. The place is being run at a profit already, I believe, and with a few extra inducements to the right type of guest, it could yiel
d a much more substantial one.”

  “You mean—the original idea could be enlarged—improved upon?”

  “Yes—under the right management!” Edmund agreed.

  The Squire rose to his feet.

  “I take it,” he said, in a measured tone, “that you propose to be that new management?”

  “Exactly!”

  Edmund’s smile held satisfaction and a certain amount of relief.

  “What about the Fardays?”

  The question was abrupt—almost a demand. Edmund, however, was ready for it.

  “I’ve thought all that out,” he said. “Of course, they’d remain where they are. The—women folk are running the place admirably as it is, but you’ll admit that a concern like that needs a man around. Since the farmer’s accident there’s been nobody to see to things but a half-witted yokel called Finberry.”

  “Do you suggest that one of my tenants should pay you a wage to manage a boarding-house?”

  Edmund shrugged impatiently at the question.

  “If you don’t mean to take me seriously—” he began.

  “I am trying to do just that,” the Squire replied, “but I must confess it is most difficult. You don’t intend to—farm the land, I suppose?”

  There was a strange note in the older man’s voice as he asked the last question, but Edmund had little time to notice the intonations of his uncle’s voice.

  “Not to any great extent,” he replied. “May I put forward my original idea?”