“I bought a new pair of brogues,” she told him, as she cleared the plates from the table, for she knew that each scrap of news was garnered by the helpless man as something to cheer his day. “They’re to come up with the grain and the provisions.'’
“Did you see anyone you knew?” the farmer asked eagerly.
Ruth crossed to the sink and began to wash up.
“Just two of our guests,” she said slowly. “They were on their way south.”
“That Miss Grenton an’ Mr. Travayne, I suppose?” William Farday mused. “She didn’t give him much chance to refuse a lift.”
“She was going his way,” Ruth said, with a strange lumpiness at her throat. “It was only natural she should offer.”
“Aye—maybe! He’s not the sort for the likes o’ her, all the same,” the farmer reflected. “She’s had overmuch o’ her own way, I’m thinking. She’d be a better lass if she had a firmer hand
kept on the reins for her!”
“Her people seem to let her do pretty much as she likes,” Ruth said.
“She was telling me there’s only her father an’ herself in England,” the farmer went on. “Her mother lives in the south o’ France. A queer-like arrangement, I’d be thinking.”
“You’d never understand that type of marriage, Dad!” Ruth said, coming over to fill his pipe for him.
As she held the taper he looked up at her.
“I liked Travayne,” he remarked. “I’ll be missin’ his chat.”
“There will be others,” Ruth said huskily.
“I suppose so,” the farmer said, turning to the account book on the table which Will Finberry had laboriously constructed to fit across his knees. “We’ve a clear week,” he continued, referring to the book, “and then the summer visitors start. We’re booked up not so bad to the end o’ June, lass. You’ve done fine!”
“I’ve needed your help, too, Dad,” she said. “I could never have found time to do all that secretarial work and keep things running smoothly in the house as well!”
She turned away, going out at the open door to find Peg Emery busy in the dairy skimming cream into a great earthenware bowl.
“Peg,” she said, “if you feel that you would like a holiday, would you take a few days next week? We’re booked up after that to the end of June—and I hope before long to be booked for the rest of the summer.”
Peg considered.
“A holiday, hinny?” she repeated. “Well, I wouldna be much earin’ whether I got one or not, truthfully speakin’. I’ve never been one o’ these folks that set much store on gallivantin’ away miles from home just to say they’ve been somewheres! However, maybe I would take a day at my sister’s in Hexham. I hav’na seen her for more than five years. It’s a goodly way to Hexham!”
“Why not make it a week, then, Peg, while you are at it?” Ruth suggested. “It’s a holiday with pay, of course, and we’ll be up to our eyes in work as soon as you come back, you know.”
“I’ll consider it, hinny,” Peg replied, with a nod of her head in the direction of the house, “once this lot get away.”
“They are all going to-morrow,” Ruth said, as she went out through the byres where Will Finberry was busy laying fresh
straw.
The day wore on. There was still much to be done, and Ruth was thankful for the work which helped to keep her mind from dwelling too much on the events of the morning.
With an hour to spare before supper, she slipped on her tweed coat and, taking an old walking-stick of her father’s, set out for a brisk tramp along the cliffs. It was weeks since she had been able to indulge in this, her favourite, pastime, and though the evening was grey and cold and it would soon be wholly dark, she found herself enjoying the walk. She passed round the high stone wall which shut Carbay Hall from prying eyes and emerged on to the cliff road above the bay. The little semicircle of golden sand gleamed through the half light and she clambered down the narrow pathway and walked slowly along beside the margin of the water.
Everything was still. There was no wind and the tide seemed to move in stealthily in one leaden sheet, with no white-crested wave to break the greyness of it. A seagull, circling above her head, cried plaintively, like some lost soul in a barren waste. Ruth felt that the sea reflected her mood.
Yet the silence seemed to soothe her. Sitting down on a flat rock she went over in her mind the events of the past week which had led her to that confession in the Alnwick cafe.
Then, quite suddenly, an unfamiliar sound broke in upon her thoughts—a low humming sound that seemed to come straight out of the sea. It grew louder and Ruth looked up at the darkening sky, recognising the unmistakable sound of an aeroplane engine. She wondered about it for a moment and then, as the ’plane flew farther inland and the noise of the engine merged into the silence again, it passed from her thoughts.
It was almost dark now, and she got to her feet half reluctantly to climb back up the path to the cliff top. The dogs at the Hall barked noisily as she passed the great iron gates of the main entrance and turned into the lane which led to Conningscliff.
As she went quickly along between the shadowy hedgerows the sound of the aeroplane engine came to her again, and this time she could see the machine quite plainly. It had returned, flying much lower, and was circling round the vicinity of the Long Meadow at Conningscliff. For a moment Ruth wondered if the pilot was attempting to land, and even her scant knowledge of aeronautics told her that it would be a dangerous hazard.
Then, out of the dusk twin lights stabbed the night. Ruth recognised them instantly as the powerful headlights of a car. They were dipped and raised again twice and then extinguished. The darkness seemed to close down more completely after that.
Ruth stood still, waiting for she knew not what. The ’plane above her ceased to circle and flew off in a southwesterly direction, and she watched its navigation lights until they had disappeared into the gloom.
No very definite thoughts were in her mind as she turned away. It was a strange occurrence, but it held no significance at the moment. She had almost reached the farm when another sound made her turn and look back down the cinder track. A powerful car was being driven at considerable speed along the avenue of trees.
The long blue body of Edmund Hersheil’s sports car flashed past the end of the cinder track, but she could not see the man at the wheel.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“ARE you riding this morning?”
Victor Monset put the question more for something to say in greeting than with the hope that Edmund would agree to join him in his early morning recreation.
Hersheil seemed to bring his thoughts back from a considerable distance before he replied:
“No, I don’t think I have the time this morning.” Monset went out and wandered round the end of the house towards the stables, where he found a groom and asked him to saddle the mare he had ridden the day before. It was the horse the Squire had kept as his own particular mount before gout and rheumatism had curtailed his days in the saddle and put an end to his hunting life.
The artist swung carefully into the saddle and was about to ride off when Edmund Hersheil appeared through the side door and came across to him.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said rather abruptly. “I’ll go with you, if you can wait five minutes till I change. We can ride down through the village. I’ve a telegram that must go off this morning.”
“If you don’t want to turn out I’ll send the telegram off for you,” Monset offered.
Edmund avoided his direct look.
“There’s no need for that,” he said quickly. “I may as well have the exercise.”
The artist dismounted and chatted for ten minutes with the groom, who was saddling Edmund’s horse. When Hersheil appeared again, Monset noticed that he had dressed very carefully, more carefully than a short ride into the village of Carbay in order to dispatch a telegram demanded.
“We’ll go along the cliffs,’’ Edmund said, as
he mounted and watched Monset’s less expert climb into the saddle. “You’ll get confidence on a horse in time,” he continued, “and that old hack of my uncle’s is as safe as houses.”
“I prefer a steady horse,” the artist replied, eyeing Edmund’s restless steed with mistrust. “That brute looks as if he’d throw you as soon as look at you.”
Edmund laughed.
“He would!” he said, slapping the sleek, black neck, “but I like ’em that way. Women and horses need to know who’s master!”
Monset grinned sardonically. He had heard Edmund talk this way before—usually when he had had more to drink than was good for him.
The way was narrow on the cliff path, and they were forced to ride single file, much to Victor Monset’s relief. The artist in him responded to the beauty of the morning and the glorious panorama of sea and landscape spread out before them. Edmund Hersheil was an alien soul here. Monset watched the Squire’s heir riding before him, his shoulders hunched forward a little, his head bent in thought. This was the man who was to inherit Carbay Hall! The corners of the artist’s mouth curled downwards as he turned to look out over the grey-blue expanse of sea far beneath them.
They turned inland at last, riding down into the village and along its one main street to the little general store which was also the post office. There was a triangular piece of grass in the centre of the village and a monument in the shape of a roughly hewn Anglican cross was enclosed by a breast-high iron railing. It would have been easy for Edmund to tether his horse to the rail, but he dismounted and flung his reins to the artist.
“Keep him in hand,” he said. “I won’t be more than five minutes.”
Monset had the distinct impression that his presence in the post office would be anything but desirable.
Far from being an antiquarian, Monset, nevertheless, was interested in the many evidences of the making of Britain which he had stumbled across during his short sojourn in the northernmost county. He had discovered many traces of the passing of Saxon, Dane, and Norman in his extensive search for scenic beauty with which to occupy his brush, and he dismounted carefully and went over to the cross in the centre of what had been the old marketplace. The present cross was of comparatively recent structure, and he read the inscription on its base with deepening interest. It had been erected by the people of Carbay in memory of Isabel, wife of Alric Veycourt, who was “beloved and esteemed by all.” It was a simple, honest tribute to a woman who must have lived unselfishly. She had died ten years ago.
Monset turned away, thinking of the lonely old man at the Hall who had been this woman’s husband, and he wondered what the son was like whom the Squire had disinherited in favour of Edmund Hersheil.
Hersheil was coming towards him from the direction of the post office. Now that the mysterious telegram was safely on its way, Edmund was more inclined to be pleasant. He came up and leaned over the railings.
“A tribute to my late aunt,” he said, nodding towards the little monument. “Seems they thought a lot of her round these parts.”
“Seemingly.”
The artist turned towards the horses and unfastened his own mount.
“My uncle rarely speaks of her,” Edmund continued reflectively. “ In fact, I’d be tempted to wonder if he ever thinks of her at all, if it were not for the locked room up there at the Hall.”
Monset raised interrogatory eyebrows, although inwardly he was disinclined to listen to Edmund discussing his uncle.
“Oh yes!” Edmund gave a short, unpleasant laugh as he swung into the saddle. “He keeps the key turned in her sitting-room door. Savours of a Victorian romance, doesn't it? Not even the servants are permitted in that holy of holies!”
There was a touch of resentment in his tone which was not wholly hidden by the sarcasm. The curiosity which lay behind it sounded cheap to Monset. The locked room at Carbay Hall was another side of the Squire’s nature which the artist found it easy to understand.
“Your uncle seems to have been fortunate in his marriage,” he observed, “but unfortunate in his wife’s untimely death.”
“Yes. Carbay Hall needs a mistress,” Edmund said reflectively. “Perhaps I’ll see to that need one of these days!”
Monset looked up from his contemplation of his horse’s ears.
“You mean that you are thinking of marrying?” he asked.
“Up till a month ago it was the last thing I was thinking of doing,” Hersheil confessed. “Now—well, maybe I am thinking that way!”
“Does that mean you’ve found the right woman at last?" Monset asked, without much interest.
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I have!” Edmund laughed.
“Do I know the lady?”
“You’ve met her,” Edmund replied evasively.
Monset decided that he was not sufficiently interested to press the point further. He was aware of the other’s scrutiny as they rode under the four giant sycamores which guarded the entrance to the main street of the village.
“You’re not the marrying kind,” Edmund said, at last.
“Probably not,” the artist replied dryly.
The conversation languished a little as they drew away from the leafy canopy of trees and rode out on to the moors.
“Who was the lady who gave you the lift up to the farm last week?” Hersheil asked suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him following upon their conversation. “The woman in the white car?”
Monset continued to gaze straight ahead, a noncommittal smile playing round his firm mouth.
“You’ve met her,” he said, “but I don’t think you know her very well. Valerie Grenton is the name.
“Valerie Grenton!” Edmund’s grip tightened momentarily on the reins. “I had the beginnings of an affair with her less than a year ago!”
'“Valerie is impressionable,” Monset said, with a faint smile. “She has had several of these affairs which invariably amount to nothing. She is in the throes of one now, I believe.”
Edmund shot a quick glance at him.
“I could have sworn you were keen enough yourself at one time,” he said.
“I was,” the artist acknowledged frankly. “I still am.”
“Then—what are you doing about it?”
Monset smiled.
“Nothing—at the moment.”
“You mean you’ll sit back and watch the course of this present affair?”
“Until it peters out—yes!”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“They generally do, and I am confident that this one is no different from the rest.”
Hersheil spurred his horse forward to keep up with his companion.
“You’re a queer specimen, Monset,” he observed. “I don’t know why I’ve taken to you. We’ve got very little in common.”
“Absolutely nothing!” Monset agreed.
“Except, perhaps, a chronic need for money,” Edmund pointed
out.
“I’m not in the position to be able to get into debt very deeply,” the artist replied. “I’ve generally got to pay cash for all I receive.” He looked across at his companion and smiled. “That’s why I am so genuinely grateful to your uncle for extending his invitation to stay at the Hall.”
Edmund turned in his saddle.
“He’s asked you to stay on?” he said.
“For the time being—yes.”
“I see!” Edmund bit his lower lip thoughtfully. “I’m possibly going south—on business—before the end of the week,” he went on. “I had thought you might want to go back to town with me then.”
“London holds no attraction for me at the moment,” Monset replied easily.
“Just as you please,” Edmund said, in a strained tone.
“When do you leave?” Monset asked.
Edmund rode forward a few paces before he answered.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I may not—find it necessary to go when the time comes, after all.”
Probably the reply to the telegram Hersheil had just dispatched might settle that, Victor Monset thought.
They had come to the end of the natural avenue of trees which led to Conningscliff Farm, and Hersheil drew in his horse.
“I’ve some business here,” he said slowly. “Will you carry on to the Hall, and tell them I may be late for lunch?”
He did not invite Monset to accompany him to the farm, and the artist was quite content to be alone again. He turned the mare’s head in the direction of Carbay Hall.
“Oh—Monset!”
Edmund had turned in his saddle.
“Yes?” Monset asked.
“About that trip to London I spoke of just now,” Hersheil said, without meeting the other’s gaze. “There’s no need to mention it at the Hall. I—my uncle might think I’m careering about too much and—well, I might not go in any case.”
“There’s no need to be alarmed!” Monset grinned.
A look of relief spread over Edmund’s face as he turned towards Conningscliff.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ruth was in a decidedly unsettled mood. Conningscliff was empty—more empty than it had ever seemed before. She tried to convince herself that it was the natural reaction after the past few weeks of bustle and excitement, but self-deception did not come easily to her. She knew that she was missing John Travayne.
She glanced into the kitchen on her way across to the dairy. Her father was busy with the accounts he was taking such a pride in, and he was marking off the list of new guests for the coming week. Ruth tried to think with enthusiasm of the new people who would be gathered under the roof at Conningscliff, but try as she might, it was impossible to recapture all her first delighted anticipation. She was still enthusiastic about her job, still determined that Conningscliff should be the success she had dreamed of, and still sure that she could command that success by continued hard work and perseverance, but the contact with new people had lost its zest, somehow, since John Travayne had come and gone.
She tried not to think of him, and succeeded for an hour while she gave all her attention to her first churnful of butter.
So intent was she upon her task that she failed to notice the man who stood watching her at the open door. Edmund Hersheil had approached across the fields and through the stackyard, dismounting and tethering his horse to the gatepost. His footsteps had passed undetected above the noise of the churn, and when he moved forward and his shadow fell across the bench, Ruth turned with a start.
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