Return to Spring

by Jean S. MacLeod

  “You might find Bamburgh interesting,” she said, as Travayne sauntered in from the garden to join the group. “It’s a lovely little place on the coast. There’s a castle, and you’ll find Grace Darling’s grave in the churchyard there. The road from Belford is quite a good one for motoring.”

  Her suggestion was accepted eagerly enough and the group melted away, the ladies in search of coats and the men to bring round the cars. Ruth found herself alone with Travayne.

  “Is tourist-guide still part of your job?” he smiled.

  “Yes,” Ruth confessed, “but I quite enjoy that part. There are really so many interesting places round here that it seems a shame that my—our guests should miss anything worthwhile.”

  Travayne picked out the pronoun.

  “Our guests? Then it’s true that you have taken a partner?”

  Ruth smiled wistfully and shook her head.

  “I’m afraid Conningscliff wasn’t paying well enough to consider a partnership yet,” she said. “The Guest House belongs to the Squire now. His nephew is managing it.”

  “Hersheil—?” Travayne gave a short laugh. “What exactly is your position, then?” he asked, in the old, blunt manner Ruth remembered so well.

  “Hostess. I believe that’s what Mr. Hersheil called it when it was settled that I should stay.”

  Travayne’s lips were compressed into a firm line.

  “I know I deserve to be told that it’s no affair of mine,” he said, “but—did he offer you enough for the idea?”

  “Enough?”

  “Yes—compensation for clearing out and leaving him to walk in on a good-going concern. Goodwill, if you like to call it that.”

  “Our lease was up,” Ruth said slowly, “and—I found it compensation enough to have my father provided for.”

  Travayne was silent.

  “I see,” he said at last, and did not open the subject again, because he had seen pain and disappointment in a woman’s wide,

  dark eyes.

  “I'm taking a turn across the fields,” he told her, with one of his slow smiles. “I suppose two o’clock is an unheard-of hour for a busy hostess to take time for a walk?”

  Ruth shook her head ruefully.

  “I’d love to come,” she said, “but I have a hundred-and-one things to attend to, and there’s the eggs to grade and the village orders to put up. I generally try to find time to deliver them before tea.”

  “I’ll help with the grading—if you’ll trust me!” he offered, as he swung off down the lane.

  Ruth watched him go until his tall figure had disappeared from view on the winding, dipping road which led across the dunes. He was so friendly, and he had made it obvious, once more, that he desired her company. She could not believe that it was his way with women; long ago she had felt that a flirtation, no matter how mild, was the last thing to expect of John Travayne. Yet, Valerie Grenton was staying somewhere in the vicinity, and Ruth felt sure that nothing but Travayne’s presence at Conningscliff would have induced Valerie to spend another holiday in Northumberland.

  She turned back into the house and walked slowly through to the kitchen to find it deserted.

  There was a list of groceries to make out before she went to the village, and she sat down at the kitchen table to write. Fruit and sugar—and more tea, she decided, biting on the end of her pencil reflectively, and then the sound of a motor-horn broke in upon her thoughts, faintly at first and then nearer and more persistently, as if an impatient hand were pressed down on the electric horn of the unseen car. Surely none of the guests could have returned already, Ruth thought, as she rose and crossed to the window to look out.

  Her father was stirring restlessly in his chair and Pete, the old collie, had roused himself from his slumbers and was ambling down the yard, grunting in the back of his throat at this sudden interruption to a pleasant afternoon’s siesta. Ruth saw Will Finberry half-way down the cinder track approaching the white gate at its far end with what must have seemed maddening deliberation to the occupant of the big cream car on the other side. She recognised Valerie Grenton even before she heard the familiar voice demanding to know who had closed the gate.

  Will Finberry opened the gate and the big tourer swept up the cinder track and came to rest on the flags of the yard. Ruth had crossed to the kitchen door and stood waiting with an odd, constricted feeling at her heart.

  “Hullo!” Valerie greeted her, with easy familiarity. “You see, I’ve not been able to keep away, even though you wouldn’t give me a room!”

  “I’m afraid it was a case of there being no room to offer,” Ruth said. “We were full up for June when your letter came.”

  “So John got his application in before me!” Valerie mused, rubbing an immaculately gloved hand along the steering-wheel. “Or—did he?” She looked back at Ruth, open challenge in her wide eyes.

  “If you mean did I get Mr. Travayne’s letter before your own,” Ruth replied, “I did. I gave him the only available room.”

  “Strange—this luck of Travayne’s!” Valerie laughed. “Where is he, by the way?”

  “He left to go for a walk along the cliffs not more than half an hour ago.”

  “What a nuisance!” Valerie complained peevishly. “I’m sick of driving round in this heat!”

  “Can I make you a cup of tea?” Ruth offered, seeing that her father had stirred uneasily again at the continued sound of voices.

  “No, thank you. Don’t bother. I’ll drive around for half an hour, but I promised to get back to Denestep for tea. I’m staying with some friends there—the Elvermeres. Do you know them?”

  “Not personally,” Ruth said.

  Valerie pressed the starter and the engine roared into life, bringing the farmer back to consciousness with a start. Miss Grenton acknowledged him perfunctorily, and the car moved slowly forward.

  “Who’s she calling for?” William Farday asked, when the dust had settled down on the cinder track.

  “Mr. Travayne.”

  Ruth knew that her voice was shaking a little, and she turned with relief as Peg Emery came round the end of the dairy buildings with the second collection of eggs.

  “They’re to clean an’ grade yet, Miss Ruth,” Peg said. “Them new Leghorns are laying fourteen to the dozen!”

  Ruth smiled.

  “All right, Peg,” she said, “you sit down and have a rest. I’ll see to the eggs when I’ve made the afternoon tea. There will only be ourselves and—perhaps Mr. Travayne.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  When Ruth crossed to the dairy an hour later she was fully convinced that John Travayne must have met Valerie Grenton on his way back to Conningscliff. She began to clean the eggs automatically, determined that she would not let herself think of these two out on the road which wound across the dunes.

  “Am I too late?”

  Travayne’s voice broke in upon the silence as she was packing the first order into the straw-filled basket.

  “No. Come in!”

  She turned to him quickly, an eager light in her eyes.

  “I walked along the cliffs and came back by that avenue of trees down there,” Travayne said, nodding towards the cinder track and the white gate which lay open as Valerie had left it. “Quite a circular tour!”

  “Did you meet Miss Grenton?”

  He looked puzzled for a moment.

  “The last time I met the lady was quite by chance one night in London. I had been to a show and she was there with a noisy crowd of youngsters. We met coming out.”

  “She called here this afternoon to see you.”

  “To see me?” he echoed. “What about?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you might have been—expecting her to call.”

  He smiled, looking down directly into her eyes.

  “I had no idea she was even in the neighbourhood,” he said, and dismissed the subject as if it were of no great importance. “Must we deliver these eggs right away?” he asked.

  “I mu
st!”

  He lifted the heavy basket and turned to the door.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  “The village, sir!” she said with a laugh. “I promise you won’t have to walk all the way, though.”

  Will Finberry had harnessed the mare to the trap, and Travayne packed the two heavy baskets into the back seat. Will climbed up in front, and Ruth sat behind with her guest.

  The journey was a pleasant one, and Ruth’s heart was light again as she sat upright in the little swaying vehicle and looked out at the smiling countryside. The village lay inland, and the road across the moors was like a switchback. At the head of the last rise Will Finberry drew the mare to a standstill.

  “Will ye be takin’ the widow Charlton’s eggs down to the cottage the now?” he asked, bending back in his seat to speak to Ruth without turning round.

  Ruth looked across at Travayne.

  “Would you care to walk back to Conningscliff?” she asked. “It’s only three miles by the moor path, and after I’ve done my shopping in the village, we could leave Will to take the trap home.”

  “A good idea,” he agreed. “Suppose I deliver Mrs. Charlton’s eggs for you and meet you here on the way back?”

  Ruth looked surprised. He had sounded almost eager to obtain the mission of delivering the eggs to the cottage in the hollow beneath them.

  “I thought you might have liked to see our village,” she said. “But perhaps you’ve been down before and were disappointed?”

  “I’ve been before,” he replied, “and I was not disappointed.” He smiled at her suddenly. “I thought my idea would save time, since we are going to walk back to Conningscliff.”

  “It would—really,” Ruth said thoughtfully. “If you would like to take the eggs—and this.” She produced a small basket and something rolled up in a clean white towel. “It’s some butter and a few scones,” she explained hurriedly. “Old Mrs. Charlton is almost blind.”

  Travayne got down and accepted the basket.

  “I’ll smoke a pipe by the stile yonder until you get back,” he said.

  He had been almost anxious to avoid revisiting the village, Ruth mused, as she watched the mare’s bobbing head over Will Finberry’s shoulder. Perhaps small, out-of-the-way hamlets bored him. He was always eager to seek the solitude of the moors. Well, if that was his way ...

  The smile was still playing round her lips as she left her order for Will to collect and made her way back up the steep road towards the stile. She knew that Will had a visit to pay to an old crony, one Geordie Armstrong, the proprietor of the “Swan and Ladder” which faced the Veycourt memorial cross in the square, and Will had a habit of lingering in Geordie’s company for some considerable time when the ale was good and the chaff better.

  Travayne was sitting on the stile with his pipe between his teeth, and she waved to him as she came over the breast of the hill. It was warm and she was hot and flushed when she reached his perch.

  “Sit down until you get your breath back,” he commanded with a smile. “You’ve been hurrying up that hill.”

  “Guilty!” Ruth confessed. “I thought I took longer over my errands than I had promised.”

  “And I stayed longer at the widow’s cottage.”

  “She’s a fine old woman, isn’t she?” Ruth said. “She’s been here a long time. I hate to think of her living all alone there and nearly blind, too. Really, she should go into the village and board with someone.”

  “I doubt if she would be happy away from the cottage. She seems to cling to it,” he said.

  “Yes. It was through the kindness of the Squire’s wife that the cottage was given to her. Mrs. Veycourt was seemingly a very gracious lady, and there are numerous instances of her kindness to be found in and around the village.”

  “Her memory is very precious to Widow Charlton,” Travayne said quietly.

  “I’d feel much better about Mrs. Charlton if she had someone to live with her, all the same,” Ruth said. “She always seems so alone to me.”

  “She wasn’t alone to-day,” Travayne said almost absently. “There was a woman called Harrup with her.”

  Ruth frowned.

  “I wonder what Martha Harrup was doing down there,” she said. “It won’t be out of pity or a desire to help, I’m afraid.” “Probably out of curiosity!”

  “Well, whatever it is, I’d sooner Mrs. Charlton had anyone than Martha,” Ruth declared.

  Travayne rose to help her over the stile and they set off to walk across the moors.

  “So would I,” he acknowledged.

  It was easy to walk in silence beside John Travayne, Ruth thought, as the rough moorland path slipped away behind them and they breasted the rise which led on to the narrow cliff road. A gust of wind met them, sweeping in from the sea with the tang of salt heavy on it and the sting of the cold North Sea in its breath. Travayne breathed it in deeply.

  “It’s good for a man!” he said appreciatively.

  “After years abroad?” Ruth questioned.

  “At any time!”

  His eyes were on the far horizon, as if the vast blue distance and the expanse of water between had power to cut him off completely from his immediate surroundings. That far-away look cut her out, too, but she was not angry. She knew that this preoccupation of his was not intended to hurt her in any way. It came upon him unbidden. She had noticed it before now.

  They were almost at the lane which led past the Long Meadow when Ruth saw Valerie Grenton’s car drawn up beside the hedge. Valerie was talking to two men, and instantly Ruth recognised Edmund Hersheil and his artist friend. It was impossible to avoid a meeting; there was only this way back to Conningscliff.

  “Miss Grenton and our friend, Mr. Hersheil,” Travayne said. “Must we stop?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Ruth saw Valerie Grenton flush as she caught sight of them approaching, and she was aware, too, of Edmund’s angry stare when they drew level and stopped. Almost reluctantly Hersheil presented the artist.

  “Mr. Monset—Miss Farday. You’ve met before, I believe.”

  To Ruth this second meeting with the artist brought back the scene on the day of her father’s accident most vividly. She turned to John Travayne.

  “Mr. Travayne, this is Mr. Hersheil, our new manager at Conningscliff,” she managed, in the silence which followed the first introduction.

  Edmund did not attempt to offer Travayne his hand, and Ruth noticed that John had kept his thrust deep in his trouser-pocket.

  “A merry company!” Valerie Grenton laughed, as she met the amused smile in the artist’s eyes. “Can I give you a lift back to the Hall, Victor?”

  She had pointedly ignored Travayne—so pointedly as to appear merely childish. Valerie was very much a child at heart. Petulant, impulsive, and easily swayed, she allowed her emotions to run riot and did not seem to care where the flood-tide of them might carry her.

  Hersheil’s annoyance was more suave, and perhaps it was more a power to be reckoned with for that very reason. He accepted Valerie’s offer of a lift back to the Hall, and bade Ruth and Travayne a too-polite good-afternoon.

  “How long has Hersheil been at the Hall?” John asked.

  “Several years, I think,” Ruth told him. “A year or two after the real heir left.”

  Travayne did not speak again until he greeted her father in the ingle by the kitchen fire.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The next two days found Ruth with very little time to spare. Several new guests had arrived during the weekend, and the first few days of a new month were always busy ones in the house until the guests had settled in comfortably and had begun to find their own way about the farm. They were a mixed company: people who had replied to Ruth’s original advertisements, and the others the result of Edmund Hersheil’s more recent efforts in the London papers.

  The latter gave Ruth most trouble. They were constantly in need of attention of some kind, and ready to express their dissatisfaction in n
o uncertain terms if things did not run quite smoothly. They kept late hours at night and slept far into the morning, demanding, rather than asking, to have their breakfasts served in their rooms.

  All this was extra work for Ruth, and Peg Emery was quick to notice the tired expression in her young mistress’s eyes.

  “Ye canna go on like this for long, hinny,” she warned her. “Up in the mornin’ before six an’ not back in your bed until midnight an’ all that work in between! It’s overmuch for one human being!”

  “I’m young, Peg!” Ruth would reply, although she often felt much older than her twenty-four years with all the burden of responsibility that fate had thrust upon her young shoulders.

  John Travayne was not blind to these facts either. He saw Ruth’s struggle and admired her the more for her smiling acceptance of it and the way she strove to remain cheerful.

  Ruth was conscious of John Travayne always in the background, and, somehow, his presence gave her a certain strength. He was less trouble than any other guest, and the hours he spent with her father, sitting yarning and smoking their pipes together, were a great comfort to her.

  On the afternoon of the third day she found herself with an hour to spare. Most of the guests had gone for a run across the Border into Scotland, and the others would not be back before tea. Peg Emery had promised to attend to the second collection of eggs, and Sally had been given an hour off to go to the village. Ruth crossed to the kitchen window. John and her father were deep in a friendly argument, and she smiled to herself as she caught up a walking-stick and went out by the front door so that she might not interrupt them.

  The collie was sunning himself in the porch. Since the sale of their few sheep he had been enjoying a well-earned retirement.

  “Coming, Pete?” Ruth invited.

  The dog leaped up instantly and followed her eagerly. Ruth chose the lane across the moors and up on to the sand-dunes, passing Carbay Hall and coming at last on to the high cliffs above the little sandy bay which had been her favourite rendezvous in the past. This was her first visit to the bay since the erection of the new bathing huts. They had been Edmund Hersheil’s idea of an improvement, but Ruth was thoroughly convinced that the beauty of her retreat would be marred.