Victor wondered idly how much of the truth the Squire really knew, but thought that it was no affair of his, after all.
“Who is the new owner?” he asked, merely because there was little else he had to say on the subject.
“The offer has come through a firm of solicitors,” Veycourt replied. “Probably someone with plenty of money who fancies the place as a hobby and who will spoil the land for farming in a couple of years!”
“Perhaps the idea of the Guest House has attracted someone with an eye to business,” Monset suggested.
“If it has, all I can say is that he’s no business man!” The Squire’s reply was curt, and Victor realised that he must have stumbled on a sore spot. Before he could reply, however, there was a tap at the door and Edmund Hersheil made his appearance.
“Sorry to hear you’re not up to the mark, Uncle Alric,” he said, nodding off-handedly to the artist as he came across to the bed. “I’ve been over at Conningscliff this morning, but I would have stayed behind if I had known that you were not going to be able to get about.”
“There was no need for that,” Veycourt replied, “I’m not a chronic invalid.” He picked up the solicitor’s letter and tossed it across the coverlet to his nephew. “Talking of Conningscliff,” he said, “read that.”
Edmund took the letter and read it through. Watching him idly, Victor Monset noted the quick frown of annoyance which darkened his brow at the first few words. Edmund looked up from the typewritten page, and said:
“Isn’t this—rather sudden?”
The Squire was busy with the other letters which had come by the morning post, but he looked up to say:
“Not too sudden for me.”
“The price seems generous enough,” Edmund remarked.
“Yes. It’s more than I would have asked for the farm,” the Squire replied.
“So you quite definitely mean to sell?”
Edmund asked the question as if he still hoped there might be a doubt about it, even in the face of the offer which the letter contained.
“Yes, quite definitely.” The Squire turned back to his other correspondence. “I’m afraid you’ll have to find some other way of amusing yourself,” he added dryly.
Monset was amazed at the look which spread over the younger man’s face—mingled anger, resentment, and a third emotion which seemed to struggle between fear and bravado. Edmund flung the letter down on the bed and turned towards the door.
“Are you insinuating that I have some ulterior motive for wanting you to keep on Conningscliff?” he demanded.
“Not in the least!” the Squire assured him.
“It’s no affair of mine,” Edmund continued, “if some fool wants to pay you a fabulous price for part of your property.”
He had reached the door of the room and his fingers had closed over the handle to open it. Suddenly he halted. Once again his expression reflected his thoughts: sudden inspiration gleamed in his eyes to be followed by doubt, calculation, and, finally, determination. In two paces he was back at his uncle’s bedside. He lifted the solicitor’s letter again and glanced at the name of a second firm of legal practitioners which appeared half-way down the page.
“What’s the matter?” Veycourt asked.
A slow smile spread across Edmund’s features.
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing!”
Something in that smile caused the artist to close the stamp album he held and, after making his excuses to his host, follow Edmund from the room. They walked down the stairs in silence, each deep in his respective thoughts, but at the entrance to the gun-room Monset felt himself compelled by some force stronger than mere idle curiosity to ask:
“How far are you interested in Conningscliff, Hersheil?”
Edmund paused, looking at his companion as if he had just become aware of him for the first time. His reply, when it came, seemed half involuntary, as if the answer was as much for his own conviction as for Monset’s information.
“Even more, I believe, than I thought originally,” he said slowly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
AFTER that one happy day of her visit to Newcastle with John Travayne, Ruth tried to face the prospect of the future calmly. Since John had advised her not to ask any favour of the Squire, but to wait and see how things turned out, she had kept the knowledge of the proposed sale from every one at Conningscliff. It was no use worrying her father before the actual time came, she considered, but already plans were forming at the back of her mind to meet every emergency. She had her agricultural college training to fall back on; with a bit of luck a trained dairymaid could command a reasonable salary nowadays— enough for two to live on, if they lived carefully. Their small capital must not be taken into account, she vowed. That was to remain against the day when other advice might be sought for her father.
In her heart Ruth knew that she was disappointed that Travayne had made no further mention of his doctor friend, and yet she could not bring herself to believe that he had completely forgotten his promise.
She watched him as he sat with the farmer on this, the last day of his holiday at Conningscliff, and she felt that there was a definite bond between these two—something that went beyond mere liking and a desire for company to while away the long hours of a summer’s day.
She turned away and went on with her task of sorting out fresh linen. The first of a month was always her busiest time, and there were five new guests expected early the following morning. Ruth tried to concentrate on their needs, but her mind kept reverting to the fact that the advent of these new guests would coincide with John Travayne’s departure. He had told her that he would be leaving by the ten o’clock train from Carbay Junction.
There was still to-day! She tried to smile, but it was a tremulous smile, and when Travayne looked in at the kitchen door, dressed in an old pair of riding-breeches and an opennecked shirt with a big hay-fork in his hand, she kept her eyes bent on the pile of linen as long as she could.
“Not ready yet?” he asked. “Can’t you leave that job until the light has failed?”
She had promised Will Finberry to help him in the hay-field that afternoon, and Travayne had also offered his assistance. Some of the younger guests had also begged to be allowed to join in, and Ruth had arranged with Peg to bring their tea down to the field which ran half the length of the avenue. Will Finberry was working there now.
“Yes, I think it might wait,” she said, and picked up the silk handkerchief she wore over her hair when she worked among the hay. “Have the others gone down?”
“Young Merryweather and the two girls were heading that way when I saw them half an hour ago,” John said. “I thought I’d wait for you.” He paused, looking down at her. “I’m taking your father along to the field, Ruth,” he said. “We can wheel his chair down there quite easily.” William Farday had refused to go to the field at first, but Travayne had urged that his advice and instructions were absolutely necessary if they were to bring the hay harvest in satisfactorily.
“How far has Finberry cut?” he asked, as Ruth took the hayfork and Travayne wheeled the chair through the white gate and down the avenue.
John glanced over the hedge.
“He’s just about through,” he said.
It was a long, arduous afternoon, but one of the happiest Ruth had ever spent. The clean, sweet smell of the hay, the laughter of the amateur haymakers, and the smile of contentment on her father’s face as he watched John Travayne helping her to load the flat cart, implanted a joy in her heart that was never wholly to leave it even in the darkness of the days ahead.
At five o’clock Peg came down on the empty cart with the tea-basket, and they made a circle of hay cocks and gathered round to do justice to her home-made scones and fruit loaf.
The farmer went back to the house with Peg, and as Ruth watched Mrs. Emery wheeling him away, she smiled across at Travayne.
“He’s enjoyed himself to-day,” she said wistfully. “The crops still mean so
much to him.”
John was silent. His mind was busy with many things, questions and problems which Ruth could not have guessed at, even vaguely. Once he looked as if he would have made some sort of confession, and then his lips closed firmly again and he went on with his task.
At eight o’clock the Merryweather girls and their brothers declared that they had had enough of haymaking for one day and strolled back across the fields to the house, their faces reddened by the caress of the sun, their merry laughter ringing out in the still evening air. John worked steadily on to the end of the field, coming back to find Will Finberry and Ruth waiting for him beside the cart on which they had piled the remainder of the loose, dry hay. He tossed his fork on top.
“Do we ride home?” he asked.
“I feel that way!” Ruth confessed, tired but happy at the thought of all they had accomplished in a day.
He helped her up on to the hay, and Will Finberry led the horse across the field. When he had closed the gate behind them, John vaulted up beside Ruth and stretched out full length on the soft hay.
“This is a glorious life!” he declared.
“Not like—gathering tea?”
He smiled.
“Not in the least.” He rolled over and lay with his head pillowed on his arm, looking at her. “You’re so much part of this, Ruth,” he said. “Your very name is synonymous with harvesttime and golden grain.”
She had not suspected him of such thoughts, and she found herself wanting to know more of him in this mood.
“You should own a farm,” she told him. “In England, I mean.”
He turned over on his back again, closing his eyes against the shafts of sunset.
“There isn’t enough money to be made at farming here.”
The remark was light, almost flippant. To Ruth it did not ring true, somehow.
“Is money—everything?” she asked.
“It appears to be.”
She wondered what had made him so bitter of a sudden, and sat up to study the lean, tanned profile as he gazed into the cloudless sky. The silence between them deepened, but it was not fraught with any embarrassment. Ruth felt that she would have been content to let the jogging of the old cart carry her on indefinitely. At last, when they were approaching the house, Travayne said:
“Don’t think I have forgotten about your father, Ruth. It’s just that I wasn’t able to see Philip Kelwyn when I was in London.”
The rush of relief which flowed from Ruth’s heart was like a great tide carrying her forward on a surge of gratitude.
“I knew you wouldn’t forget,” she said. “Has your friend been away?”
“Yes. He’s in America at the moment, but I’ll see him just as soon as he gets back. Until then—” He turned over to face her again. “I can only ask you to have faith.”
It seemed that the words were intended to convey more to her than just that, Ruth thought. He had asked her to have patience for her father’s sake and to have faith in the promise he had made, but she felt that he meant her faith to embrace other things, too.
The duties of the house claimed her as soon as the cart rolled up to the kitchen door, and she did not see John alone again until he was ready to leave for the Junction the following morning. The young Merryweathers were leaving by the same train, and Will Finberry was to drive them all over in the trap. Ruth went out to the door to bid them good-bye. The others had piled into the trap and their luggage was being strapped on behind. John was standing by the mare’s head, caressing her soft nose.
“I’ll write as soon as I have any news for you about Kelwyn,” he said.
He took her hand in his and held it for a moment before he climbed up beside Will. The trap moved forward and an overwhelming sense of loneliness surged over Ruth like a giant wave. It was as if the whole world had turned its back on her. She felt that she could not bear to watch until the trap was a mere speck on the dusty road, and as she turned away, a sob caught in her throat.
Her father, too, seemed to be feeling John’s absence, and he spoke very little during the remainder of the morning, sitting in the porch at the front of the house and seeming disinclined to
make any new friendships among the other guests.
While she was still busy helping Peg with the washing up the sound of a car took her to the window. Valerie Grenton was driving slowly up the cinder track. Ruth handed her towel to Sally, who had been stacking the dried dishes on the dresser.
“Finish them off for me, Sally,” she said, “and then, if Mrs. Emery has nothing more for you to do, you can go home for the afternoon.”
The girl thanked her, and Ruth went out to meet Valerie.
“Hullo!” the newcomer greeted her quite pleasantly. “I was beginning to think you had all turned stone deaf around here!”
“I’m sorry,” Ruth said. “We heard the horn, but we were busy.”
“You’re always over the ears in work,” Valerie reflected, getting out of the driver’s seat and smoothing her neat linen suit. “Do you never take a holiday?”
“An odd day now and then,” Ruth told her.
Valerie came to the point of her visit almost immediately.
“I’ve been rash enough to promise Victor Monset to drive him to some Dene or other,” she explained. “He has been told that he’d find heaps to paint there.” She turned to look about her again. “I thought I might manage to persuade John to come along with us. It was John who told Victor about this seemingly marvellous place.”
“He would no doubt mean Quaker’s Dene,” Ruth replied. “It’s about five miles along the coast road, and quite easy to find.”
“Meaning that there’s no need to drag John with us to point out the way,” Valerie queried sharply.
Ruth smiled.
“I’m afraid that would be impossible in any case,” she said. “He left this morning.”
“Left?” Valerie echoed. “Good heavens! what a shabby trick! He never said a word about going. I thought he was going to be here for quite a while.”
“He has been here for a month,” Ruth reminded her.
“It doesn’t seem a month since I inflicted my presence on the Elvermeres!” Valerie gave a short laugh. “And I’ve promised to stay on here until they go back to London! Really, I’ll have to arrange a telegram calling me away most urgently!”
Ruth knew that Valerie must have been making a convenience of the Colonel and his daughters in order to stay in the vicinity of
Conningscliff while John remained there.
“I don’t suppose John left his address with you by any chance?” Valerie asked.
Ruth shook her head.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “He didn’t.”
Valerie got back into the car and pressed the starter. “Well,” she declared, “I may as well go and collect Victor. I suppose he’ll only hold me to my promise another day if I don’t!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE blue sports car sped along the road in the direction of Newcastle, and the driver sat forward in his seat as if his thoughts were wholly on his task. In reality, Edmund Hersheil was very much preoccupied. He had acted on impulse on many an occasion, but none of those previous impulses had been half as strong as the one which was taking him to Newcastle to-day.
When he reached the centre of the town he parked his car at a convenient garage and walked towards Grey Street. He went straight to the arched doorway in which he had seen John Travayne standing a week before, and hastily compared the name on the brass plate with one he carried in his mind. They were the same. He went up the winding flight of stairs and knocked on the outer door of the office before entering. His card was taken by a typist, and in a few minutes he found himself in the presence of the senior partner.
“Good morning,” he said. “I have called on behalf of my uncle, Mr. Alric Veycourt, of Carbay Hall.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Hersheil,” the solicitor replied, glancing at the card in his hand. “Will you take a seat?” He pass
ed over a box of cigars. “What can I do for you?”
Edmund leaned forward confidentially.
“It’s like this,” he said. “My uncle is inclined to be a little queer about some things—his age, no doubt! —and he’s suddenly decided that he would like to know the name of your client who has made the offer for the farm of ours called Conningscliff.”
“But the sale has just gone through, Mr. Hersheil,” the solicitor said. “I understood from your uncle’s legal advisers that everything was perfectly satisfactory.”
Edmund looked decidedly taken aback. Things had moved even more quickly than he had expected. He forced a laugh.
“Surely my uncle could not have heard of that before he sent
me here,” he said. “It seems rather like a fool’s errand now.”
“All the same,” the solicitor said, with a smile, “there’s really no need for secrecy. My client expressed the wish to purchase anonymously, but now that the deal is through, he is quite willing that I should divulge his name. It is Mr. John Travayne.”
Edmund had been prepared for that answer, but, even then, the confirmation of his suspicions sent the dark blood to his face. He rose from his chair and took his leave of the solicitor, his mind a vortex of conflicting thoughts and plans.
Not once during the long drive back to Carbay Hall did his thoughts stray from the information he had just heard. He probed round and round the subject, finding and rejecting reason after reason for Travayne’s action. What motive could he have for purchasing Conningscliff? The one idea which kept recurring to Edmund was that John had bought the farm to protect Ruth. He clenched his teeth at the suggestion. He was quite aware that Travayne admired Ruth, but the amount of money offered for Conningscliff pointed to something deeper than admiration.
Was there any other reason? Edmund turned the question over and over in his mind, and could not reject the possibility.
He drove recklessly, heedless of speed limits or crossing signs, and when he turned in between the stone gateposts of the Hall the blue car was covered in a film of grey dust. He left it on the flagged yard outside the stable buildings, with the instruction that it was to be washed and ready for him the following morning, and made his way into the house, realising that he had not paused to think of food since he had left the Hall that morning.
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