“It did,” he replied unashamedly, “but I am a comparatively poor man, Ruth. I can tell you I would wish it otherwise—for more than one reason!”
They had reached the gate of the Long Meadow, and Ruth was surprised to see a stranger in Hersheil’s car. Edmund, however, passed on up the lane with her, with nothing more than the curtest nod of recognition to the man in his car.
“You’ll stay on if he asks you, I suppose?” He put the question abruptly.
“What makes you think he might want me to stay on?” she asked.
“I told you before that I consider him a very shrewd business man. He sees a paying concern, has money to invest, visualises the expansion of the place and seizes his chance! You’ve heard the saying that money makes money, and to some people it’s everything. They do not stop to consider the—finer points. This man will make money out of Conningscliff—more money than you or I could ever have hoped to make!”
Ruth paused.
“Do you know the new owner?” she asked doubtfully.
Edmund laughed. “You know him a great deal better than I do, Ruth.”
“I know him?”
“Oh yes,” he told her, “you know him well. Your friend and confidant, John Travayne, is the new owner of Conningscliff.”
“I don’t believe it! I—it isn’t true!”
Ruth put her hand to her throat as if the constricting band that seemed to encircle it could be torn away.
“I’m afraid it is only too true, my dear Ruth. Your confidence has been badly misplaced this time,” Hersheil said.
She could not think clearly: thoughts would not come to her then, but she drew herself up instinctively as she said:
“I can’t believe that John would do anything so—so shabby.”
With this defence of Travayne she moved away, leaving Hersheil to return to his car and the stranger who awaited him.
For two hours, while she supervised the last of the Sunday afternoon tea, Ruth tried to vindicate John’s action in her own mind. Trying to tell herself, over and over again, that Edmund was capable of lying to suit himself, she knew that she was being gradually forced to admit that his statements had carried the stamp of truth. But John—John Travayne of all people! And to have bought at a price as low as she could have afforded! No, she could not believe that he had played her such a shabby trick. It was not in him to do such a thing!
She pulled herself up at the thought, pride stifling love in her heart for the moment. He had gone without a word, she reminded herself. Perhaps because he knew what he was going to Newcastle to do! “To some people money is everything!” Edmund Hersheil’s words seemed to blow across the barren stretches of her heart like a devastating wind, and they found an echo in the memory of the conversation on the rumbling haywain. “Is money everything?” she had asked John, and he had replied that it would appear so! He had made money in the East, and he sought to make more here. Perhaps it was natural enough, only— only she had confided in him her desire to own Conningscliff. He had known how much it meant to her ... He had advised her not to go to Alric Veycourt. He had done that, knowing that he meant to buy the place ...
Through the greater part of the light summer night she tossed restlessly from side to side on her narrow bed, unable to woo sleep for the ceaseless procession of thoughts which filed through her tired brain. When the dawn came she rose, pale and heavyeyed, to face the new day which was to hold so much.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
AT ANY other time the host of duties that piled themselves up for a Monday morning would have been tackled in the bright spirit with which Ruth approached most tasks, but to-day her mind had not been on her work from the start. For the first time since the doctor had proclaimed him well enough to sit in his chair, William Farday had expressed the desire to remain in bed that morning. The news had come to Ruth as an added shock, and when she hurried through to her father’s room, the anxiety in her heart made her imagine a change in him which, she told herself, she had been too busy with her own affairs to see until now.
“Stop for an hour, hinny, and sit down for a bite o’ something to eat,” Peg Emery implored at midday when the table had been set for lunch. “Ye cannot go on like this, lass, without a break o’ some sort.”
Ruth obeyed listlessly. She ate most of the food Peg placed before her without any desire for it, and when she had satisfied the sharp-eyed Mrs. Emery, she made her way to the dairy, where she stood for two hours grading the eggs which had been collected over the week-end.
It was here that John Travayne found her when he walked up from the village at three o’clock.
He spoke her name quietly, and because her eyes were misted by the difficult tears of a sudden despair, she did not turn immediately.
“Ruth,” he said again, and she turned and saw him standing in the doorway with the shafts of the afternoon sunshine behind him.
Because sometimes a heart is hardened by the very force of its own emotion, she said:
“Why have you come?”
Her tone was more hostile than she realised, because she knew that he had seen the tears gathering in her eyes.
“I told you I’d come back, Ruth,” he said. “This was a promise!”
He smiled down at her. Confident, Ruth thought, and hated herself instantly. Yet something was forcing her to probe for the
truth.
“Have you bought Conningscliff?” she demanded bluntly.
He gave her a searching glance and then said quite frankly:
“Yes. That was one of the main reasons for my visit today— to tell you I had bought the farm.”
An obscuring mist seemed to drop on Ruth at his words, wiping out everything. All that seemed real was the despairing thoughts within her. It’s true, she thought, all that Edmund Hersheil said is true!
“Ruth!” Travayne came across the stone flags and caught her hand. “What’s the matter?”
The contact steadied her. She saw him again, but she told herself that she saw him for the first time—saw him with the veil of romantic stupidity torn from her eyes—as he was, apart from her silly dreams!
“It was scarcely necessary to come all this way just to tell me that,” she heard herself saying. “You could have sent our notice through your solicitors.”
Travayne said patiently enough:
“There’s no question of notice, Ruth. I want you and your father to remain here.”
“We can’t do that”—quickly.
“Why not?”
“I can’t accept—charity.”
She threw the word at him with a vehemence that even amazed herself. Travayne drew back.
“I was hardly contemplating a charitable offer,” he said slowly. “I mean to continue the Guest House.”
Ruth did not reply. She could not. Suppressed emotion was threatening to choke her and she turned to the door as if to escape, but John was there before her.
“Ruth,” he said, and his tone was abrupt because he thought the situation demanded it. “Will you marry me?” Ruth stood as if she had been turned to stone. Then, her heart warring with her head, plunged her into confusion, and out of the depths of the melee an injured pride emerged. She forced herself to look at the man who had just made her a proposal of marriage so strange and unorthodox that the voice within her urged her to see it for what it was. She laughed a little, shaky laugh that was tinged with derision.
“Is this another business proposition?” she asked, and then anger flamed up in her. “What more do you want?” she cried.
“You have the farm now, and the Guest House you saw as a paying concern. That you went behind my back to get it is neither here nor there, but I hardly expected that you would want me to remain as hostess to assure the success of your new venture!”
Travayne was staring at her, amazed at her outburst. At last he said:
“Ruth, you’ve been upset by something. Sit down for a moment.”
“Do you expect me to protest that I have not be
en upset by— by your treason?” she demanded wildly. “I tell you I hate you, I never want to see you again!”
A dull flush spread over Travayne’s tanned cheek. It may have been anger—a flash of that old spirit which had driven him from the Hall in a moment of passion in his extreme youth.
“I’m sorry if I have offended you,” he said stiffly. “My intentions were entirely different than you imagine. However, since I don’t seem able to convince you of that fact, there is nothing more to be said.”
As she continued to stand mutely defiant, he turned on his heel and walked out into the sunshine.
For another hour she graded eggs blindly, unconscious of the fact that she was going over the task which had occupied her before John’s unheralded approach. It was the realisation that some of her guests were making their way back to the house from their afternoon walk that brought her face to face with the fact that it was tea-time, and that she had left Peg to cope with the meal herself.
Peg, however, was not annoyed. She had imagined Ruth resting in the garden and had not had the heart to disturb her. When Ruth entered the kitchen she found her father in his chair by the window strangely elated in comparison with his mood of the morning.
“Ruth,” he said, as soon as she had closed the door behind her, “what do you think of the news?”
“What news?”
“That Travayne has bought the place,” Farday replied. “I had no idea it was for sale. Had you?”
“Yes, I had heard,” Ruth admitted, feeling that the sale of Conningscliff alone was not responsible for the gleam in her father’s eyes. “Has—John been in to see you?” she asked.
William Farday patted the seat beside him.
“Come over and sit down a minute, lass,” he invited. “There’s
a lot to discuss between thee and me.’'
Ruth drew her chair up beside him and sat down with her back to the window.
“Yes?” she prompted.
“Ruth—Travayne’s one of the best!” the farmer began, and was momentarily surprised at the restless movement his daughter made at the remark. “ I know you think that, too,” he continued, with quiet emphasis, “and you’ll appreciate to the full all he’s doing for us. He came here to-day to tell me that a friend of his— some great doctor in London—is coming to Newcastle to perform a big operation, and Travayne wants him to see me at the same time. ” The farmer’s words, urgent with hope, fell into the silence of the room as Ruth continued to sit motionless. The crackle of the fire rose in her ears like the roar of a furnace against the stillness, yet she did not move.
“He thinks there may be just a chance—his friend may be able to do something for me.”
There was almost entreaty in her father’s voice, as if he begged her to add her hope to his own. To walk again! She could hear his spirit shout it. To walk—to get back to the land once more! And John Travayne had held out this hope to him.
“When did John—make this offer?” she asked unsteadily. “Less than half an hour ago.” Farday was eager to tell her every word that had transpired at that short interview. “ I wanted him to stay to have some tea, but he said he had to catch the five o’clock ’bus from the village and wouldn’t wait. He said he had seen you before he came in.”
“Yes—he saw me!”
The confession was almost a cry. The fact that John had made this offer to her father after her impassioned outburst rose before her accusingly. He had offered her father the chance to live again. Her heart felt as if it had turned over in her breast. What if she had spoiled that chance! If John Travayne had been small and petty he might not have made his offer after the scene in the dairy. At that moment she wanted to rush to him and beg his forgiveness, but she knew that it was too late now. She had had her say, and how paltry he must think her!
“He’s doing all he can for us, Ruth,” her father was saying. “He won’t let us leave here—says it’s our home, one way or the other, but if this fellow does manage to patch me up, Travayne says he’ll be as good a landlord as the Squire. He means me to farm Conningscliff again, if I get better.”
If I get better! It was a cry from the soul of the man. Ruth stumbled to her feet and bent over his chair, smoothing the iron-grey hair.
“Of course you’ll get better,” she said huskily. “We’ll do everything—everything!”
Then, because she could bear no more, she turned and went swiftly from the room and the house, seeking the quiet of the lonely cliff face, where she had fought out so many battles in the past.
The sea was calm and unruffled, and she sat down on the very edge of the cliff, gazing over at the great columns of rock which sank down into the green waters below. It was dark down there, and full of shadows, with the eerie cry of the gulls and the low note of the oyster-catcher rising into the still air like ghost voices. To-night, however, the familiar scene held no peace for her tired spirit. Even the cliffs seemed hostile as they towered around her, and the sea-birds screamed away from her as they flew out across the water. For the first time in her life she found no peace in solitude, for her thoughts and emotions were too conflicting and self-accusing to permit of any tranquillity of mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Edmund Hersheil tightened the rein and pulled his horse’s head back almost savagely.
“Keep still, you restless brute!” he muttered, as he dug his heels into the soft flank. “It’s high time I took it into my head to teach you a lesson!”
The Firebrand’s ears were laid flat against his shapely head, and the sensitive nostrils began to quiver. Far from being a bad horse originally, its temper had been broken years ago by unsympathetic handling, but Edmund flattered himself that he could deal with any horse, and was ever ready to boast that the more vicious a beast proved itself the greater pleasure he derived from curbing its temper. He had ridden the Firebrand fairly constantly since he had come to Carbay Hall, and although the head groom had told him repeatedly that there comes a time when every “killer” horse gets the upper hand of its rider, he had laughed the idea to scorn.
To-day, however, he admitted that the animal was more than usually difficult to handle. It plunged and reared, turning in its tracks and wheeling round like some mad thing, the determination
to unseat its rider plain in the little bloodshot eyes.
As far as horses were concerned, Edmund’s pluck had to be admired. If the Firebrand was determined, he was equally determined. He stuck to his seat while the animal sent the soft sand of the cliff path flying from its dancing hooves. For fully ten minutes the struggle between man and horse continued, and then with a final desperate effort the Firebrand plunged forward and threw himself up on his hind legs in an almost instantaneous movement.
Hersheil went back, and for a moment it looked as if the horse had succeeded in unseating him. The Firebrand took to his heels, sure of victory now, and flew along the uneven path. Rider and horse were as one as Edmund clung to the animal’s back, striving to regain his seat, and by sheer tenacity of purpose he won.
With a vicious shriek of rage the Firebrand flew on, but he knew himself conquered, and by the time the first roofs of Carbay village had appeared above the dunes, Edmund had reduced the frenzied race to a gallop. He was almost as flecked with foam as the panting horse, but there was a gleam of fiendish satisfaction in his eyes and his teeth were bared in a conqueror’s smile.
Meanwhile, back on the cliff road, a big white car was making its way slowly across the dunes. Valerie Grenton sat at the wheel gazing absently along the deserted track while her companion looked nervously at the small margin of tufty grass which divided them from the drop over the cliffs.
“It’s senseless to be so nervy, Amelia,” Valerie said. “You’ve driven with me long enough now to know that I’m perfectly safe as long as I keep my eye on the road!” She gave a little rippling laugh. “Even Victor Monset drives with me now without keeping one hand on the door, ready to jump out!”
Miss Strayt
e smiled half-heartedly.
“I suppose it’s safe enough,” she replied doubtfully, “but it seems a long drop—if anything went wrong with the car, I mean.”
“How diplomatic of you, Strayty!” Valerie laughed. “All the same, I know you mean if I lost my head or something! However, I wouldn’t worry, if I were you. There’s absolutely nothing to lose one’s head about round here.”
“Are you going to accept the Colonel’s invitation to stay another week?” Miss Strayte asked.
Valerie hesitated.
“I don’t know, Amelia,” she said thoughtfully. “That all depends.”
“On ...?” Miss Strayte asked, without much enthusiasm.
“Oh—lots of things!”—airily. “But there! I’m wasting your time and mine if I attempt to explain. You wouldn’t understand!”
“I might try to,” Miss Strayte offered helpfully.
Valerie slowed the car until they were travelling at little more than walking pace. Her expression was more serious now.
“Amelia,” she said, “how much can one change?”
“Change?” Miss Strayte echoed. “In what way?”
“In every way! In the way you look at life—in ideals and— well, in character, I suppose I mean. Right deep down inside, Amelia!”
Miss Strayte looked slightly taken aback. Then, because she had lived in intimate connection with the girl for so long and knew her, perhaps, better than anyone else, light began to break upon Amelia Strayte. She thought, romantically, that she had known all along that when real love came to Valerie it would have just such an effect. Amelia cast round in her mind for the probable author of the change, and guessed rightly that the man was Victor Monset. Almost in spite of herself, Valerie had been won over.
“Of course one can change,” she hastened to assure the girl by her side. “Very quickly, too—in certain circumstances.”
“And the ‘certain circumstances’?” Valerie probed.
“Well—” For a moment Miss Strayte hesitated, at a loss for the correct words. “Well—suppose you were to fall in love with the right person. I would say that might make a considerable difference.”
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