Return to Spring

by Jean S. MacLeod

  “And now,” the doctor said, when they had risen from the table, “I will have a look at your father.”

  For a moment it seemed as if her legs must refuse to carry her weight. Then a hand passed round her shoulder and the doctor’s voice said:

  “Don’t worry.”

  Ruth stood outside the closed door of her father’s bedroom for an hour, while the murmur of voices rose and fell within the room. What was going on in there? How long would he be? Did all this length of time mean that it was hopeless? What were they talking about? How much longer must this suspense last?

  Questions! Questions! Hammering in her brain in ceaseless repetition and likely to drive her mad before the door opened ...

  Peg Emery suggested once that she should wait in the garden.

  “I’ll call ye, Miss Ruth, as soon as the doctor appears.”

  “No, Peg—no!” Ruth would not be moved from the door. “I’ll wait here. He—can’t be long now.”

  It was another quarter of an hour, however, before the bedroom door opened and Philip Kelwyn came out. Ruth knew that she would bless him for ever afterwards for the way he smiled directly into her eyes. That smile was her answer. She sank down in a chair beside the kitchen table and waited for Kelwyn to speak.

  “How soon can you manage to bring your father to Newcastle,” he asked.

  “You mean that you can do something for him? He may— walk again?”

  “I hope so. I will do everything in my power,” he promised.

  She knew that he was appealing to her indirectly to pull herself together.

  “Tell me what you want me to do,” she said.

  He considered for a minute.

  “If it is at all possible, I’d like to perform the necessary operation during my stay in Newcastle,” he said. “If we leave it over, I know that I will be so tied up when I get back to London that it might be months before I could send for you. Then there would be the added—inconvenience of bringing your father to London.”

  Ruth knew that the matter of expense had been in his mind, too, and she thanked him inwardly for his thoughtfulness.

  “I can arrange anything you wish,” she told him.

  “That’s fine!” He smiled at her again, that grave, strangely encouraging smile. “I think I can arrange to have your father accepted in a good nursing-home almost immediately. My colleague, Doctor Blonheim, will assist me when I put the facts before him, I am sure. Your father is quite prepared to go at once. Will you have him ready to move at a moment’s notice from tomorrow onwards?”

  Ruth promised. She wanted to ask a thousand questions, but she was strangely tongue-tied now. The immediate tension over, she saw Philip Kelwyn as the great surgeon, not as the kindly man who had helped her through one of the supreme moments of her life. She followed him silently to his car. Long after the shining grey body had disappeared from sight she stood in the porch, her eyes on the far horizon, one prayer in her heart.

  Then, turning swiftly, she made her way to her father’s room. William Farday was sitting up in bed, his hands clasped over the book he had been reading when the doctor arrived.

  “I’ve got great faith in him, Ruth,” he said simply.

  She crossed to the bed and sat down by his side.

  “I wonder why we both feel that?” she said. “It must be a pointer to the result.”

  “Perhaps it’s because Travayne sent him.”

  “Yes.”

  The mention of John’s name had sent the colour to Ruth’s pale cheeks.

  “He didn’t send any word?” the farmer questioned.

  “No.”

  “I thought there might have been a letter. It’s not like him not to send word.”

  “He may be busy.”

  “Yes, maybe that. Perhaps we’ll run up against him in Newcastle. When did the doctor say he would be ready for me?” “In a day or two.” Ruth turned towards him eagerly. “We must be ready from to-morrow onwards,” she said. “Oh, I’m so glad—I’m so glad there’s a chance—!”

  He patted her hand encouragingly.

  “We’ll pull through together, lass,” he said. “We always have!”

  Two days passed, however, without further word, and Ruth, who had everything ready for the journey to Newcastle, began to feel that waiting was the worst type of mental suffering.

  It was a hazy August morning when a big hired car swung round from the avenue, through between the white gateposts, and up the cinder track to come to rest at the open door of the kitchen. The driver stepped out and handed Ruth a letter. She recognised the handwriting instantly, and tore the envelope open, her fingers trembling excitedly. It was from John Travayne.

  “DEAR RUTH,” he wrote, _

  “I was naturally pleased at Kelwyn’s verdict, and nobody will be more delighted than I will, if he can do something for your father. Philip has fixed everything up for you at the Renton

  Nursing Home in Parknor Crescent, and wants you and your father to travel today. I am sending this car for your greater convenience. Please accept the small service, for your father’s sake.

  “Yours very sincerely,

  JOHN TRAVAYNE.”

  Ruth felt strangely shaken as she prepared for the journey. The last sentence in John’s letter kept recurring to her again and again. “Please accept the small service, for your father’s sake!” It told her so plainly what he thought of her, her silly pride and stormy outbursts. How ashamed she was now!

  It was her father who was the stronger of the two on that long journey by road, and when she was forced to bid him good-bye at the end of the afternoon and make her way back to Conningscliff, she felt that she had made a very poor effort to cheer him. Only his own great confidence gave her heart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  For two days Alric Veycourt had been suffering acutely with his foot, and Victor Monset had decided to keep the truth of John Travayne’s identity to himself until a more opportune moment. Edmund Hersheil had gone about during those two days in a state of restless irritation almost equal to that of his uncle, but he did not make any reference to the loss of the wallet, nor did Monset trouble to notice his mood. Edmund spent a great deal of his time at nights wandering along the cliffs, and Victor found himself wondering, with a smile, if he were still searching for the photograph which lay in his own wallet upstairs.

  On the afternoon of the third day the Squire summoned Mead and Monset to his room.

  “I can’t lie here for ever,” he said testily. “Give me a hand to dress, Mead, and, Monset, you can help him get me downstairs.”

  His foot was not paining him so much, he admitted, when they had him dressed and sitting on the edge of the big bed, but they had to handle him gently, all the same, for he could not put any weight on it and a sudden knock would have been agony.

  Tea served at the library fire, with Monset supplying the pleasant small talk, put him definitely in a better humour. He sat back with his pipe when Mead had lifted the tray away and sighed contentedly.

  “How about the picture, Monset?” he asked. “How is it

  going?”

  “Fine, sir,” Victor replied. “I think you will find they are a nice pair when I have finished this one.”

  The Squire gazed into the fire reflectively.

  “I’ve always wanted one of the Hall as it is now,” he said. “The only other one we have is an old steel engraving in the dining-room. You’ll have noticed it, I dare say. It was done in my father’s time.” He sat watching the glowing co Is for a moment in silence, and Victor knew that his thoughts had slipped back down the years. “My father was a proud old man, Monset,” he continued. “He always reminded me of Gladstone—in looks and personality, too. He brought us all up to be proud of our birthright. Yes, he was a fine and clever man, although we thought him hard at times.” He paused again, a wistful look creeping into his expression, and then suddenly his mouth hardened again. “I wonder what he would say if he knew what a bad job I had made of br
inging up my own son!”

  Monset looked up quickly. This was not the first time Alric Veycourt had spoken of that exiled son of his, but the reference was more significant to Victor now.

  “You’re still—prejudiced?” he asked slowly.

  “Do you call it that?”

  The Squire was looking at him directly now, and Monset met his eyes and read the truth in them. The man was pining for his son, but years of hardness and bitter feeling were difficult to crush.

  “If you thought your son had any desire to come back— would that make a difference?” he questioned.

  “I don’t think there’s any need to consider that possibility,” Alric Veycourt said heavily. “Eight years! He’s had opportunity enough in eight years—”

  “But suppose,” Monset insisted, “he did?”

  The Squire was silent for many minutes.

  “Maybe it would make a difference,” he replied at last. Victor Monset put his hand into his breast-pocket. He was ridiculously nervous, he admitted to himself. Now that the time had come he wondered if he had been wise to take so much upon himself.

  “I have something here,” he began, “which I believe belongs to you, sir.”

  He held out both photograph and certificate. Alric Veycourt’s hands began to tremble as he turned them over. “My son!” he said

  at last, and then, glancing up

  sharply, he demanded: “How did they come to be in your possession?”

  “They were found on the cliff path above the bay.” This much and no more Monset had made up his mind to explain. Alric Veycourt did not question him further, but his lips tightened and his brows drew together as he came to his own conclusions.

  “Thank you, Monset,” he said. “You have done me a very great service.”

  The artist rose and stood leaning against the mantelpiece.

  “If I were to tell you that I believe your son to be in England at this moment, would you consider that a further service?” he asked.

  Alric Veycourt looked up, and his eyes were as eager as a child’s.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because I believe he has been staying across at that Guest House at Conningscliff for more than a month, earlier in the summer— under the name of John Travayne.” “Isobel’s name! How like the boy! He was always proud as

  Lucifer!”

  The Squire seemed to have forgotten his companion. He was gazing into the fire again and memory had wrapped her cloak around him. When he stirred at last, he appeared years younger to Monset’s watching eyes.

  “Monset—if what you say is true—it’s more than I deserve!” Then a shadow crossed his face and he laid a hand on the artist’s sleeve. “Where is he now?” he asked anxiously. “He hasn’t gone abroad again?”

  “I don’t know,” Victor was forced to admit, “but I think we might find out if we inquired at Conningscliff.”

  “That’s the place Farday started, isn’t it?” the Squire asked. “Are they still there?”

  “I believe so,” Victor replied. “Ruth Farday runs the Guest House. Her father is still an invalid, you know.”

  Alric Veycourt looked up sharply.

  “I understood my nephew to say weeks ago that the man was well on the road to recovery,” he said.

  “If being able to sit outside in a bath-chair can be called recovery,” Monset replied.

  The Squire sat in silence for several minutes.

  “If I had known,” he said at last, “there would have been no question of selling the place. I had no idea the girl was struggling on alone.”

  “Edmund—” Monset began.

  “T-ch! Don’t talk to me of Edmund!” the Squire broke in testily. “I have had enough of his lying. Send for this girl from Conningscliff immediately. Tell her I want to see her on a matter of the most urgent importance. Mead can take the message over. You can stay here and talk to me of—my son.”

  C H A P T E R T H I R T Y

  “The butler from the Hall is here to see you, Miss Ruth,” Peg said. “He’s got some sort of message for you which he says he wants to deliver to you, personal like.”

  “For me?” Ruth asked. “I wonder what it can be? Perhaps— about the farm. Can you carry on with the supper things for a minute or two?”

  “Everything’s ready to serve. We’re waiting for one or two o’ these young ones coming in from the village,” Peg said, and Ruth hurried through to the hall.

  Mead was waiting there, cap in hand.

  “Miss Farday?” he inquired.

  “Yes,” Ruth acknowledged. “Mrs. Emery says you have a message for me.”

  “A request from the Squire,” he said. “He would deem it a great favour if you would come over to the Hall as soon as you can find time to spare. He asked me to point out to you that it was a matter of great importance, and that, had he been able, he would have called upon you himself.”

  Ruth’s forehead puckered in a frown.

  “I really can’t see what the Squire can have to say to me,” she said. “We—I can’t think of any matter of great importance that we might have to discuss—now.”

  “I can assure you, Miss Farday, it must be of quite genuine importance—to the Squire, at least. He was most anxious that you should oblige him, and I know that he would have come himself had he been able to walk even a few yards,” Mead explained.

  Ruth considered.

  “You’ve no idea what he wants?” she asked.

  “None whatever,” Mead replied.

  Ruth made a decision which, she told herself afterwards, was against her better judgment.

  “I’ll come,” she said, glancing at the clock. “It’s too late tonight, but I will walk over to-morrow morning.”

  “Thank you,” Mead said, and bowed himself out.

  Ruth went through the remainder of that evening with mixed feelings. She had blamed the Squire for much that had happened in the past, and she could not imagine what he could possibly want with her now. She had been tempted to refuse to make the journey to the Hall, and once or twice before ten o’clock the following morning she was on the point of sending Will Finberry across the dunes with a message to say that she was sorry she couldn’t keep the appointment after all. At the last minute, however, she made up her mind to go and find out what it was exactly that the Squire wanted.

  She passed up the tree-lined drive to Carbay Hall with a queer feeling of self-consciousness. She had never been to the Hall before.

  Mead opened the great door in response to her ring and ushered her directly into the Squire’s presence.

  It was the first time Ruth had seen Alric Veycourt, and she found herself thinking that he looked very much as she had imagined him. Alert grey eyes swept over her appraisingly as he indicated a chair near his own.

  “Sit down, won’t you, Miss Farday,” he invited. “I’m afraid I can’t get up to offer you a chair, but I have been suffering rather badly from gout lately and it is an effort to move.” He looked down at the swollen foot resting on the small brocaded foot stool before him. “Old age has many drawbacks!” he remarked, with a smile that Ruth thought transfigured his rather stern face.

  She took the proffered chair and turned to face him.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, Miss Farday,” he said, and then came to the point with characteristic straightforwardness. “First of all, I want you to know that Conningscliff would never have been sold over your head if I had had any hint of the truth.”

  “About my father, do you mean?” Ruth asked rather stiffly.

  “Yes. I don’t get about very much.” He nodded again towards the useless foot. “I have to depend upon other people for my information about what is going on outside. If I had known about your father before the sale of the farm went through, I would not have parted with Conningscliff even at the tempting price I was offered.”

  Ruth’s fingers tightened their grip on the arm of her chair.

  “I—understood th
at Conningscliff went very cheaply.”

  “On the contrary,” Alric Veycourt told her, “it was the easiest and most satisfactory deal I ever made. I trust the new owner will allow you to continue your Guest House.”

  “I think he will.”

  Ruth was conscious of speaking with an effort. The news the Squire had just imparted was a great shock, but it was a shock which sent the blood flooding into her cheeks and a sense of shame to her heart. She might have known that John Travayne would not have done anything as underhand as Edmund Hersheil had insinuated—she might have believed in John! She could see everything so plainly now, but she did not wholly blame the Squire’s nephew. Her own faith and trust in Travayne had been a poor mockery of her love when she had been ready to believe the first accusation brought against him. How easily she had permitted pride to weight the balance on the wrong side!

  “Mr. Travayne has agreed to let us stay at Conningscliff for the present,” she said at last.

  “Travayne! Travayne, did you say?”

  Alric Veycourt leaned forward in his seat as if, in his excitement, he would rise, but a stab of pain from his foot sent him back among the cushions again.

  “Oh!” Ruth cried. “Is there anything the matter?”

  The Squire’s, mouth relaxed in a smile.

  “Only,” he said, “that I believe you are talking about my son!”

  Ruth had risen to her feet and was bending over his chair, but at the last revelation she drew back, gazing at him dumbly as if she could not bring herself to believe what she had just heard.

  “You say the boy bought the place?” Alric Veycourt continued. There was a dry chuckle in his voice, and he went on without waiting for her reply. “That was just like him! Like any Veycourt worthy of his salt! He was always a determined young devil, and he wanted Conningscliff right from the start. Now he owns the place!” The Squire laughed again. “Bought it right under my very nose, the young scoundrel!”