Return to Spring

by Jean S. MacLeod

  “Are you trying to tell me that—that John Travayne is your son?” Ruth asked huskily.

  “I’m pretty sure of it,” Veycourt declared. “That is why I sent for you.”

  “How can I help?”

  Ruth was still not quite sure that this was not a dream from which she must wake at any moment.

  “I thought you could help me to find him—and bring him back here to Carbay Hall where he belongs,” the Squire said. “So many things that Monset tells me, convince me that my son has been staying under your roof at Conningscliff—has bought the place, in fact!”

  Ruth sat back in her seat, her fingers suddenly relaxing their hold on the arms of the chair. The Squire’s son! John was the real heir to Carbay Hall. She could not believe it at first, and yet many things she had noticed during his visits to the Guest House appeared now as confirmation of the truth of Alric Veycourt’s statement: John’s unexplained familiarity with the district right from that first visit to Windmill Hill at Easter; the many occasions on which she had found him in idle contemplation of the distant Hall; his disinclination to mix with the Carbay villagers—a dozen pointers to the truth the Squire was telling her now!

  “But—he called himself Travayne,” she objected.

  “No doubt he changed his name when he went abroad,” the old man told her, with a slight catch in his voice. “He must have preferred to take his mother’s name.” He leaned forward in his chair again. “And now, Miss Farday, I believe you can tell me where I can find my son.”

  “I can’t—I’m sorry.”

  The confession left Ruth’s lips automatically. She was almost too dazed to think.

  “But I understood from Monset that he stayed at your Guest House for some considerable time?”

  “Yes—he did,” Ruth acknowledged, “but he left without giving me his address. I have no idea where he is now.”

  Words were being forced from between her dry lips, and a feeling of utter futility possessed her, as she realised that it was through her own stupidity that there was no definite way of tracing John Travayne—John Veycourt! Strange how difficult it was to think of him as that!

  She could not think of him as the Squire’s heir somehow, and yet it seemed that it was true enough. Then thoughts of Conningscliff and her father brought with them the memory of all John had done for them and that last note of his. There had not been an address on the single sheet of notepaper, but it proved that John had been in Newcastle the morning before. Then there was Philip Kelwyn! Her brain was beginning to clear at last. Kelwyn would know where to find John.

  “I think I may be able to help you,” she told Alric Veycourt. “Mr. Travayne—your son introduced us to a friend of his—a

  London surgeon—who is to perform an operation on my father sometime during the next few days. He may know your son’s present address.”

  Glancing at the little clock which had been ticking those important minutes away, she rose to her feet.

  “I’m going to Newcastle this afternoon to see my father,” she said. “I will do all I can to get you the address.”

  Veycourt had been studying her closely during that last nervous little speech, and he held out his hand to her.

  “My dear,” he said, “I can only thank you, at present.”

  Before she could restrain the impulse, Ruth had bent over and kissed his thin cheek.

  “I will do my best,” she promised.

  Out in the drive once more, with the wind from the sea fanning her hot cheeks, she felt that she could think more clearly. The news of John’s real identity had left a vague pain deep down in her heart which she could not bring herself to name, but it seemed that the news had set up another barrier between them. She tried to tell herself that she should be glad for his sake, and be glad, too, that it might yet lie in her power to trace him and effect the reconciliation the Squire desired so much. She did not doubt that John must desire it, too.

  Quite naturally from this thought came thoughts of Edmund Hersheil. What would become of him? Before she could form any conjecture, however, she saw him driving towards her as she stepped into the road before the gates. He had driven the car round from the back entrance, and Ruth had the impression that he would have passed her had she not been immediately in his path. He slowed down with evident reluctance, and she noted subconsciously that there were two hide suitcases in the tonneau of the car. He glanced quickly at the lodge house before he spoke.

  “Sorry I can’t give you a lift,” he said, “but I’m in rather a hurry. There’s—I’ve got some business to attend to in Newcastle.” He was in a hurry, but he was still anxious enough to know what Ruth was doing at the Hall. “Have you been trying to interest my uncle in your Guest House, Ruth?” he asked.

  Ruth found her voice at last.

  “Don’t trouble about your inability to run me home,” she said. “I prefer to walk, I assure you.”

  “The same old Ruth!” His voice had a forced note about it. “Well, I must hurry. Au revoir!”

  The dust of the road flew up in a cloud from the wheels as the car gathered speed and disappeared over the first rise. Ruth watched it go, wondering how she had been able to refrain from telling its owner all she thought of him. Perhaps, she mused, it was because she had so many other—and more important— things to think of just now!

  She was nearing Conningscliff before it occurred to her that Edmund Hersheil had been heading northwards when he had deliberately gone out of his way to tell her he had business in Newcastle, which lay to the south.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Keyed up as it was over her father’s coming ordeal, Ruth’s mind was a patchwork of conflicting thoughts as she sat back in her corner of the ’bus which would take her to Newcastle. All she had heard at the Hall that morning crowded into the forefront of her brain, and John Travayne’s real identity seemed to shut out everything else for the moment. She had promised the Squire to find him, and as soon as she had seen her father, she must make an effort to do so. She was quite confident that Philip Kelwyn was her key to the situation, and the long journey by road appeared doubly tedious as she watched the minutes ticking away on the little clock behind the driver’s cabin.

  When they approached the town a thin rain was falling and the sky was leaden. The sun, which had gilded the countryside north of Alnwick, had disappeared behind a pall of cloud.

  Ruth got off at the end of Jesmond Road and walked half the length of it to Parknor Crescent. The Renton Nursing Home was almost at the top, and her steps quickened to a run as she reached the heavy iron gate. She pushed it open and walked up the short, paved pathway to the front door. Her heart seemed to be beating madly somewhere near her throat as she rang the bell.

  A maid opened the door and Ruth followed her into the waiting-room.

  “Matron will be down in a moment.”

  The girl disappeared, and Ruth sat down at the round table which occupied the centre of the room. There was a pile of magazines on the table, but she did not touch them.

  When the matron arrived ten minutes later, she was standing at the window.

  “Ah—Miss Farday! So you are here, at last!” The elderly, grey-haired matron smiled across at her.

  “My father?” Ruth asked. “Has he been anxious?”

  The matron came across the room and drew a chair towards her visitor.

  “Miss Farday, your father was operated upon this morning,” she said.

  Ruth tried to speak, but she could only lean forward and grasp the matron’s sleeve.

  “Don’t upset yourself,” the kindly voice went on. “Everything’s going to be all right. It was your father’s wish, my dear. He wanted to spare you all the anxiety he could—all the waiting hours, and the uncertainty.”

  “Oh—!”

  “It was fortunate that your father made such a decision, as it happens,” the matron continued. “Mr. Kelwyn performed the operation at ten this morning, and he received a wire this afternoon calling him back to L
ondon.”

  “Oh—you mean, he’s gone?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” the matron advised kindly. “Your father is in good hands with Doctor Blonheim, and he is going on as well as can be expected.”

  “May I see him?” Ruth asked nervously. “Is it possible —so soon?”

  “For five minutes,” the matron told her. “I know that you will be sensible and not speak too much.”

  Ruth followed her along a narrow hall and up the flight of thickly carpeted stairs to the room where her father lay. She approached the bed and knelt down near the head. Her father’s eyes were closed, and she caught her breath in sharply at sight of his pale face. The vague scent of the anaesthetic still lingered about the cage-supported bedclothes.

  There was little need for speech when William Farday opened his eyes and looked up at his daughter. That look—the loving tenderness of it—went deeper than words. Ruth felt for his hand and clasped it gently.

  “Father,” she whispered, “you’re going to be well now.”

  “Yes, lass! Back to the plough soon,” he smiled, with a spark of eagerness somewhere deep in his eyes.

  “We will prepare such a—welcome for you at Conningscliff,” she said. “Don’t be—too long.”

  She felt a returning pressure from his thin fingers, and as she followed the matron’s trim figure down the stairs to the waiting-room again, there was a prayer of thanksgiving in her heart.

  “Your father came through wonderfully well,” the matron told her. “He has a marvellous constitution for a man of his age, and his powers of recuperation should be good. All the same,” she added, on a note of warning, “his recovery will necessarily be a long, slow process. Still, I can see that you are sensible, and will not expect miraculous results in little more than a few weeks.”

  “I think I can find the patience,” Ruth smiled wanly.

  “That’s the spirit!” the matron replied, with one of her most encouraging smiles, as she led the way out to the door.

  “You said,” Ruth asked hesitantly, “that Doctor Kelwyn had gone back to London?”

  The matron glanced at her watch.

  “He’s leaving by a train about four o’clock,” she said. “He asked me to express his regret to you that he had not seen you before he left.”

  “He is so kind,” Ruth said, pulling on her gloves. Then, suddenly, thoughts of John Travayne assailed her. She believed that she had yet time to get to the station before Kelwyn’s train left. “May I come again this evening to inquire for my father?” she asked.

  “At any time—until nine o’clock,” the matron assured her.

  Ruth made the journey to the Central Station, with her nerves stretched like a taut cord. She ran through the station entry in time to see Philip Kelwyn presenting his ticket at the barrier.

  He was not alone, however, and at sight of his companion all the blood drained from Ruth’s face. Kelwyn and Travayne saw her standing there at the same moment, but it was John who reached her first.

  “Ruth—is there anything wrong? Your father—?”

  She felt his supporting arm close round her.

  “No—my father is all right,” she breathed. “I came—to find you.”

  Travayne turned towards the barrier.

  “Philip is going on this train,” he said. “Shall we see him off first?”

  “Then—you weren’t going?” Ruth asked.

  “I came down with Philip,” John told her, as he piloted her through the barrier to where Kelwyn had found his reservation on the train.

  “Ah, Miss Farday, I had hoped to see you before I left your father,” the doctor greeted her. “I’ve been telling John here that I’ve never been more confident of the result of an operation

  before.”

  Ruth tried to thank him, but she felt at the end of her little speech that it had been hopelessly inadequate. When the whistle blew, Kelwyn bent from the window and patted her hand encouragingly.

  “Six months will see him on his feet again,” he predicted. “Leave everything to Doctor Blonheim. He’s a splendid man!” When the train had drawn away, John led Ruth out into the street again.

  “Let me give you some tea,” he said. “You look tired, and your coat is quite wet”

  Ruth followed him into the hotel he had chosen, and was glad when she noticed that they were the only occupants of the cosy lounge at this hour of the day. Not until the tea was set before them, however, would he permit her to speak. When the waiter had withdrawn, Ruth said: “John—I know who you are.”

  He glanced at her quickly, but there was little change in his expression.

  “And—?” he asked.

  “Your father wants you to come home.”

  She put it to him that way because she herself could not have spurned such a plea.

  “He found out that you had been at Conningscliff,” she went on quickly, “and he sent for me to ask for your address. He couldn’t come to Newcastle himself—he suffers from gout—but I know he would have come much farther than this if he had been able—just to find you.”

  “Was that your only reason for coming down to the station just now?” he asked slowly.

  The tell-tale colour flooded into her cheeks.

  “I felt that I—had to beg you to go back to Carbay Hall to your father,” she said. “He wants it so much.”

  “You have not answered my question, Ruth!”

  He was looking directly into her eyes. There was a strange, leaping flame in his.

  “I felt that I had to do something for you, in return for all you have done for us,” she confessed haltingly, “and because I misjudged you so about Conningscliff.”

  “Had to?” he asked.

  “I—I wanted to,” she confessed, in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

  “Ruth!” He took her hand between both his own, holding it tenderly. “Ruth, I’m going to ask you again. Will you marry me?”

  She could not answer him at first, and her hand began to tremble in his firm grasp. His fingers closed over it more securely.

  “Because,” he said, “your reply to that question decides whether I will return to the Hall or not.”

  She found herself laughing nervously.

  “Must you be bribed to return for your birthright?”

  “I must! The greatest bribe in the world—your love, Ruth!” His lips were near her hair now, and he was drawing her towards him.

  “What is it to be, Ruth? Do we go back to Carbay together?” “Together!”

  She gave him the answer he wanted, and he swept her into his arms to kiss her passionately before he would let her go again.

  “Why did you buy Conningscliff?” she asked.

  “Because, right from the beginning, I wanted to farm that land, Ruth,” he said more gravely. “That was the cause of the original quarrel between my father and me. The years had taught me how stupid it all was, of course, and I came back to find how things stood. You know what I found, Ruth. Edmund Hersheil installed at the Hall and my father seemingly as hard and ruthless about things as ever. It gave me little heart to make myself known to him. The years had not softened him as they had taught me to control a hasty temper. I thought it useless to approach him at all. Then, when Conningscliff was about to be sold over your head, I bought the place.”

  “To save us!” Ruth said.

  He did not speak for a moment, and then he said slowly: “Partly that, and partly because I suppose I was human enough to want a part of what was my own land. The place seemed doomed to be ruined by that precious cousin of mine.”

  For the first time Ruth thought of Edmund Hersheil, and found herself wondering how he would take the change in his fortunes.

  “When I first saw the new heir,” John confessed, “I almost sank my pride and went to my father.”

  “Pride!” Ruth mused. “It’s such a stupid thing!”

  “It’s going to have no place in our lives in the future,” he declared, as he paid the b
ill, “unless it’s pride in Carbay and all your father will be doing at Conningscliff. We’ve such a lot of time to make up, Ruth!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Ruth stayed in Newcastle that night at a little hostel the matron of the nursing home recommended, and in the morning, since her father’s condition had improved, and there was still no hope of seeing him for more than ten minutes each day, she motored back to Carbay village with John in the car he had hired for the purpose.

  “I want you to come to the Hall with me,” he said, as they approached across the dunes.

  Ruth would have protested.

  “I think you should see your father alone—just at first,” she pleaded. “After all, he doesn’t know about—about us!”

  “That’s just why I want you to come,” he told her. “One other pleasant surprise in a day won’t do him any harm!”

  Had John known it, it had, indeed, been a day of surprises for the Squire, and the unpleasant nature of his first surprise had plunged him into one of his old, fiery moods. At that moment he was glaring across the expanse of his desk at the visitor Mead had just shown into the room.

  “You’re a Customs official, my butler tells me,” he said. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  The man at the other side of the desk shifted uneasily in his chair.

  “I’ve come about the matter of some uncustomed goods believed to have been landed from an aeroplane on your estate,” he explained.

  Alric Veycourt’s lips tightened perceptibly.

  “What’s that you say?” he demanded.

  “A case of evasion of Customs duty, I’m afraid,” the man began.

  “Smuggling, do you mean? Why not call it what it is?” the Squire demanded.

  “Very well. Contraband is correct!” the man declared. “It seems it has been going on for some months. An aeroplane from the Continent drops the goods, and they are picked up later and eventually taken by car to London. We’ve had trouble all down the coast, but we believed we had stamped it out until this affair came to light.”

  “You don’t suspect me?” the Squire demanded acidly.

  “Hardly,” the man replied, “but we do believe that someone has been taking advantage of your standing to use your land. They believed themselves safe within the confines of your estate, sir.”