Return to Spring (18 page)

Across the road, behind the frosted glass panes of another solicitor’s window, Edmund Hersheil was bidding the senior partner of Messrs. Hollow & Gilling good-bye. He came out into the morning sunshine again, but drew back sharply as he recognised the man in the archway across the road. When Travayne had moved away, Edmund walked quickly across the street and glanced at the two brass business plates on the wall.

Ruth had spent a pleasant hour—a woman’s hour of shopping for those little things that are best found in a big store—and over lunch she chatted happily to Travayne about the town, and they watched the stream of traffic growing denser in the street below the restaurant window. They waited over their coffee until the race-going crowd had thinned and then made their way to the moor.

Almost a mile of shows stretched in two long rows before them: stalls of every shape and size; caravans, shabby and luxurious, rubbing shoulders with one another; coconut shies; roundabouts; carts with steaming plates of pies and green peas displayed upon them; games of skill employing every conceivable device which might spell novelty; gondolas, swings, boxing booths, a circus, a Wild West Rodeo, a mat that slid madly round a windmill and the inevitable and frequent “Original Gipsy Mee, palmist and clairvoyant.”

“Why are all gipsies miraculously blessed with second sight?” Travayne asked, as he tucked Ruth’s hand within his arm for safety in the crowd.

She laughed.

“It’s handed down from mother to daughter, they say—just as estates and things are handed down from father to son!” she suggested.

Travayne’s expression hardened suddenly, and Ruth wondered at the change. A moment ago he had been so gay! He was light-hearted again almost immediately, however, leading her across to a coconut-shy, where he insisted on presenting her with the coconut he won after several fruitless efforts.

“They stick ’em on with glue, you know, of course!” he laughed. “There’s one loose one, and if it’s your lucky day, you hit it!”

“Don’t excuse yourself!” Ruth reprimanded, “and take me to see the circus!”

She smiled up at him happily, and they plunged on into a carefree round of gaiety until they were both loaded with a miscellaneous collection of prizes, which—when they decided that a turn on the roundabouts could not be neglected—they distributed to half a dozen children who were loitering round the circus pavilion.

How easily the years can slip back when happiness holds the reins of life even for one brief day, Ruth mused. They were like a couple of children, eager to enjoy each minute of their adventure. When John finally glanced at his watch neither of them could believe that it was six o’clock.

They made their way down the North Road to the town. The afternoon had been full—so full of happiness and laughter. A little stab of regret at its passing found Ruth’s heart. Perhaps she would never be so happy and care-free again.

The journey back was a more sober affair. The ’bus was packed with trippers from the mining villages, and John gave up his seat to a girl carrying a baby, and later secured an empty place at the other end of the vehicle. Thus separated, there was little opportunity for conversation until they reached their destination and set out to walk across the moor to Conningscliff.

“It’s been a wonderful day,” Ruth said, as they neared the house. “I don’t think I have enjoyed myself so much since I was quite young and went to the shows with the pocket-money I had saved carefully for a whole year!”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said gravely. “I believe I felt much the same as you did—young again, with everything forgotten but the desire to enjoy myself.”

There was a deep note in his voice—something of regret that such careless rapture must pass. Ruth glanced up at him and saw once more that grave look in his eyes which she had noticed so many times in the past. Suddenly there was an impulse in her to ask him what was troubling him—as he had asked her to share her worry the day before out on the cliffs, but at that moment Edmund Hersheil came round the end of the house and they were face to face with him.

“So you’ve got back!” he said. “Enjoyed yourself?”

“Yes, thank you,” Ruth replied. “Did you have a pleasant time? We saw you in Newcastle.”

A dull colour rose in Hersheil’s cheeks.

“Newcastle?” he repeated. “You’re mistaken. I wasn’t in Newcastle to-day—or anywhere near it!”

He told the lie deliberately, and John Travayne found himself wondering which of three reasons had prompted it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Harold Mead
had been butler at Carbay Hall for twenty years, and for ten of them he had been wont to explain that he stayed on in the position
in spite
of the Squire’s temper. For the past few years, however, he had given no reason for continuing in Alric Veycourt’s service, although it had been noticed by the other members of the domestic staff that he ministered solely to the semi-invalided master as time went on. The few guests who visited the Hall, and the heir himself, were a secondary consideration to Mead. It seemed that his master’s new dependence had stirred a desire for even greater fidelity in the butler. Mead was generally within earshot when the Squire tapped his stick on the floor to attract attention, and no matter what task the butler was busy with at that moment, it was laid aside instantly so that he might attend to the master’s summons in person. He had become more a valet than a butler in the last two years, and Alric Veycourt had accepted the situation without comment.

Victor Monset considered the arrangement an admirable one. He had long thought such faithfulness on the part of old servants a thing of the past, or one to be found only in the realms of fiction, and he looked on with interest at both master and man. He had a feeling that he, too, might grow quite sentimentally fond of old Veycourt. A likeable old devil, he classed him mentally.

The artist sat back in his chair in the deserted breakfast-room and came to the conclusion that he was to be left to complete his meal in solitary state. Neither the Squire nor his nephew had put in an appearance so far, and it was almost ten o’clock.

Presently Mead appeared at the door and seemed surprised to find Monset alone.

“Has Mr. Edmund not come in yet, sir?” he asked.

“No,” the artist replied. “I had no idea he had gone out. Is the Squire not so well this morning, Mead?”

“His foot is troubling him again, sir,” the butler said. “I’ve convinced him that it will be as well to stay in bed until the doctor gets here.” The man hesitated. “Maybe— if you’re not too busy during the morning, sir,” he suggested, “you’d take a run up to see him? He’s restive in bed all day long.”

“Certainly, Mead.” Monset rose to his feet. “I’ll pop up now and sit with him until the doctor gets here.” He finished his coffee and went quickly up the broad flight of stairs to the Squire’s bedroom on the first floor. Alric Veycourt was sitting up in the big bed, propped with cushions and surrounded by the stamp collection which had been his hobby for years.

“Hullo! hullo!” he said, when he saw who his visitor was. “Isn’t this ridiculous? Mead has insisted on my staying here when I’m really perfectly able to be downstairs! I’ve just been telling him that his idea is purely a selfish one, because he doesn’t want

the extra trouble of helping me about! He didn’t like that!”

Monset grinned, seating himself on the chair beside the bed and picking up a group of stamps which lay on the coverlet.

“I had no idea you were a philatelist,” he said. “I remember having a craze for this myself when I was quite young.”

“We all pass through that stage,” Alric Veycourt acknowledged, “but it stuck with me. The deeper you go into it, the more interesting it becomes.” He picked up a dark, oblong stamp, brittle with age. “This fellow is a treasure worth possessing,” he explained. “I bid for it for half an hour against another collector—and won!”

The Squire’s eyes lit with enthusiasm. This was a side of his host that Victor had not had the privilege of seeing before, and he settled in his chair to learn, in an hour, a great deal about stamps and stamp collectors which he had not known previously. At the end of that time Mead entered with the morning post.

“If you’ll excuse me just a moment?” Alric Veycourt asked. The artist turned back to the stamp album with genuine interest.

“Ah—that’s quick work!”

Monset looked up to find his host smiling over a typewritten letter which he laid aside on the bed.

“It’s about that farm I was telling you of, over the dunes there,” he explained. “I—for various reasons I decided to sell, and here, a day after I give my solicitors the final word to go on with the sale, comes the first offer!” The Squire lifted the paper and considered it again. “And a mighty good offer it is, too! Five hundred more than I asked for the place.”

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.