Authors: Jean S. Macleod
CHAPTER TEN
Ruth returned to Conningscliff with a heavy heart. During that long tiring journey in the bus she had tried to tell herself that she must forget about John Travayne, put him entirely out of her mind, but although thoughts can sometimes be marshalled and kept in line, the heart will listen to no dictator but its own instinct. Ruth knew, even as she made up her mind to put all thoughts of Travayne from her, that his image would remain in her heart for all time. But he had passed out of her life now—passed on with Valerie Grenton!
Looking out of the bus window at the rolling hills of the land she loved, she determined to plunge even more earnestly into the task of making Conningscliff a success. This, she told herself, was what life held for her. So much depended on her new venture, and she was determined that, one day, her father should have that “second opinion” which might mean so much to him. She thought of her conversation with Travayne, and the half promise he had made that day when she had come across him gazing over the fields towards Carbay Hall. She supposed—rather bitterly—that he would forget about that promise as quickly as he might forget about Conningscliff.
The bus turned towards the coast, at last, taking the road along the cliffs. The North Sea was bleak and dark, stretching in a grey band to the horizon under a leaden sky. In the distance the vague shape of the Fame Islands stood out against the water with the sea birds wheeling and circling above them. Was there something about that grey, rarely smiling expanse of water upon which her eyes had rested for so many years that accounted for the fatalistic streak in her nature? Ruth wondered. She could sit for hours beside that restless sea, and it had become a friend to her. Many of her problems had been thrashed out on the lonely cliff face, away by herself, with only the grey water far below her, murmuring assent or lashing itself in fury against the rocks as if to restrain her from some impulsive act.
Her father was quick to notice the deep shadow in her eyes when she returned to the farm, although she chatted with forced gaiety all through her belated lunch.
“I bought a new pair of brogues,” she told him, as she cleared the plates from the table, for she knew that each scrap of news was garnered by the helpless man as something to cheer his day. “They’re to come up with the grain and the provisions.'’
“Did you see anyone you knew?” the farmer asked eagerly.
Ruth crossed to the sink and began to wash up.
“Just two of our guests,” she said slowly. “They were on their way south.”
“That Miss Grenton an’ Mr. Travayne, I suppose?” William Farday mused. “She didn’t give him much chance to refuse a lift.”
“She was going his way,” Ruth said, with a strange lumpiness at her throat. “It was only natural she should offer.”
“Aye—maybe! He’s not the sort for the likes o’ her, all the same,” the farmer reflected. “She’s had overmuch o’ her own way, I’m thinking. She’d be a better lass if she had a firmer hand
kept on the reins for her!”
“Her people seem to let her do pretty much as she likes,” Ruth said.
“She was telling me there’s only her father an’ herself in England,” the farmer went on. “Her mother lives in the south o’ France. A queer-like arrangement, I’d be thinking.”
“You’d never understand that type of marriage, Dad!” Ruth said, coming over to fill his pipe for him.
As she held the taper he looked up at her.
“I liked Travayne,” he remarked. “I’ll be missin’ his chat.”
“There will be others,” Ruth said huskily.
“I suppose so,” the farmer said, turning to the account book on the table which Will Finberry had laboriously constructed to fit across his knees. “We’ve a clear week,” he continued, referring to the book, “and then the summer visitors start. We’re booked up not so bad to the end o’ June, lass. You’ve done fine!”
“I’ve needed your help, too, Dad,” she said. “I could never have found time to do all that secretarial work and keep things running smoothly in the house as well!”
She turned away, going out at the open door to find Peg Emery busy in the dairy skimming cream into a great earthenware bowl.
“Peg,” she said, “if you feel that you would like a holiday, would you take a few days next week? We’re booked up after that to the end of June—and I hope before long to be booked for the rest of the summer.”
Peg considered.
“A holiday, hinny?” she repeated. “Well, I wouldna be much earin’ whether I got one or not, truthfully speakin’. I’ve never been one o’ these folks that set much store on gallivantin’ away miles from home just to say they’ve been somewheres! However, maybe I would take a day at my sister’s in Hexham. I hav’na seen her for more than five years. It’s a goodly way to Hexham!”
“Why not make it a week, then, Peg, while you are at it?” Ruth suggested. “It’s a holiday with pay, of course, and we’ll be up to our eyes in work as soon as you come back, you know.”
“I’ll consider it, hinny,” Peg replied, with a nod of her head in the direction of the house, “once this lot get away.”
“They are all going to-morrow,” Ruth said, as she went out through the byres where Will Finberry was busy laying fresh
straw.
The day wore on. There was still much to be done, and Ruth was thankful for the work which helped to keep her mind from dwelling too much on the events of the morning.
With an hour to spare before supper, she slipped on her tweed coat and, taking an old walking-stick of her father’s, set out for a brisk tramp along the cliffs. It was weeks since she had been able to indulge in this, her favourite, pastime, and though the evening was grey and cold and it would soon be wholly dark, she found herself enjoying the walk. She passed round the high stone wall which shut Carbay Hall from prying eyes and emerged on to the cliff road above the bay. The little semicircle of golden sand gleamed through the half light and she clambered down the narrow pathway and walked slowly along beside the margin of the water.
Everything was still. There was no wind and the tide seemed to move in stealthily in one leaden sheet, with no white-crested wave to break the greyness of it. A seagull, circling above her head, cried plaintively, like some lost soul in a barren waste. Ruth felt that the sea reflected her mood.
Yet the silence seemed to soothe her. Sitting down on a flat rock she went over in her mind the events of the past week which had led her to that confession in the Alnwick cafe.
Then, quite suddenly, an unfamiliar sound broke in upon her thoughts—a low humming sound that seemed to come straight out of the sea. It grew louder and Ruth looked up at the darkening sky, recognising the unmistakable sound of an aeroplane engine. She wondered about it for a moment and then, as the ’plane flew farther inland and the noise of the engine merged into the silence again, it passed from her thoughts.
It was almost dark now, and she got to her feet half reluctantly to climb back up the path to the cliff top. The dogs at the Hall barked noisily as she passed the great iron gates of the main entrance and turned into the lane which led to Conningscliff.
As she went quickly along between the shadowy hedgerows the sound of the aeroplane engine came to her again, and this time she could see the machine quite plainly. It had returned, flying much lower, and was circling round the vicinity of the Long Meadow at Conningscliff. For a moment Ruth wondered if the pilot was attempting to land, and even her scant knowledge of aeronautics told her that it would be a dangerous hazard.
Then, out of the dusk twin lights stabbed the night. Ruth recognised them instantly as the powerful headlights of a car. They were dipped and raised again twice and then extinguished. The darkness seemed to close down more completely after that.
Ruth stood still, waiting for she knew not what. The ’plane above her ceased to circle and flew off in a southwesterly direction, and she watched its navigation lights until they had disappeared into the gloom.
No very definite thoughts were in her mind as she turned away. It was a strange occurrence, but it held no significance at the moment. She had almost reached the farm when another sound made her turn and look back down the cinder track. A powerful car was being driven at considerable speed along the avenue of trees.
The long blue body of Edmund Hersheil’s sports car flashed past the end of the cinder track, but she could not see the man at the wheel.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“ARE you riding this morning?”
Victor Monset put the question more for something to say in greeting than with the hope that Edmund would agree to join him in his early morning recreation.
Hersheil seemed to bring his thoughts back from a considerable distance before he replied:
“No, I don’t think I have the time this morning.” Monset went out and wandered round the end of the house towards the stables, where he found a groom and asked him to saddle the mare he had ridden the day before. It was the horse the Squire had kept as his own particular mount before gout and rheumatism had curtailed his days in the saddle and put an end to his hunting life.
The artist swung carefully into the saddle and was about to ride off when Edmund Hersheil appeared through the side door and came across to him.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said rather abruptly. “I’ll go with you, if you can wait five minutes till I change. We can ride down through the village. I’ve a telegram that must go off this morning.”
“If you don’t want to turn out I’ll send the telegram off for you,” Monset offered.
Edmund avoided his direct look.
“There’s no need for that,” he said quickly. “I may as well have the exercise.”
The artist dismounted and chatted for ten minutes with the groom, who was saddling Edmund’s horse. When Hersheil appeared again, Monset noticed that he had dressed very carefully, more carefully than a short ride into the village of Carbay in order to dispatch a telegram demanded.
“We’ll go along the cliffs,’’ Edmund said, as he mounted and watched Monset’s less expert climb into the saddle. “You’ll get confidence on a horse in time,” he continued, “and that old hack of my uncle’s is as safe as houses.”
“I prefer a steady horse,” the artist replied, eyeing Edmund’s restless steed with mistrust. “That brute looks as if he’d throw you as soon as look at you.”
Edmund laughed.
“He would!” he said, slapping the sleek, black neck, “but I like ’em that way. Women and horses need to know who’s master!”
Monset grinned sardonically. He had heard Edmund talk this way before—usually when he had had more to drink than was good for him.
The way was narrow on the cliff path, and they were forced to ride single file, much to Victor Monset’s relief. The artist in him responded to the beauty of the morning and the glorious panorama of sea and landscape spread out before them. Edmund Hersheil was an alien soul here. Monset watched the Squire’s heir riding before him, his shoulders hunched forward a little, his head bent in thought. This was the man who was to inherit Carbay Hall! The corners of the artist’s mouth curled downwards as he turned to look out over the grey-blue expanse of sea far beneath them.
They turned inland at last, riding down into the village and along its one main street to the little general store which was also the post office. There was a triangular piece of grass in the centre of the village and a monument in the shape of a roughly hewn Anglican cross was enclosed by a breast-high iron railing. It would have been easy for Edmund to tether his horse to the rail, but he dismounted and flung his reins to the artist.
“Keep him in hand,” he said. “I won’t be more than five minutes.”
Monset had the distinct impression that his presence in the post office would be anything but desirable.
Far from being an antiquarian, Monset, nevertheless, was interested in the many evidences of the making of Britain which he had stumbled across during his short sojourn in the northernmost county. He had discovered many traces of the passing of Saxon, Dane, and Norman in his extensive search for scenic beauty with which to occupy his brush, and he dismounted carefully and went over to the cross in the centre of what had been the old marketplace. The present cross was of comparatively recent structure, and he read the inscription on its base with deepening interest. It had been erected by the people of Carbay in memory of Isabel, wife of Alric Veycourt, who was “beloved and esteemed by all.” It was a simple, honest tribute to a woman who must have lived unselfishly. She had died ten years ago.
Monset turned away, thinking of the lonely old man at the Hall who had been this woman’s husband, and he wondered what the son was like whom the Squire had disinherited in favour of Edmund Hersheil.
Hersheil was coming towards him from the direction of the post office. Now that the mysterious telegram was safely on its way, Edmund was more inclined to be pleasant. He came up and leaned over the railings.
“A tribute to my late aunt,” he said, nodding towards the little monument. “Seems they thought a lot of her round these parts.”
“Seemingly.”
The artist turned towards the horses and unfastened his own mount.
“My uncle rarely speaks of her,” Edmund continued reflectively. “ In fact, I’d be tempted to wonder if he ever thinks of her at all, if it were not for the locked room up there at the Hall.”