“Peg,” Ruth said, as Mrs. Emery laid the butter down before her and stood back to admire it, “what sort of man is the Squire?” Peg pursed up her generous mouth.
“I can’t be telling ye for certain, Miss Ruth,” she replied. “I’ve never set eyes on him, but I do hear he’s a hard man, an’ if what he did to his only son is anything to go by, then he is!”
Peg was emphatic in her likes and dislikes.
“I didn’t know he had a son,” Ruth said, turning to put the butter away in the larder. “I always thought his nephew was his heir.”
“Not by rights,” Peg affirmed, her hands on her broad hips in the familiar conversational attitude Ruth knew so well. “That young man has no more right to the Hall than you nor me! There’s me sister-in-law, now—she could tell ye better about it nor me. She was living in these parts when it happened. Young John Veycourt, his heart was in the land, and when he comes back from that fine college at Oxford, he was ready to settle down on the land and some says he wanted to farm Conningscliff, Miss, before your father took it over, but up comes the old Squire with the idea that his son is to go into Parliament and make a great name for himself up there in London. Well, they say young John was like his mother in looks, but he had his father’s temper, an’ two such tempers never dwelt peaceful-like in one house—let it be the size o’ the Hall or just a room and kitchen.” Peg followed Ruth through to the stone-flagged scullery where the pails were standing ready scalded for the next milking. “Then,” she continued, determined to finish her tale, “there was one last terrible row and off the young lad went.”
“And, of course, he went abroad and bought a farm and made lots of money!” Ruth said.
“I don’t know about that, Miss Ruth,” Peg replied seriously. “Nobody in these parts ever heard how he was, and most folks have forgotten about it all now, I expect. It must be well-nigh eight years gone since he left.”
“Well, Peg,” Ruth said, at the end of the story. “I’ve a favour to ask of the Squire, but it looks as if it might be easier to ask it through his solicitors!”
“Or through that young Mr. Hersheil,” Peg said dryly. “He was down here again this morning, but you were over at the hens and I wasn’t going to call you up all that way just to talk to him.”
Ruth turned sharply.
“What did he want?” she asked.
“Oh—askin’ for your father,” Peg replied, “but I’d say it wasn’t worrying about the farmer he was!”
Ruth flushed, but she did not reply to this thrust of Peg’s. Edmund Hersheil had come to the farm on two occasions since the accident and she had been out, much to her relief when Peg told her about his visit later. He had obviously waited for quite a while in the hope of seeing her, and Ruth had felt a growing irritation at the fact. Perhaps she owed Hersheil an apology for the way she had spoken to him on the day of the accident, but she quite definitely did not want him to come to Conningscliff, nor did she intend to treat seriously Peg’s suggestion as to his real reason for coming to the farm. Edmund Hersheil was the type of man you could not be obliged to for anything, she concluded, for he would most certainly take advantage of the situation. She determined to get the Squire’s permission for her Guest House through some other channel.
CHAPTER THREE
Ruth could not have believed that things could have taken shape
so quickly, yet it was only natural that the amount of hard work, thought, and concentration that went into her project must bear fruit sooner or later. It had seemed to her that she had obtained the Squire’s permission to start the Guest House with amazing ease. The reply to her request came through the Newcastle solicitors in less than a week, and then, whole-heartedly, Ruth turned to her plans.
She knew that Peg Emery could run the dairy perfectly, leaving her free to concentrate on the house and their guests. With Will Finberry to look after the cattle and the outer premises, they would manage. The crop lands would have to be sacrificed, but if Will could take a good harvest of hay from the two north fields, Ruth felt that she would be content. There could be no marketing of their produce now, of course; she hoped that she would have enough guests to make that unnecessary.
William Farday said very little as he sat in his long chair watching the preparations going ahead with the speed which is the fruit of determination. Ruth worked tirelessly from early morning until late at night, and when she stood back at last and saw her Guest House completed and brought her father the edition of the paper with her first advertisement inserted in it, there was a justifiable thrill of pride in her voice when she asked:
“What do you think of it, Dad?”
He cleared his throat awkwardly, with the difficulty of a man who is unused to expressing his emotions in words.
“Ruth, lass,” he said, “you’re a girl in a thousand for a man to have!”
She bent swiftly and kissed his weather-beaten cheek, clasping the hand that lay so uselessly on the plaid rug over his knees.
“We’re going to make it a big success,” she said gaily, “and there’s quite a lot for you to do in the next few days when the requests for accommodation come pouring in! You’re to be chief secretary, and I’m going to have Will Finberry fix you up a desk that will fit over your chair. How’s that?”
The farmer smiled at her and shook his head.
“I don’t think I’ll be a lot of use, lass,” he said.
“Nonsense!” Ruth affirmed. “Look at the time you will save me.” She turned away towards the kitchen. “I won’t have much time for writing, you know.”
Farday felt that he was a burden, but he was thankful beyond measure for the little tasks which Ruth brought him to do during the next two weeks. The Guest House was to be opened at Easter, which was at the beginning of April that year, and as the time drew on, even Ruth was surprised at the response to her advertisements in the London and Newcastle newspapers. She had only two rooms unbooked a week before Good Friday, and her heart beat high with excitement as she prepared to receive her first guest.
“It’s that Mr. Travayne who booked up last week, isn’t it?” she asked her father eagerly on the Thursday.
William Farday re-examined the telegram which had reached Conningscliff that morning.
“Yes. He says he’ll be here with the afternoon train,” he replied.
“Will is going to the market with the last of the sheep,” Ruth said, slipping into a warm tweed coat. “I’ll have to go and meet the train myself.” She wound a scarf round her throat and turned back to her father. “Peg’s got all her instructions,” she told him. “She’ll have everything ready.”
On the way to the Junction, her hair blowing carelessly in the wind, her hand firm on the reins which guided the little mare, Ruth began to wonder about her first guest. The request for accommodation had been written on the thick cream note-paper of a London Club in Half-Moon Street, and had been signed in a firm masculine hand, briefly, J. Travayne. Close contact with nature had made Ruth a dreamer in spite of the practical strain in her, and she began to weave a pattern of dreams round her first guest. She was not quite sure whether she wanted him to be young or not; perhaps an old gentleman would be best— someone who was forced to live for the best part of the year in London, but who pined for the countryside he loved, and took every opportunity of getting there. He might even see in Conningscliff Guest House a means of escape on many future occasions!
When she drew the trap up on the long stretch of cinder at the Junction, the train was already rounding the bend of the track at the signal-cabin. There was only one passenger for Carbay Junction, and as he jumped down on to the track, Ruth’s heart gave a little spasmodic jerk as its beating quickened.
The stranger wore a thick travelling coat, the ample collar of which accentuated the breadth of his fine shoulders. His face was long and bronzed, and his keen, dark eyes seemed to take in everything at one first brief glance. He came straight towards Ruth where she stood by the trap, and his firm lips rela
xed in a smile as he asked:
“Are you from Conningscliff Guest House, or am I taking too much for granted?”
His rich, deep voice, with the barest trace of a colonial accent, suited his personality, Ruth thought, as she met his dark eyes and found herself unable to fix a colour to them. “Mr. Travayne, I think?” she said.
“Yes. John Travayne,” he replied. “Are you, by any chance, Miss Ruth Farday?”
She was surprised and amused by his use of her full name, and realised that he must have seen it on the prospectus her father had sent when he booked the room.
“Yes,” she admitted, “I am.” She turned to the well-worn hogskin suitcase which a porter had brought from the luggage-van. “It’s more than a mile to the farm,” she explained, “so I brought the trap along for your things.”
He lifted the case, hoisting it easily into the back of the trap and tipping the porter. Ruth was up in the driving- seat before he turned again, and with an easy movement he swung himself up beside her.
“If you don’t mind?” he said.
She smiled.
“I don’t—if you prefer to sit in front,” she assured him, letting the whip rest on the mare’s back, which was the agreed sign between them to start.
John Travayne! Ruth found herself repeating his name inwardly, over and over again, as they drove along. Once or twice she permitted herself a glance at him as the mare jogged over the moor road. He was looking about him with a grave air of concentration, as if he were anxious to capture every detail of the route and store it in his mind. Once, Ruth was aware that he had turned and was looking at her with that same strange, questing concentration, but she kept her eyes on the little mare’s bobbing head and did not return her guest’s scrutiny.
When they came to the edge of the moor she pointed out the farm.
“That’s Conningscliff over there, at the end of that lane of trees.” She reined the mare in and pointed towards the cliffs, where a vague band of grey sea stretched away towards the horizon. “We’re quite near the sea,” she continued, “and there’s a small sandy bay just over the dunes there. The house behind the grey wall is Carbay Hall. You can see it quite plainly now when the trees are not fully in leaf. Squire Veycourt owns most of the
land around here.”
Ruth wondered if she was boring him with her quick descriptions.
“Go on,” he said. “How long have you lived here?”
“Six years. We were farming Conningscliff, but my father had an accident ...”
She could not bring herself to speak much of that yet, and the man by her side seemed to understand.
“Recently, I suppose,” he said. “That was the idea for the Guest House, then?”
“Yes,” she confessed. “It seemed the best thing to do. I suppose a woman could run a farm, but not successfully enough to keep a place like Conningscliff out of debt. I confess my limitations. It’s a man’s job!”
“You’ve taken on a heavy enough responsibility as it is,” he said quickly. “Is your father a complete invalid?”
“At the moment—yes.” The tears were very near Ruth’s eyes. “In time, perhaps, something might be done ...” “I’m sorry,” he said.
They were nearing the farm now, jolting pleasantly under the leafy canopy of trees which led up to the white gate.
“This is my first holiday in England for many years,” he volunteered abruptly.
“I hope you will like it here,” she said. “If you want a rest it is an ideal spot.”
They were through the white gate now, and the wheels were crunching over the cinder track. He looked round at her.
“I don’t want a rest so much,” he said slowly. “I want to feel the wind in my face, and a sea fret round me now and then, and a breeze that’s cold and invigorating coming across the moor. You can’t understand what that means until you’ve lived for eight years in India without a break!”
“Perhaps you’ve been home-sick, too—a little,” she suggested.
A frown creased his forehead for a moment.
“Perhaps I have,” he said, and his eyes sought the rugged line of cliff above the grey North Sea.
Peg had flung open the big front door and was standing back in the dimness of the hall awaiting them. Travayne entered and looked about him with frank curiosity. His lips were compressed a little, and with an odd, sick feeling at her heart, Ruth felt that he
was disappointed in the place.
“Will you show Mr. Travayne to his room. Peg?” she said, turning to the beaming Mrs. Emery.
“Yes, Miss Ruth.”
Peg would have lifted the suitcase, but Travayne forestalled her. She turned back to Ruth before they mounted the stairs.
“There’s a Miss Grenton just arrived, too,” she said. “She came by road, an’ she said she was early. Will Finberry’s showing her where to put her car.”
Ruth excused herself to Travayne and hurried through the kitchen to greet her other guest. In the flagged yard she found Will Finberry escorting her towards the house.
Valerie Grenton was a typical product of the modern fashionable world. Daughter of an over-indulgent father who had made his money from the manufacture of a popular brand of boiled sweets, she had been denied nothing from the first day she could lisp a request. She owned her own luxurious car, and did exactly what she liked with her rather useless life. Her father made only one stipulation. For appearance’ sake he begged her to employ a companion, and rather than enter into an argument, Valerie Grenton had agreed. Miss Strayte was with her now. She was a woman in the uncertain years between thirty and forty, with parchment-like skin which had never known any touch of cosmetic, and seemed to Ruth only to accentuate the too liberal use of make-up on Miss Grenton’s.
“Are you the hostess?”
Valerie Grenton approached Ruth and, without awaiting an answer, passed on into the kitchen. Ruth followed in her wake, a little taken aback by her guest’s summary manner.
“Yes,” she said. “Will you come this way, Miss Grenton? I hope you have had a pleasant journey up?”
“It was chronic!” Valerie replied. “I had a puncture this side of Newcastle, too, which hung me up till the wheel was changed.” She walked ahead of Ruth into the main room of the farmhouse which had been converted into a large, comfortable lounge. It was gay with new chintz and great bowls of freshly picked daffodils from the Carbay Woods. Ruth was very proud of the homely picture it made, but her second guest perched herself on the arm of the nearest chair and said petulantly:
“I had no idea that this place was at the back of beyond.”
“It’s quiet,” Ruth acknowledged, “but we will do our best to amuse you while you are here.”
“I should imagine that would be about the most difficult task you have ever undertaken,” the other girl said with a little twist of her lips that might have been a smile. “I’ve just recovered from a nasty bout of influenza, and I’ve been sent up here to recuperate. Dad might have told me that ‘vegetate’ was the nearer word!”
Ruth chose to ignore that last sentence and waited patiently while Valerie completed her tour of inspection of the ground floor.
“I hope you are going to like it here,” she ventured at last, and wondered at the same time why it didn’t seem to matter in the slightest whether Valerie Grenton liked Conningscliff or not.
It had mattered whether John Travayne was satisfied, she acknowledged inwardly.
Miss Grenton had turned to look at her more closely. “I’ll tell you that in a day or two,” she said abruptly. “Meantime, I’m feeling very much in need of a wash after that disgustingly long journey. This is a new type of holiday to me, but I’m willing to sample everything once. Are there many people here?”
“Just another gentleman, at the moment—” began Ruth.
“Who has been enjoying the view from his bedroom window immensely, Miss Farday. May I congratulate you on your Guest House?”
Ruth swung round. John Travayne w
as coming down the room towards them. He was looking straight at Ruth and, as she turned to introduce him to his fellow-guest, she was aware of a remarkable change in Valerie Grenton’s expression. The petulant lips were curved in a winning smile, and the languorous dark eyes were turned full upon the newcomer.
“Mr. Travayne—Miss Grenton,” Ruth introduced them.
Valerie held out her immaculately gloved hand.
“I thought I was about to be bored to death with my own company,” she said.
“Life’s too short and should be too interesting to be bored,” Travayne replied
“It depends on the interest!” Valerie said lightly. “You must admit that the right company goes a long way to relieve boredom.”
Travayne turned to Ruth.
“I see you have a few animals in the fields still. May I take a look round?” he asked.
“Certainly,” Ruth said. “I am just going to show Miss Grenton to her room, but you’ll find our man somewhere— probably in the vicinity of the stack-shed. He’ll show you round.”
Valerie Grenton had gone out into the hall in search of her companion.
“Amelia, where in heaven’s name do you wander to?” she demanded when Miss Strayte came in through the side door from the garden.
“I saw some flowers, my dear, and I simply had to go out and walk among them,” Miss Strayte replied absently, as she shook hands with Ruth. “What a lovely garden you have, Miss Farday,” she continued eagerly. “I love flowers.”
“Don’t babble, Amelia!” Valerie broke in. “Miss Farday is waiting to show us to our rooms.”
Ruth led the way to the wide, black oak staircase which was one of the many attractions of the old farmhouse, and Valerie followed with a strange little speculative smile playing round her mouth.
“I think I’m going to like it here—after all,” she said slowly.
CHAPTER FOUR
Valerie Grenton was obviously attracted by John Travayne from the first moment she set eyes upon him, but if it was apparent to Travayne—as Ruth thought it could not fail to be—he made no sign.
Ruth told herself that she was too busy to think of the affairs of her individual guests as Good Friday passed and the Saturday brought the remainder of her Easter house-party. Yet, very often, as she turned to some new task which lay ready for her busy hands, she wondered what John Travayne was doing out there on the cliffs, and if Valerie was his companion.
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