“You believe that he might think things over?”
“He might!” A strange light gleamed in her dark eyes. “Do you think if I saw him—begged him to see things from our point of view—he might agree to change his mind and let me keep Conningscliff?”
Travayne looked away from the eagerness in her eyes. “He might,” he said, with very little enthusiasm. “What do you intend to do if he refuses?”
Ruth’s face clouded over.
“I—don’t know,” she confessed. “I wish I had someone to advise me.”
“May I offer my advice—for what it is worth?”
She looked at him uncertainly. He had sounded almost brusque.
“Wait a day or two,” he suggested. “Wait and see what— turns up.”
“You mean that you think the Squire may not sell after all?”
“I can’t hold myself responsible for the actions of the Squire,” he said, “but I have a feeling that everything will turn out all right, Ruth.”
There was a measure of assurance in his voice and she let it give her a like measure of comfort.
“I have business in Newcastle to-morrow,” he added. “It’s Tuesday, and I know that butter never turned out of a churn successfully on a Tuesday! Couldn’t you take a holiday and come along with me?”
She smiled in the dusk. She knew she wanted to go more than anything else in the world, and the news she had heard to-day might be forgotten for a few brief hours in his company. Why not?
“If I can persuade Peg to look after things in my absence,” she half promised.
“That will be the least of your troubles, I should think,” he smiled.
They had turned with one accord and were walking slowly down the narrow lane. Although it was almost ten o’clock, it was not wholly dark. It was a moonless night, but the thick powdering of stars shed a luminous radiance over the sea and cliff that was like some strange enchantment. Ruth thought that she had never felt the spell of night quite so forcibly. The man by her side puffed at his pipe in silence, walking slowly, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket, his head flung back in keen appreciation of the cool breeze which swept up from the south.
They were on the high ridge of the road when the drone of an engine came to them out of the sky. Travayne saw the aeroplane first, and they stood watching as it drew nearer and began to circle overhead.
“The fellow’s attempting to land!” he said incredulously.
Instantly Ruth was reminded of the last occasion on which she had watched an aeroplane circling low over the dunes. The incident had escaped her memory, but now she remembered the shafts of light which had undoubtedly come from the headlamps of a sports car driving at a mad speed between the trees of the avenue. Whether the two had any connection, she had not stopped to think.
The aeroplane was banking towards the sea, and they noticed that it was flying much lower now. They watched silently as it turned once more and flew directly above their heads, swooping low over the Long Meadow, so low that for a moment Ruth thought there must be a crash. She drew in her breath sharply as the machine rose steeply into the air.
“Whew!” Travayne whistled. “The fellow must be mad— stunting at this time of night!”
“I think I’ve seen that ’plane before,” Ruth told him. “It did the same sort of—stunt then, too.”
He turned back towards the lane.
“A sensation-seeker in the district, probably,” he opined.
They were at the bend where the path led across the fields, and, suddenly, Edmund Hersheil was standing before them. The momentary look of confusion fled from his face as he recognised Travayne and was replaced by a scowl.
“Good-evening,” he said to Ruth, and passed on.
“I’m afraid I have made myself unpopular with our friend!” John mused, as they went slowly across the patch of lawn to the house.
On the cliffs behind them another late walker had noted the passing of the aeroplane, and when Victor Monset saw Edmund striding hurriedly between the stone gateposts of the Hall, his lips curved downwards in a characteristic expression.
“I wonder what the Squire’s nephew is up to now,” he thought, as he sauntered back to the house by the gateway in the south wall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ruth was astir by six o’clock the following morning, doing all she could to make the tasks of the day lighter for Peg in her absence. She was spreading the table-cloth in the dining-room when John made his appearance, and he insisted on taking his early breakfast with her father in the kitchen to save her extra trouble.
They left the farm shortly before nine o’clock and walked across the moor path to the village. As they stood waiting for the Newcastle ’bus, more than one villager acknowledged Ruth, glancing with frank curiosity at her companion.
“Village curiosity—the same all the world over, I expect!” Ruth laughed.
“Very much the same,” John replied dryly, cramming tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “Here comes our friend of the widow’s cottage—Martha Something-or-other.”
Martha Harrup approached slowly, standing a few yards from where they were waiting. She was obviously going somewhere by the ’bus, for her habitual garb of beret and knitted jacket had been exchanged for a tweed costume of a style popular many years before. A large umbrella—a necessary part of Martha’s best outfit even on the sunniest days—hung over her arm.
Ruth acknowledged her with a smile and a nod and turned back to John.
“I think the ’bus must be late,” she observed. “It’s due here at nine-fifteen.”
“It’s just that now,” Travayne said, glancing at his watch.
Ruth turned to look up the road and was surprised to find how much nearer Miss Harrup had edged towards them in those few minutes. She was now quite within earshot. Ruth could not help smiling at the village gossip’s exaggerated look of indifference, and at that moment the ’bus came round the corner. Ruth boarded it first, and Travayne stepped back to allow Martha Harrup to get in before him. They were the only passengers, and the fact seemed to be adequate excuse for Miss Harrup. She began with a remark about the weather, and before the ’bus had reached Alnwick she had obtained sufficient information about Travayne to keep her busy for a week or two.
When the ’bus drew out of Bondgate and started on its way to Newcastle, John sat back in his seat and laughed.
“Thank heaven she’s gone! I hope I have satisfied her—up to a point!”
Ruth smiled.
“Martha has always been like that,” she assured him. “I’m afraid it has come to be all she lives for.”
“ I experienced one terrible moment when I thought she was going all the way to Newcastle!” he confessed.
“I had hoped she was just going as far as Alnwick,” Ruth laughed.
The remainder of the journey seemed to fly past now when, left to themselves, they watched the changing panorama of the scenery; the wooded denes cleft by the broad North Road; the glimpses of white-washed farm buildings; the tiny hamlets with an air about them as quiet as sleep, and the collieries like black scars on the green land.
As they approached the town the ’bus began to fill up. People from outlying villages were flocking to the various places of entertainment which were a feature of the local Race Week.
They were held up at Gosforth Park while two large horse-transport vans turned in through the gates on their way to the racecourse. Ruth was gazing out of the near window when her companion remarked:
“We seem destined to run up against Hersheil!”
Ruth looked up quickly and was just in time to see the back of the familiar sports car disappear down the straight road in front of them.
“He didn’t mention he was coming to town this morning,” she said, as their ’bus moved forward with the stream of traffic.
“Probably he’s come down to the race meeting,” John replied, and dismissed the subject as being of little importance.
Suddenly,
on their right, the houses gave place to a great stretch of open grass land.
“That’s the Town Moor,” Ruth explained. “In a moment we’ll be coming to the shows.”
Many happy memories of youth rose in her heart as she spoke, and there was a joyous light in her eyes as she waited for the ’bus to draw level with that part of the moor which was set aside each year to accommodate the gigantic fair.
“There it is!” she cried at last. “The Temperance Festival, or—more familiarly—the hoppings! It is said to be the largest fair in the country,” she went on to explain to John, eager that he might share her enthusiasm. “There’s literally everything there!” “It might bear investigation—later,” he mused. “Unless you have any other suggestions to make?”
“I’d love it!” she smiled. “It would be like getting back to—to a time when there was nothing in the world to worry about!”
“I hope I can take you back to that time,” he said gravely. John’s destination was Grey Street, and they arranged that Ruth should spend an hour in the shops and they would meet again in Blackett Street for lunch. He left her under the Goldsmith’s Clock, and, in an hour’s time, he came slowly down the stair from the solicitor’s office and stood for a moment in the arched doorway.
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 ge
ts 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.”
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