Free Return to Spring by Jean S. Macleod

you to-morrow?”
    The question came automatically. She scarcely realised what she was asking him. Only one fact dominated her mind—he was leaving. John Travayne was leaving Conningscliff, and he was leaving a day sooner than he had originally intended. Ruth tried to pull herself together. What kind of foolish thoughts was she permitting? John Travayne was a guest—like any other holidaymaker at Conningscliff—like the Wiltons and the Finchleys and like Valerie Grenton. Why should the day of his departure rise before her across a dark horizon? She was being incredibly foolish, she told herself angrily. She had known all along that this week could not last for ever—the haunting sweetness of it, the brief moments of a perfect companionship. She had dared to dream that it might, but dreams were abstract things. This was reality.
    She looked at him and found him engrossed in his task. He had not even replied to her formal question. The silence between them held for a moment. It was as if the garden, hushed and still, awaited some confession. At last Ruth, unable to bear the strange feeling of expectancy any longer, asked:
    “You’re going back to London?”
    He dug the hoe into the soft earth and left it upright and quivering.
    “Not immediately. I’m breaking my journey at Newcastle on business.”
    “Oh—!”
    Ruth lifted her basket and drew off her gardening gloves. “You’ve made this a very enjoyable week for me,” Travayne said. “I want to thank you.”
    The words were stilted—conventional. Ruth reproved herself mentally for expecting anything more. After all, it was her job to see that people enjoyed themselves at Conningscliff.
    “It’s part of my duty to see that things run smoothly for my guests,” she said rather stiffly. “I’m glad that your holiday has proved a success.”
    What was forcing her to speak like this to him? Perhaps the fact that, had she spoken more kindly, she might have let him see only too plainly how much his going really meant to her.
    “Let me take your basket for you,” he said more gently, as she passed him on the narrow path.
    She gave him the basket and he walked behind her to the house. Her father was sitting at the door of the kitchen, so obviously waiting for Travayne to chat with him that Ruth’s eyes filled with sudden tears and she made her way swiftly into the house.
    For the remainder of the day she saw John only at meal times, and she sat with her father in the evening, going over accounts and the preparations for the next list of guests. She knew that Travayne was in the garden; she had seen the glow of his pipe in the dusk from her bedroom window, but she bent her head over her books and told herself that the morning was a saner time for partings.
    Travayne had asked to be called at eight o’clock, although the train which would take him south was not due at the Junction until ten-thirty. Ruth, determined that she would not see him more than was strictly necessary, decided to make her weekly trip to Alnwick for provisions in the morning instead of waiting until after lunch.
    She was ready to walk into the village to catch the ten o’clock bus when she sought out Travayne.
    “I’ll say good-bye now,” she said, meeting his eyes frankly. “Will Finberry will drive you to the Junction. I’ve told him to bring the trap round at ten o’clock.”
    He held out his hand.
    “This is not good-bye,” he said, looking down at her steadily, “as long as there is a Guest House at Conningscliff.”
    Before Ruth could reply Valerie Grenton appeared at the door of the lounge.
    “Oh, here you are!” she said. “I was looking for you in the kitchen. I’ve been settling up with your father. I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind again about staying that extra day, and I mean to be off right away.”
    “Just as you wish,” Ruth said. “Would you care to have your lunch earlier?’
    “I won’t be waiting for lunch,” Valerie said, with a quick glance in