The Sherwood Ring, Page 2

  "England, yes; professor, no — at least not for about another twenty years," said the young man. "It's nice to know that that's the way I impress people, but to tell the truth I'm just a student over here on a scholarship to do some research on your War of Independence. My name is Thorne; most of my friends call me Pat."

  "Mine is Grahame — Peggy Grahame. Mr. Grahame at Rest-and-be-thankful is my uncle."

  "He is?" The young man's eyes lit up. "Miss Grahame, I don't want to seem impertinent or — or intrusive, but would you mind very much if I asked you something? It's just that I can't understand the situation at all, and the fact is — Good Lord, I'm keeping you waiting in the mud! Here, get in the car and put this over you; I think it's probably the original buffalo robe Ted Lowry's grandfather used when he went out courtin' in his cutter, but it may help to keep you warm."

  "What were you going to say the fact was?" I asked, spreading the buffalo robe across my knees.

  "That's the trouble — I don't know." Pat had returned to the engine and was poking at it rather savagely. "The whole business makes no sense at all. Did you ever read one of those mysteries where the heroine leaves her mother at the hotel for a few hours while she goes out to see the strange city, and when she comes back the mother has disappeared and the room has been refurnished and all the employees swear themselves blue that they never laid eyes on her before? I always used to think it was a silly sort of story myself. But now I'm not so sure."

  "You mean you left your mother in a hotel, and — "

  "Heavens, no! Only what's been happening to me is just a little too much like that story to be funny. Listen! I told you I was a student over here on a scholarship, didn't I? Well, I got it to do a history of guerrilla warfare in New York during the Revolution. I was particularly keen on the idea because one of the eighteenth-century Thornes was with the British army and is supposed to have been involved with the guerrillas in some way. I remember an old cousin of mine telling me about him once when I was a boy down at the family place on a holiday. He showed me his picture and a great pack of his letters and the diary he'd kept while he was serving in America. I didn't actually read them myself at the time — I couldn't have been more than ten — but I saw them. That I am certain of: certain."

  "But why shouldn't you be?"

  "That's just the point. When I heard about the scholarship, naturally the first thing I thought of was laying my hands on that stuff. It was original source material, you see, that had never been published; and since my cousin had said that the eighteenth-century Thorne was a rather remarkable man, it might very well turn out to be really important. My cousin had died that winter, and I'd inherited the place, but a sister of his who'd kept house for him was still living there. So I went down for a week before I sailed to say goodbye and make arrangements for taking the papers with me. And would you believe it? Cousin Mildred simply looked me in the eye and said her poor brother must have been making up bedtime stories to amuse me. There wasn't any picture. There wasn't any diary. There weren't any letters. There hadn't even been any eighteenth-century Thorne who'd fought in the War of Independence. And she would thank me to be a little more quiet and stop pestering her about it. No such person had ever existed, and the sooner I got that through my head the better it would be for all concerned. The worst of it was that as far as I could tell she was quite right."

  "You mean you weren't able to find anything — anything at all?"

  "Not a trace. Not a whiff. Not a scrap. And it wasn't as if I didn't take the house apart practically brick by brick looking for the stuff, either. There was just one hint I found that kept me from feeling I must be completely mad. The picture I told you about was only a little thing — one of those miniatures painted on ivory with a round gold frame — and my cousin had hung it on the wall beside the desk in his study. By the time I got there, it was gone like all the rest, of course; and a big Victorian water color of Salisbury Cathedral At Sunset was hanging in its place. But underneath there was a little round dark patch on the wallpaper, just the shape and size of the miniature as I remembered it. Something of the kind had certainly been there for years. Wait a minute. I think Betsy's coming out of her tantrum."

  He drew down the hood of the car with great care, as if he were afraid of disturbing somebody, and slid cautiously under the wheel. Betsy coughed once or twice in a fretful way and began to snuffle forward.

  "What did your Cousin Mildred say when you told her about finding the place for the miniature?"

  "She said that if I thought I could hold her accountable for every spot on the wallpaper, I was mistaken, and her sainted mother had painted the water color of Salisbury Cathedral At Sunset with her own hands, and it was very fortunate she wasn't back on earth today to see what the manners of the younger generation had come to. At that point, I gave up. My ship was due to sail in a couple of days, and I decided I might as well let the whole Mildred problem wait till I saw what I could find at this end. My late cousin had said something about the eighteenth-century Thornes being connected in some way with the Grahames at Rest-and-be-thankful — I'd remembered the name because it was so odd — and I thought your uncle might be able to help me out. I particularly wanted to get in touch with him anyway, because everybody had told me that he was the authority on local history in Orange County and couldn't be kinder or more generous about letting young scholars consult him and work with his collections. Kind and generous — those were the exact words." Pat scowled furiously, and Betsy, apparently taking his expression as a personal insult, let out a squeal and collapsed again.

  "But what happened?" I demanded, when we were moving once more.

  "I don't know, I tell you! It was the business with Cousin Mildred all over again, only worse. I wrote him politely when I got in, enclosing my letters of introduction and asking when it would be convenient for me to call. He didn't answer. I wrote him again, and he still didn't answer. I tried telephoning, but the operator says he doesn't have a telephone. Finally, I decided that the only thing left to do was drive out and make one last effort to see him myself. Not that I expect this will work, either, but — look here, Miss Grahame, what's the matter with me? What's wrong? Do you happen to know if I've done anything to offend your uncle? Or is this just the way he usually behaves?"

  I was obliged to tell him that I had no more idea than he had of the way Uncle Enos usually behaved, but added soothingly that there had probably been some simple misunderstanding, and everything would be cleared up as soon as we got to Rest-and-be-thankful.

  "I certainly hope so," said Pat gloomily. "I'm beginning to feel like one of those characters who's under a mysterious family curse."

  "The sun's coming out again, anyway," I went on. "Maybe it's a good omen. The woods seem to be getting thinner, too, and — oh, look! Look there!"

  The last of the trees had fallen away behind us, and the road was dipping down into a little valley that lay between two curving hills, a valley full of apple trees, all in full bloom — immense, straggling apple trees, the largest and oldest I had ever seen. Where the two hills met, there rose suddenly from the drifts of delicate flowers, as if from some enchanted sea, the mossy dark roof of a huge stone house. There were four enormous chimneys, two at each of the main gables, and between them along the ridgepole perched three white pigeons, sunning themselves after the rain. Below, there were glimpses through the foaming branches of weathered stone walls and dark shutters.

  I had never been in a place that looked so quiet, so utterly hushed. No one was in sight; not a leaf stirred or a voice broke the golden stillness that lay like a spell over everything. Even the pigeons on the roof sat without cooing or preening, the afternoon light gleaming on their motionless feathers.

  "So that was why they called it Rest-and-be-thankful," I murmured. For some reason I did not feel as if I ought to raise my voice.

  "Betsy seems to think so, anyway," said Pat ruefully. "She's stopping again."

  This time Betsy had apparently set
tled down for a long nap, and it proved impossible to rouse her. In the end, Pat took my overnight case and we walked down the driveway under the apple trees and on through a velvet-like formal garden to the house. There, four steps led up to a flagged terrace with a balustrade and great urns heaped with trailing ivy and rose geranium.

  "You know, I'm inclined to think that poor Betsy was just trying to be tactful," said Pat, glancing up at the fanlight and the fluted white columns of the doorway. "This isn't the kind of setting where she looks her best. We really ought to be arriving in a coach and four, with outriders and powdered footmen up behind."

  At that moment the door opened and a very old butler with white hair bowed to me, saying something in a voice which shook so that I could only distinguish the words "Miss Peggy" and "come in" and "a great day for the house." Behind him was a wide shadowy hall with a grandfather clock that ticked loudly in the stillness and a huge fireplace with a trophy of guns and swords over the mantel. At the back a vast mahogany staircase went up into gloom.

  "Mr. Enos is in the study," said the old butler, opening a door at the right. "He's been expecting you."

  We passed into a dim, paneled library with high bookcases that reached to the ceiling and across it to another door on the far side. My heart was beginning to beat thunderously and my feet kept stumbling over each other. I glanced frantically around for Pat, but he only caught my eye and winked at me outrageously.

  "Miss Peggy, sir," said the butler.

  Uncle Enos was sitting in a high-backed wing chair by the fire. I recognized him instantly: very tall, very dark, very slender, with what we called "the Grahame face" — long and narrow, the thin straight black eyebrows over wide-set gray eyes, like my father's and my own. But my father had never stood so erect, or carried himself with such overwhelming dignity. When Uncle Enos came forward and held out his hand to me, it was almost as if he were tossing a ruffle of lace back from his wrist.

  "My dear child," he said magnificently.

  He sounded so like a character in an eighteenth- century novel that I felt I really ought to sink down in a deep curtsey and ask him for his blessing. As it was, I merely found myself touching his hand for a brief instant and murmuring something about being glad to see him. Uncle Enos in return expressed the polite hope that I had not had too long or difficult a journey. "But I see," he added, "that you were traveling with friends?" — and his eyes went inquiringly to Pat standing near the door.

  Pat set down the overnight case and took a determined step forward.

  "My name is Thorne, sir," he said clearly, "and I have been very eager to meet you for a long time now."

  I had wondered what was going to happen when Pat and Uncle Enos finally came together, but not even in my wildest speculations had I hit upon the sort of thing that actually occurred. Uncle Enos stared at him for one stupefied instant, and then said in the most appalling voice:

  "You!"

  "Why, yes, I suppose so," said poor Pat, utterly taken aback. "You remember that I wrote you some time ago for information in connection with my study of guerrilla warfare in Orange County during the — "

  Uncle Enos merely drew himself up in front of his desk as if he were bodily trying to protect its contents from the contamination of Pat's glance.

  "I have nothing whatever to say to you, sir," he interrupted him in a voice of ice. "You will leave this house at once."

  And with that he actually stretched out his arm and pointed his finger at the door, exactly like the outraged father in an old steel engraving called "Her Tory Lover" that I remembered hanging on the wall of Mrs. Campbell's inn parlor.

  "Uncle Enos, please!" I clutched at his other arm desperately. "Please! You don't understand. This gentleman has been very kind to me. He — "

  "Be quiet, child!" Uncle Enos made a fierce gesture with his free hand. "Let me deal with this! I don't know how he contrived to make your acquaintance, but you are never to have anything more to do with him. Never, do you hear me?"

  "But why, Uncle Enos? Why? What is it? What is he supposed to have done?"

  "Yes, if you don't mind, sir, what am I supposed to have done?" Pat cut in. "Look, Mr. Grahame, I'm sure that there must be some mistake. If you'll only explain — "

  "I have no explanation to offer you, now or on any future occasion," announced Uncle Enos grandly. "I have told you to leave my house, and I have told my niece she is not to see you again. That is enough for you both. I refuse to discuss the subject any further." He flung back his head, standing very straight, one hand at his hip as if it were resting on the hilt of a sword. He looked more like an eighteenth-century gentleman than ever.

  But Pat was beginning to lose his own temper and look rather like an eighteenth-century gentleman himself — the haughty young officer in "Her Tory Lover," in fact. He did not rage or stamp or shout. He simply allowed his gaze to rest on Uncle Enos as if he were seeing him from somewhere a long way off and did not find him particularly attractive.

  "In that case, sir," he retorted, "I think there is nothing more I have to say to you, except perhaps — " he turned with his hand on the knob of the door and grinned at Uncle Enos impertinently, "that I have every intention of seeing your niece again, very soon, whether you like it or not." Then he was gone.

  As the door swung shut behind him, Uncle Enos suddenly began to shake. He caught rather fumblingly at the back of his desk chair and sank down into it, almost as though he could no longer stand.

  "What shall I do now?" he whispered. "What on earth shall I do?" He was speaking to himself — apparently he did not even realize that I was still in the room — and his face looked so white and miserable that I could not help going to him and putting my hand on his shoulder.

  "Dear Uncle Enos," I begged, "can't you possibly tell me what's the matter?"

  But Uncle Enos was already recovering himself. He twitched his shoulder away from my touch and pulled his chair around to the desk, turning his back on me altogether.

  "I thought I told you I was not going to discuss the subject." He reached for his pen and letter pad with an impatient jerk. "Run along now like a good child, and don't bother me. I have work to do. If you'll just go back to the hall and speak to the butler, he'll take you up to your room."

  The butler, however, had gone away and there was nobody in the hall when I came out but a maid winding the grandfather clock — a very pretty girl in a long, full-skirted dress of flowered chintz with a ruffled cap and an organdy apron. She told me her name was Petunia, and she was the "downstairs" maid at Rest-and-be-thankful. She had an older sister, Zinnia, who attended to the "upstairs," and a younger sister, Gladiola, who helped the cook in the kitchen. All three were daughters of the butler, Christopher Seven — so called because he was descended from the original Christopher who had been butler in the days of the first Enos Grahame and had died in 1792, leaving a son, Christopher Two, and a grandson, Christopher Three, to carry on the line. The present Christopher was the seventh and last of the family. "And Mr. Enos has gone and got him so stuck-up about that name that he won't even let his own children call him Daddy no more," concluded Petunia, with a disrespectful giggle. "Did you say you wanted to go up to your room now, Miss Peggy? Dinner won't be till seven o'clock if you'd like to lie down a while first. You must be mighty tired after all that trip."

  Suddenly I realized that I was tired — cruelly tired — so tired that it seemed a long way across the hall to the stairs. The strain and excitement and confusion of the afternoon had worn me out completely. Everything that had happened was whirling and jumbling incoherently through my mind — the walk through Martin's Wood; the mysterious girl on the horse; Pat and the curious story he had told me; my first glimpse of Rest-and-be-thankful among the apple trees; the scene in the study when Uncle Enos had so strangely refused to have anything more to do with Pat and had driven him out of the house . . .

  Maybe it will get clearer tomorrow, I thought foggily as I trailed behind Petunia up the stairs. Anyway,
I can ask Uncle Enos about the girl on the horse. She must live somewhere around here . . . he probably knows who she is.

  But as it turned out, I did not have to ask Uncle Enos after all. The next moment I had come around the bend of the stair into the landing; and there, gleaming down from the paneled wall, hung a great life-size portrait in a carved and gilded frame. It was the portrait of a girl wearing a long crimson cloak — a beautiful girl, dark and proud, with wide-set gray eyes that were brilliant as jewels. One of her hands rested on the shoulder of a tall black horse, just visible behind her in the shadows; the other hand was lifted to tuck back a dark curl that was blowing out of her hood. On the frame under the picture was a small square plaque with an inscription:

  BARBARA GRAHAME

  At the Age of Sixteen

  Painted by

  John Singleton Copley

  1773

  I stood staring at the portrait for a long time before I could get it through my head that I had already met my first ghost at Rest-and-be-thankful.

  The Scrap of Tartan

  I WAS SITTING on the floor in the library at Rest-and-be-thankful, sulking. Theoretically I was tidying up the bottom drawer of the big Chippendale cabinet, but actually I was sulking. Outside the sun was shining and the birds were singing and the open windows were clustered round with yellow roses — it was now three weeks since my arrival and we were well into June— but I was in no mood to do anything but sit on the floor with my back to the garden and think bitterly about my wrongs and grievances. There were a great many of them; and I was getting a certain miserable satisfaction from laying them all out and rummaging through them over and over again.

  It was all very well for my father to say that I couldn't expect Uncle Enos to change his ways on my account. But surely my father had not supposed that Uncle Enos was going to behave as if he hardly knew I was even in the house? After three weeks I was still no better acquainted with him than I had been at the beginning. In fact, I almost never saw him except at meals, which were eaten in state at a long walnut table designed for twenty, with an enormous centerpiece of antique crystal and silver to conceal anyone sitting at one end from his companion at the other. Uncle Enos would come wandering in on the last stroke of the gong, with a book under his arm, say "Good morning" or "Good evening" absent-mindedly to me, prop open the book in front of him, and read it (as far as I could judge for the distance and the centerpiece) throughout the meal. The rest of the day he usually spent working in his study, and when interrupted would simply tell me over his shoulder to run along and stop bothering him.