… LADY MARY STIRRED IN her wide canopied bed. She opened her eyes and gazed into the darkness and lay motionless. Something had wakened her, a noise, a voice, perhaps. Had Richard called her? She sat up, yawned delicately behind her hand and switched on the lamp on her bedside table. The white curtains at the windows were billowing gently into the room and the air was damp. The expected rain had come and now there must be fog rising from the river. She turned back the blankets and felt for her satin slippers on the floor. She must go at once and see if Richard wanted something. Slipping into her white negligee, she lit the candle to guide her through the passage between her room and Sir Richard’s, the passage that had no light otherwise, and pattered softly through it. Both doors swung open easily, she entered his room and going to the bed, she stood looking down at him, shielding the flickering light of the candle from his face with her hand, lest he awake.
“Richard,” she whispered.
He did not answer. He was asleep, his breathing deep and steady. It was not he, then, who had called. Who could have waked her? She tiptoed out of the room and into her own again, closing the doors. Should she go back to bed? She hesitated, shivering in the damp air. Then as always when she was undecided she gave herself up to concentration, standing with her eyes closed, until at the far end of the long tunnel she saw the shining light of awareness of what she should do. …
The familiar sense of ease, of relief, warmed her body. No, she was not to go back to bed. Put on something warm, her flannel robe, and what then? Just walk about, perhaps, feeling everything, feeling it to be the right moment, perhaps waiting until they told her? She might not hear a voice, but sometimes she was moved by feeling, as though unseen hands, lighter than the mist, were touching her cheeks, her hands, her shoulders, guiding her somewhere. Yes, now she could feel them, leading her down the passage and the corridor to the great hall. She yielded herself until at last she stood under the chandelier, and felt herself stopped. Wait, she felt, wait to hear a voice, King John’s voice, if it were his, poor King John. He had always been one of her favorites, nevertheless. She had come across a description of him once in an old book in the library.
Tall and fair of body, with fierce blue eyes and ruddy fair hair; voracious, always hungered, a young man coming late to love, and having no shame in drinking all day and all night—
It had made her think of Richard when they fell in love—“coming late to love,” so late that she had wondered if there had been a woman before her. She had not dared to ask, and for awhile had been eaten up with unspoken jealousy because he told her nothing of an earlier love. She looked up expectantly into the chandelier and saw the crystals twinkling and shining faintly in the candlelight, like a face with a thousand eyes.
“Very well,” she said softly, “if it’s the moment then say something — please, King John, tell me where the treasure is!”
She gazed upward, head thrown back, her long silvery hair streaming down her back and listened, her face intent.
“Or what is it?” she whispered into the light.
… Kate was asleep, too, but lightly. She had left a candle burning on her dressing table, a small candle set into a deep bowl against possible fire. She kept a candle always burning lest Lady Mary call her at night. She lay quietly now as she slept, her dark hair loosely curling on the pillow, and her bare arm flung upward about her head. The other hand lay open, palm upward, on her breast. She was beautiful asleep, though no one was there to see her, half smiling, dreaming perhaps of recent adventures, the lily pond and the sunshine, the firelight in the great ball and John’s tall figure at the window.
A door creaked and her eyes opened. She waked at the slightest sound, aware even in her sleep of the two for whom she felt responsible because she loved them.
“Yes?” she called.
No one answered. She raised herself on her elbow and saw a dark silhouette, a shadow at the door. She caught her breath, stopping with her hand to her mouth the sound that might have come involuntarily. Lady Mary came into the room.
“It’s only I, Kate. My candle went out and I’d forgotten to put the box of matches in my pocket.”
She walked to the bed and looked down into Kate’s wide eyes. “What’s the matter, child? Have you seen something, too?”
“No, my lady — only I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“I wasn’t expecting to be here,” Lady Mary said, “but I was called. I got up and waited for instructions and now it’s quite clear to me, Kate, that this is the right moment for us to act.”
Kate, gazing up at Lady Mary, felt suddenly afraid — of what? Not of this gentle aging figure, surely, whom she knew better than she knew her own impulsive self, she sometimes thought, except that Lady Mary looked at this moment so transparent, so fragile, so unearthly, that she—
“Have you heard a voice, my lady?”
“I don’t know,” Lady Mary replied. “I think I did hear someone, but I can’t be sure I really heard anything — or anyone. I was simply pervaded, if you know what I mean—”
“I don’t, quite,” Kate said, wondering.
Lady Mary was a trifle impatient. “I can’t stand here explaining, Kate. It’s simply that I feel them. I know they are moving about. There’s excitement. Get up at once, Kate. They can be very difficult if they are wanting to tell us something and don’t find us waiting. They will go off in a huff. It’s quite difficult for them to reach us, you know. I daresay they try as hard as we do.”
Kate reached for her rose-colored dressing gown. She smoothed back her tumbled hair and tried not to shiver. Lady Mary did look strange — resolute, grave, but remote, especially her eyes—
“Shouldn’t we take someone with us, my lady?” Kate asked. “I’ll call Grandfather, shan’t I?”
“Certainly not,” Lady Mary said. “He’s much too old. We don’t know where we’ll be led — perhaps into the dungeons. He might slip on those wet stones and then we’d have to try to carry him.”
“I could call Sir Richard — or even Mr. Webster or — or the American—”
“Unbelievers,” Lady Mary declared. “They’d only send out negative impulses and then we couldn’t make contact at all. No — no — just you and I, Kate — and hurry, there’s a good girl. Carry the candle — bring your matches—”
She could only obey and she put on her little white fur slippers and followed Lady Mary into the passage, through the great hall and down then into the cellars. There Lady Mary paused to open a high old wooden cabinet in which hung hundreds of keys. She chose a huge key of bronze, green with age, and with it opened a narrow door that led into a winding corridor.
“My lady,” Kate, silent until now, spoke anxiously. “Are you sure you won’t catch cold? It’s been ages since anybody was down here — the air is like death itself.”
“There’s no such thing as death, not really,” Lady Mary said. “It’s just a change to something — I’ve told you — another level of whatever it is that we call life. It’s only a transfer of energy. Can you understand? Please try, Kate! It would mean so much to me if someone did.”
Lady Mary paused in the dim corridor. Her face was beautifully alive now, her eyes tender, her voice warm. Kate felt a deep longing to believe in her, and at the same time an impulse to run away, to fly back to the great hall, to find someone young and untouched by strangeness, someone like herself. Yet who was young in the castle except John Blayne? And he was still a stranger, someone from a new world.
“It’s like the wireless, I tell you,” Lady Mary was saying. “There’s an instrument of transmission in us, but not everyone understands how to use it. Some day we’ll know quite easily and then nobody will think it strange or talk about ghosts. It’s only because we don’t quite know yet — or so few of us do—”
The dreadful thought crossed Kate’s mind now that Lady Mary might be going mad. She lifted the candle involuntarily so that the light fell on her face. Lady Mary stepped back. “Don’t do that,” she cried. “It hurts me.”
She is going mad, Kate thought desperately, and tears came welling into her eyes. Through their shimmering she saw, or thought she saw, a nimbus about Lady Mary’s head, like that of madonnas in old paintings.
She set the candle on a deep windowsill and put her arms about Lady Mary. “You aren’t well, dear,” she said. “You look so strangely at me. Perhaps you’re only tired with all the anxiety — it would be natural.”
Lady Mary drew back gently but firmly. “Stop shivering, child. I am not going mad and I feel quite clearly what you’re thinking. There’s nothing strange — it’s all quite common sense, but I won’t go into it now. Remember what we’re here for — it’s to ask them to show us treasure, if there is any.”
She turned away from Kate and walked ahead of her down a long winding passage that descended almost imperceptibly as they went. She walked as if she were asleep, purposefully, familiarly, her step sure, her bearing confident. She was talking, not to herself exactly, Kate thought, and certainly not to her, but as if to someone who was walking just ahead. “We need a million dollars. That’s what the American offers us. How much is that in pounds? Yes, it’s a great many pounds — at any rate, more than we could possibly get together, and Government won’t do anything. And not just rubies in the tennis court, please — this is serious. It’s the castle now, the whole castle, and where are we to go if it’s taken from us? Where are you to go?”
Kate was melted into pity and fresh alarm. “Ah now, Lady Mary dear, let’s go back and find somebody!”
“Nonsense,” Lady Mary said firmly. “We’re going straight ahead. They’ll speak when they can.”
And she led the way down to the dungeons.
… Sir Richard opened his eyes and stared about the room. It was still dark, the intense darkness before dawn. A voice echoed in his ears, a woman’s voice.
“Who’s there?” he shouted.
No one answered. He thought nevertheless that he heard breathing, a fluttering sort of breath, a rustle somewhere near the northern window. He fumbled on the table for his matches and knocked the box to the floor.
“Damn,” he said in a loud voice. He switched on the bedside lamp, knowing he must find the matches in case he had need of the candle. He got out of bed and knelt on the stone floor in his old-fashioned nightshirt, his bare knees chilled, and felt as far as he could reach. No matchbox!
“Damn, damn,” he muttered between clenched teeth. He got to his feet stiffly and kicked about until he found his slippers, then shuffled over to the window, knocking his leg on a corner of his desk. The shuttered window was open and the light of a sinking moon shone palely over the yew walk and the lawn. The elephants loomed monstrously large, their shadows black. He could see nothing else and he leaned out and called.
“You there — speak up!”
No one spoke, but a flock of birds sleeping in the ivy flew out in alarm. He chuckled.
“It was you then, you rascals!” For a moment he stood by the window breathing in the good air that had been so recently washed with rain, then he yawned and shuffled back to the bed, stumbling over the elusive matchbox on the way. He got in, pulled the covers about him, and tried to sleep again. It was impossible. The events of the past two days came alive in his mind and he lived over each detail. This American! He envied the youth, the gaiety, the confident power of the man. A foreboding fell upon him. Again and again England had been revived by youth of other lands. Here in his own castle, built upon Roman foundations, young Danes, coming from France as conquerors, had created a strong new life. He switched on the lamp by his bed and reached for a book he had been reading.
“Oh France,” the ancient chronicler declared, “Thou layest stricken and low upon the ground … But, behold, from Denmark came forth a new race … Compact was made, between her and thee. This race will lift up thy name and dominion to the skies.”
“And how great the blend had been,” the book said, “old Roman order with youthful human energy!”
He sighed, and knew he could not sleep. Was he not now of the old order? And did John Blayne indeed bring in the new? He laid the book away and put out the light. Shivering, he drew up the covers and fell into a troubled sleep, distressed by clouded dreams.
Hours later, or perhaps only minutes, he was wakened, or dreamed he was wakened, by the deep vague melancholy that he had come to know so well, preceding always the restless, throbbing pain inside his skull. Here it was again — and how to escape it? He dreaded the darkness that fell upon his mind. Light! He must find light. Where was the light? He could not breathe, he struggled to open his eyes, and then as if he were in heavy chains, he got slowly out of bed, fumbling for the light and unable to find it, then fumbling for the matches but he could not put his hand on the box.
He remembered that behind the swinging pane he kept matches and a candle, and he groped his way to the wall. He felt for the particular spot, the center of a star in the carving of the panel. He pressed it. The wall, which no one knew was a door except himself and Wells, swung creaking away from him. He went through it and closed it again carefully. Then he felt along the wall and found the alcove and the matchbox. The first three matches would not strike for dampness but he fumbled for the bottom match and then the flame held. He lit the candle and, blind with pain, he walked down the passage to the winding stair at its end and still with a strange purposefulness, as though he were deep in sleep, he climbed to the top, two flights up to the east tower. There the passage narrowed until it barely admitted his lean figure. At the end a door filled its width, an arched door, very low. He opened it and entered an octagonal room.
The light of the candle fell upon the thin figure of Wells, his hair in disarray and dusty with cobwebs.
He dropped on one knee. “Good evening, Your Majesty. I’d about given you up.”
Sir Richard put out his hand. Wells kissed it.
“Rise, Lord Dunsten,” Sir Richard said.
Wells rose, bowed deeply, and then as though it were a ritual long established, he took the candle from Sir Richard and set it on the table.
“Pray be seated, Your Majesty,” he said.
With these words, he pulled back from the table a massive oak chair. It was covered with a tattered robe of purple velvet, and this he wrapped about Sir Richard, who seated himself and waited in solemn silence while Wells went to a long narrow chest, also of oak, that stood against the wall. This chest he opened, lifting the heavy lid with effort and leaning it against the wall. From the chest he took out a large leather-bound book, fastened by silver hasps. He carried it to the table in both hands and set it before Sir Richard, who sat unmoving, his gaze downcast. Then, returning to the chest, Wells lifted from it a large scepter of heavy gold encrusted with jewels. This he carried, again in both hands, to Sir Richard, who took it in his right hand. Once more Wells went to the chest and now he took from it a crown of gold tinsel, cut into five high points, each point with a star of silver paste. This crown he took and set on Sir Richard’s head.
Then he bowed again deeply. “Is there anything else, Your Majesty?” he asked.
“Nothing, Lord Dunsten,” Sir Richard replied. “You may retire.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Wells said.
He had backed only a few steps toward the door, however, when Sir Richard lifted his left hand to stop him.
“One question, Lord Dunsten.”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“As my faithful prime minister, have you put down the plot to rob me of my crown?”
“You have nothing to fear, Your Majesty,” Wells said. He waited for what Sir Richard might say next, a look of anxious concern upon his long lean face, the shadows dark in his sunken cheeks.
Sir Richard sighed a deep and heartbreaking sigh. “Ah, my enemies seek my end! They will put an end to all kings — you’ll see — you’ll see! They will kill Richard the Fourth as they killed other kings.”
“No one knows you are here, Your Majesty.”
“No one but you,” Sir Richard said.
Wells bowed. “We are well hidden and I will never betray you, Sire.”
Sir Richard turned his nobly shaped head, gave Wells a royal look, and held out his right hand. On the forefinger was the gold ring set with the large ruby. Wells came forward and bowing over it, he kissed it.
Sir Richard spoke with touching dignity.
“You deserve to be Lord Protector — I’ll make you that, one day. I know how to reward your loyalty — what you did for me once, long ago—”
“Please, Your Majesty,” Wells broke in. He wrung his long thin hands. “We agreed that it was never to be brought up. The boy is dead.”
Sir Richard corrected him. “The Prince is dead — and I never — never — forget.”
His chin sank upon his breast for an instant and his eyes closed. The pain, the pain! He struggled against losing himself. He was sinking into darkness, into death, alive only to pain. He made great effort and felt himself rising up again. Suddenly he gave a start, lifted his head, drew the candlestick near, opened the book and began to read. Wells watched him for a moment, then backed silently to the door. There he stood for yet another moment. The candlelight fell upon the figure in the purple robe, upon the handsome aging profile, upon the crown and sceptre, and upon the high back of the chair.
It was a throne.
… Deep in the dungeon beneath the castle a sound reverberated with an echoing roar. Kate looked up, alarmed, her hand shielding the candle.
“What’s that, my lady?”
Lady Mary continued her careful search of the crannied wall. “A door banging,” she said absently.
“It sounded like the lid of a coffin,” Kate said.
“Nonsense,” Lady Mary retorted. She found a stone loose, a small stone in a crack between two large blocks and she worked it free and peered inside. “There’s something here,” she exclaimed. She felt inside the aperture and brought out a crooked spoon of silver, green with age.
“Nothing else,” she said. “Some poor prisoner, I suppose, hiding his spoon so that he needn’t eat with his fingers.”
Far above their heads they heard now a sudden clatter of metal. Kate cried out, “My lady, don’t tell me that sounds like nothing!”
Lady Mary listened. “It sounds like gold pieces,” she exclaimed. Her face lighted with excitement, and lifting her head she called.
“Whoever you are, wherever you are — where do I go?”
They listened, waiting, motionless, Kate believing, almost, that Lady Mary would be given an answer. But there was none. The silence deepened and suddenly the air in the dungeon that was thick with mildew and dust seemed too heavy to breathe. Kate, borne up by excitement until now, was suddenly depressed and frightened. She looked at Lady Mary. Her face was ashen and her blue eyes had faded in the candlelight to a pale gray.
“My lady,” Kate cried, “we must go back! The air is deathly here — poisonous, my lady! We’ll be suffocated — Ah now, don’t faint! What did I tell you?”
Lady Mary did indeed seem on the edge of fainting away. She leaned on Kate’s shoulder, gasping for breath
“Let me open that door yonder,” Kate cried and with one arm supporting Lady Mary and the other holding the candle, she led the way to a door opposite the stairway and, setting the candle on a jutting ledge of rough rock, she tried to force the door open. It would not open, however she pushed against it. The latch was old and rusted and did not yield.”
“There’s nothing for it,” she declared swiftly. “We’ll have to go up the stair again. Cling to me, my lady, we’ll make it somehow. … This way, dear. The stones are smoother here, where some poor prisoner paced back and forth perhaps until he died. … I blame myself that I let you come here at all. I should have known better.”
Painfully they climbed the stone steps until they were at the top. A stone ledge stood under a window so high and narrow that it was no more than a gash in the wall.
“Sit down for a bit, my lady,” Kate said. “I’ll run for my grandfather to help us. … Dare I leave you?”
“I shall be quite all right,” Lady Mary said faintly but with resolution.
“And I’ll be back immediately,” Kate said, “and then you must get in bed again and have a cup of nice hot tea.”
She kissed Lady Mary’s cheek impulsively and ran through the corridors and passages to her grandfather’s room.
Left alone Lady Mary continued to sit on the stone ledge in the wall. She clasped her hands on her lap, not together, but one hand laid in the other, palm up, like a bowl, waiting to receive. She gathered her strength, closed her eyes, and concentrated on the familiar long dark tunnel and upon the silver spot of light at its end.
“I give myself up,” she said in a low clear voice. “I am empty. I am waiting — waiting — waiting—”
She lifted her head to listen, she opened her eyes. There was a voice — yes, distinctly there was a voice — no, two voices, somewhere far above her. To the left? No, the right — difficult to tell! They echoed strangely beyond and above and — everywhere. She could not hear the words — not quite. Then she heard almost clearly—“Your Majesty—” She felt suddenly faint. Then it was true. She had not only imagined. It was more than the wind in the ivy clinging to the walls. Others did live here in the castle.
Her head drooped upon her breast. Her hands grew limp and her eyes closed.
… “Grandfather!” Kate called.
There was no answer. She flung open the door. The room was dim in the approaching dawn. She entered and looked behind the curtains at the old-fashioned bed where Wells slept. He was not there.
“Whatever!” Kate muttered to herself. “He can’t have gone to the kitchens so early as this.”
She ran out of the room again and had scarcely gone twenty feet when she heard a loud shout from the direction of the Duke’s room. The bell rang violently and she heard a door flung open.
“What the devil!” John Blayne roared.
“Wait,” she cried. “I’m coming.”
She made haste in the direction of the Duke’s room. John stood there in the doorway. She put back her hair and tied the sash of her dressing gown more tightly about her waist.
“What is it, please?” she asked, and could not but notice how his crimson satin dressing gown became him, and how young he looked, his hair every which way and his face fresh with sleep.
He tried to laugh. “Idiotic — but I saw a sort of floating head going by the window! Somebody is playing jokes.”
“You were dreaming,” she said.
He rubbed his hands through his hair and lifted his eyebrows. “Dreaming? Maybe. I am. Where did you come from, for example?”
“I am looking for my grandfather. Have you seen him?”
“At this hour? No … Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean? You don’t know? Is someone ill?”
“I don’t think so but—”
“You’re ill!”
He stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders. “You’re shivering — yes, you are! Why are you wandering about at this time of night if you aren’t ill? Or frightened?”
He had her hands now and was chafing them.
“Perhaps I am frightened — a little,” she confessed.
“Which I can fully understand,” he went on, “for I’ll confess now, to you, that at this hour of the night your castle gives me the creeps. I don’t believe a word of what Lady Mary says, mind you — but I have the creeps, nevertheless. I don’t believe I saw a head without a body floating past my window, but I did. How in the devil have you lived here all your life and stayed what you are?”
She was smiling into his eyes, drinking in what he was saying. “How do you know what I am? You never saw me until yesterday!”
“I know a rose when I see one,” he said, half teasing. “And a rose by any other name than yours is not as sweet, Shakespeare notwithstanding.”
She was trembling now and not with cold. She must stop this at once, this impossible talk, this — this absurd way she felt — this melting and dissolving inside herself.
“Oh,” she cried softly, “what am I doing? I’ve forgotten Lady Mary!”
She pulled her hands away and fled.
… She disappeared so quickly that he could almost have believed that she sank through the floor except that it was stone, or slid through an unseen door, except that there was no door. The winding corridors hid her instantly, but he ran after her nevertheless, and found himself in a tangle of passages. It was no use. He could not find her and wandering indefinitely in the dim light before dawn, he could only be lost in the end. Indeed he was already lost. Which was his door? He had left it ajar but a cold wind blew through the corridors and no doors were open.
“What the devil is going on?” he muttered as he went this way and that.
And speaking of devils, he thought, where was Wells? He was reminded of the fellow now by a long, frayed bell rope that hung meaninglessly against a wall. He pulled it and heard a distant high jangle, but no one came. He pulled again, this time with force, and the velvet rope fell from the groined ceiling and wound about his shoulders like a snake. He threw it on the floor in disgust. There was nothing for it but to find his way back by wandering. There must be an end somewhere to this corridor.
He walked for several minutes, then the corridor made a sharp right-angle turn. He paused and looked straight ahead for fifty feet or more. The passage was windowless but at the end he saw a tall motionless figure, vague in the darkness.
“Wells!”
There was no answer. The man stood motionless. He went forward uncertainly until he was near enough to put out his hand. He felt cold steel. The man was a coat of armor — no more, no less! He burst into laughter and at himself.
“I am getting as crazy as you are, my good man,” he muttered. His voice echoed strangely between the stone walls and he tried to laugh again and found he could not.
“An empty shell of a man, that’s what you are,” he said loudly, “and that’s what we’ll all be if we stay here much longer.” He turned and strode back in the direction in which he had come.
He had not gone far, however, when he heard a low deep groan that ended in a choking gasp. He stopped. The noise came from behind a door some twenty feet ahead of him. He went to it and knocked. No one replied. He tried the door softly and it opened. A candle burned on a table beside a heavily curtained bed. From behind the curtains the groan broke forth again, ending in the choking gurgling gasp. He tiptoed across the floor and drew aside the worn red satin curtains. There under a tattered silken coverlet Webster lay sleeping, flat upon his back, his rough beard upthrust. The groan and gurgle gathered in his throat again, ready to explode.
He drew the curtains hastily together upon the hideous sight. Let Webster sleep, if he could — if anyone could in this ghostly dwelling place! He would get back to his own room somehow although he might be more lost than he imagined, in this Jules Verne sort of bewilderment, a relapse of time, a confusion of centuries. Though why Jules Verne, when Einstein himself in this modern age had declared the eternity of time? History repeating itself was a truism, simple enough until Einstein made his portentous discoveries. What if time were indeed a circle, a never-ending merry-go-round, repeating again and again the identical? What if all this were merely a remnant of time, a sort of neutrino, an ash of what had happened long ago?
Stop it, he said to himself. Get hold of yourself, stop these antics of your brain! This was the sort of thinking a brain did at night when the conscious will was sleeping at the controls. Nightmares!
He broke off his self-admonishment. He saw beneath his feet a broad white line encircling Webster’s bed. He took up the candle and followed it. It was a line drawn unevenly upon the ancient floor, a chalk line, marked here and there by crude crosses. He walked its length and then returned to put the candle on the table. A chalk line — and crosses! Where had he heard that ancient superstition? In Ireland, of course, in the last summer of his mother’s life! She had wanted to see the green isle again and he had taken her to County Wicklow and they had spent a fortnight there, walking over the dark hills and picnicking beside a deep tarn in some lovely valley. A farmer’s wife had told him one night in a thatched-roofed farmhouse where he and his mother had taken shelter in a sudden storm, that though spirits walked the hillside and even came into the house, “they can’t touch you, sir, if you’ll but draw a white chalk line around the bed you sleep on, and put in plenty of crosses.”
So Webster was Irish! Ah yes, that explained it, and what was this on the table? A bottle of water blessed by some priest, no doubt, and therefore holy. The floor was patterned dustily with stains of the water — yes, and here was a Bible and upon it, cautious man, this Webster had placed a small pearl-handled pistol of ancient design, a relic, doubtless, that be had found somewhere in the castle and had appropriated for the night.
He smiled grimly to himself. Brave Webster, pretending a mighty courage when he was with others, a high skepticism, but when alone, resorting to most ancient protection! He lifted the silver snuffer on the table and extinguished the candle. Then he felt his way to the door. When he tried to close it softly, however, one of those gusts of unexplained wind snatched it from his grasp. It slammed shut with an ear-cracking bang. He heard a loud yell from within. Webster had wakened. He opened the door again to explain and was met by a splash of cold water in his face. He gasped and stepped back.
“Webster!” he shouted. “What are you doing? It’s I — John Blayne!”
“Heaven save us—” he heard Webster mutter. A match was struck and a moment later the candle flared. Webster stood by the bed, staring at him.
“What are you doing here, man — at this time of the night?”
“It’s not night any more,” he retorted. “It’s near dawn, as you would see if you hadn’t sealed yourself with chalk marks and Bibles and pistols and so on — not to mention this bath of water you’ve dashed in my face!”
“Holy water never hurt anyone,” Webster retorted, “and if you can stop laughing, tell me why you are up and wandering about the castle? I’m sure you don’t get up at dawn any more than I do.”
“I had a nightmare, if you must know the truth,” John Blayne said. He was wiping the water from his face and neck with his handkerchief.
“A nightmare, was it?” Webster repeated.
“Nothing but a nightmare — a head, if you please, swimming past my window with no body attached. Now don’t indulge yourself in delightful fancies! There’s a terrace outside my window, I daresay, and someone — Wells, doubtless, who’s desiccated enough to look like an authentic ghost anywhere, not mentioning in this castle — was probably taking a midnight walk.”
“I’m going back to bed,” Webster said. “I get a chill easily at my age.”
John Blayne was amused. “Really? And I was about to ask you to go with me to my room to investigate the head, just for the sake of finding out facts. I’m a great believer in facts. If you’re afraid, now that you’ve wasted all of the holy water on me, you could carry the Bible in one hand and the pistol in the other.”
“I’m afraid of nobody,” Webster shouted, “and it’s cold that makes my teeth chatter, nothing else!”
“Come along then, but it’s a distance, I warn you. I’ve been lost for hours.”
“Nonsense,” Webster said sourly. “Your room isn’t minutes down the passage from mine.”
He took Webster’s arm and led the way in long strides, Webster guiding him, to the Duke’s room.
“Lucky I found you,” he said, as they walked. “I swear I’ve been searching for my room for the past hour and a half. Now you tell me it’s two minutes away, no more. Ah yes — right you are! I remember the coat of arms carved on the door — a handsome door, by the way, heavy as—”
He heaved at the door as he spoke, but it opened easily as though someone pulled it from within and they all but fell into the room. Wells stood there, tall and correct even in his nightclothes.
“Mr. Blayne,” he exclaimed. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I thought I heard you call.”
John Blayne stared at him. “Did you walk past my window on the terrace?”
“What terrace, sir?”
“Don’t make a joke. Wells! I like jokes, mind you, but not heads without bodies floating past my window!”
He spoke lightly and was astonished at the change that suddenly took place in the old man. Wells set his jaws tight. His eyes narrowed in their piercing gaze, his gray and brushy eyebrows knit over his long nose.
“How dare you, making jokes about the Duke of Starborough’s head!”
John Blayne surprised, stepped back, but Wells stepped toward him and spoke between clenched teeth, “If you knew who I am, you wouldn’t dare — you wouldn’t dare!”
Staring, John Blayne felt just then that he knew all too well who Wells was — Kate’s grandfather, the indispensable butler, but what had that to do with the Duke’s head and an imagined insult? “Really, Wells,” he began, “I’m sorry, but …”
Walking past him with eyes that deigned not to countenance him, Wells went to the door, opened it, and disappeared down the passage.
“Is the man mad?” John Blayne asked.
He was amazed to see only embarrassment on Webster’s face, not fright or concern, when he answered, “Not mad, odd perhaps. Yes, I’ll agree that he’s odd. He does some playacting now and then as does the old boy himself. I think it goes to his head a bit.”
“Sir Richard? Playacting?”
“Yes, I regret to say.” Webster sighed. “There are some odd situations here, I admit, more than can be told.”
“Who is Wells?” John Blayne demanded. “Or who does he think he is?”
“He — he’s the butler,” Webster said uncertainly.
John Blayne stared at him. “I don’t believe it.”
Webster coughed. “Why not?”
“I’ll ask another question, too.” He stepped forward and tapped Webster’s chest. “Who is Kate?”
Webster stepped back. “Kate? Just what you see, an uncommonly attractive young woman, of course. She makes herself useful in several ways — here in the castle the maid, and so forth—”
He interrupted. “She is not only attractive, she’s lovely. A maid? What maid is treated like Kate? She’s like a daughter to the family, and—”
Webster broke in. “Nonsense! They sit, she stands. She doesn’t take her meals in the great hall with Lady Mary and Sir Richard. It’s true that she — but in England a child is taught to call her father ‘sir’—”
John Blayne caught him up sharply. “Father? Who?”
“I thought you meant Sir Richard.”
“Sir Richard!”
Webster recovered himself. “I really don’t know what you are talking about, Blayne. In fact, I really don’t know why I’m here. Some joke or other, and I don’t care for jokes at this time of night — or day — whatever — If you’ll excuse me—”
John Blayne felt an explosion of anger in his head. “You will excuse me,” he said. “It’s I who am leaving. I shall drop this whole project. It is no longer attractive to, me. If you will be so kind as to tell Sir Richard in the morning that I have left—”
He felt Webster’s grip on his shoulder.
“You can’t simply leave — not at this point. You have gone too far. We can sue you—”
He wrestled himself free. “Sue me, by all means! I’ll notify my lawyers. And if you will please leave — my room.”
He waited but Webster did not leave. Instead he tied the belt of his brown flannel dressing gown more firmly about his wide waist, then strolled across the room and sat down in a huge old crimson velvet chair. He made a pretense of laughter.
“Come now, Blayne — you’ll have me believing that you’re afraid of ghosts yourself, and that’s why you don’t want the castle.”
He refused the laughter. “You know very well I’m afraid of nothing. It’s simply that I can’t trust anyone here. At dinner you declare that Lady Mary is talking nonsense — but what do I discover in the middle of the night? You — and all those barbaric tricks! You’re a liar, Webster.”
Webster leaped to his feet. “A liar, am I? Did you see a head or didn’t you? Tell me that — just yes or no—”
“Yes.”
“You had no business to barge into my room—”
They faced each other like two angry cocks. He stared into Webster’s bulbous gray eyes. In the half light of the dawn he saw what an absurd face Webster’s was, with its pudgy nose, tight little mouth, and ragged beard. He burst out laughing suddenly and put out his hand.
“Sit down again,” he commanded. “I’m not going to let you off now that I’ve got you in my power. I’m simply eaten up with vulgar curiosity. Tell me—”
Hands on Webster’s shoulders, he pressed him into the big chair and then drew up a hassock whose yellow satin cover was almost in shreds.
“Tell me honestly, confidentially, fully — any way you like — who is Wells and who is Kate? I smell a secret — very dusty and moldy like everything else here in the castle. Perhaps it needs sun and air, too. … Come, don’t pretend with me, Webster! We’re not children, in spite of all this hocus-pocus!”
Webster shivered slightly. “It’s damp — very dangerous! My toes are curling up!” He pulled up his collar and thrust his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown.
“All right, Mr. Webster. Begin!” he said firmly.
Webster sneezed long and loudly, blew his nose, glanced at him and away again and had a fit of coughing before he could answer.
“Yes, well — let me see — in answer to your question — about Wells, wasn’t it? He’s quite what he looks, you know. He was a young footman here when Sir Richard was born, and gradually rose to be the butler. He married a farmer’s daughter named Elsie — very pretty girl, I remember, much younger than himself — and she died in giving birth to their only son, Colin. He was Kate’s father, of course — a very troublesome lad.”
“Explain ‘troublesome’!”
Webster coughed again. “I’ll catch my death here if I don’t look out. … Troublesome? Well, restless, you know — always a bit above his station. He was a bright child, and Sir Richard spoiled him — a handsome boy — looked like his Irish mother. Pity that Richard had no children of his own!”
“Whose fault?”
Webster lifted his eyebrows. “Fault? I shouldn’t call it that, exactly. Nobody’s, really. It happens sometimes that two people can’t have children together for some occult psychological reason, but are quite able if it’s with someone else — Ah, but that’s neither here nor there! Sir Richard has always been devoted to his wife. No, no — it was quite natural for him to be amused by Colin. The boy had a frank fearless way with him and followed Sir Richard about — learning to ride well, and so on — developed quite a talent in painting, too. Sir Richard sent him to a school. Wells disapproved of all that spoiling, I remember. He said it put the boy above his station.”
“But Sir Richard persisted?”
“Well, in a way I suppose he was right. The boy was somehow — unusual, let’s say. It was difficult for visitors to believe he was only the butler’s son, you know.”
“How did they have a chance to see him?”
“Well …” Webster hesitated.
“Come, man,” John Blayne said impatiently. “I’m not pulling your teeth, you know!”
“Well, Sir Richard would have him in, you know, at tea-time or after dinner, show him off, let him recite poems and so on.”
“In spite of Wells’ protests?”
“Yes, I suppose so. The boy was a superior sort, obviously. And devoted to Sir Richard as a consequence of the spoiling.”
“Sir Richard couldn’t bear to see Colin a servant?” He put the question sharply.
Webster considered. “As to that, Colin could not bear to see himself a servant.”
“So, he ran away to London, became an artist, then the war gave him the chance to become a hero. He married, as you so quaintly like to say it ‘above his position’ and—” John Blayne got up from the hassock and walked across the room and back again. “I’m beginning to understand.”
“Who told you that part of the story?”
“Never mind, I just got the end before the beginning. It’s true, isn’t it?”
Webster shrugged his shoulders. “Oh yes, as true as anything is in life.”
“What’s true is true, you’re a lawyer and you should know that.”
Again Webster shrugged his shoulders, then hunched himself further into the chair in search of warmth.
“Why did Lady Mary consent to all this?”
“Why shouldn’t she?” Webster bristled as if beginning defense of a client. “Sir Richard and Lady Mary are two very kind and wonderful people. I’m sure they longed for children of their own. Certainly Sir Richard has grieved because there’s no heir.”
“I wonder how a man feels when it’s his fault he has no child.”
Now it was Webster who got up and paced the floor. “Really, Mr. Blayne, I don’t know how we got on the subject. I — well, let me say that I know it wasn’t Sir Richard’s fault, as you put it — though I repudiate the word.”
“Was there never talk of a divorce?”
“Of course not! He wouldn’t want to hurt his wife, even though he has no heir! Do you take him for the Shah of Persia? Only kings have to produce offspring!”
He was relentless. “You mean there is a child somewhere?”
Webster shouted. “No — no — no! I mean no such thing. … Besides, he’s far too old—”
He broke in. “You know very well, Webster — you ought to know — if there is a child we’ll have a problem. He would be the heir to the castle.”
They faced each other again.
“There is no heir,” Webster said at last. “And I’ll thank you to let me go back to bed.”
“Of course.”
He opened the door with obvious patience, and when Webster had walked through in silence he closed it and stood thinking, his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown.
No heir, Webster had said. No son, that was, but perhaps a child? And the child could be — Kate? Ah, but a link was missing, an essential link. Who — who was Colin? He was not leaving the castle — not yet!
… “Lady Mary!” Kate called. She had escaped safely again. Ah, but it was dangerous, meeting John Blayne like that, Kate thought, the two of them alone, and he reaching out for her, and her blood going into a turmoil at his touch. She’d never been quite in love although once, long ago, there had been a boy in the village, but Sir Richard had put an end to that. She could remember the moment as clear as yesterday, for she had never seen him so angry. He had stopped her in the great hall, alone.
“You will remember who you are,” he had said and had drawn down his eyebrows until his eyes were hidden. “I will not have the son of a farmer here in my castle.”
“I wasn’t — I didn’t dream of him coming here,” she had faltered.
“Even more disgraceful for you to meet him in secret,” he had said. “You’ll never see him again. I forbid it.”
She had run away, she was so frightened. And the boy’s family had been dismissed from the farm. She had a penciled letter on a bit of paper from the boy. “I am far away Katie not seeing you no more.” She had been repelled by the ill-written message and had soon forgotten him, but not, she knew, the excitement. Ah, Sir Richard would be just as angry if he knew now!
And then she saw Lady Mary, waiting where she had been left, in the stone corridor to the dungeon and she ran to her. Lady Mary did not move. She sat with her hands palms up on her lap, her eyes half closed.
“Wake up, my dear! … I’m back. Everything is quite all right. … And it’s nearly morning.”
She was rubbing Lady Mary’s cold hands as she spoke. She smoothed back Lady Mary’s silvery hair. There was no answer from the still figure, sitting on the damp stone ledge, her head drooping on her breast.
“God save us,” Kate whispered in sudden terror. “Have they killed her for wanting help from them? … Lady Mary, can you hear me, darling?”
Lady Mary did not answer, but Kate knew that she could bear.
“Help me,” Kate whispered, looking about her. “I’ll have to carry her somehow.”
She put her arm under Lady Mary’s shoulder and supported her as she walked.
“Ah, me,” she said under her breath. “She’s so light — no more than a ghost herself. Oh, this wicked old castle — oh dear, oh dear — I wish — indeed I wish—”
And sighing and fearful, she helped Lady Mary back to her room and laid her on the bed.
… At breakfast the next morning Wells was his usual imperturbable self as he presided over the serving dishes on the buffet. Sir Richard sat with remote but kingly mien at his end of the table. Philip Webster was chipper as ever. Lady Mary was not in her usual place as she was being served by Kate in her bedroom.
The sun was streaming brilliantly into the great hall, its bright beams falling on gray stone floors and tapestried walls. Windows were wide open and even the door that led out to the garden. Spring air sweet and fresh was flowing through the castle. John Blayne had begun to wonder if the previous night’s experiences had been dreams, after all. But no, he reminded himself, he had been given fragments of a story that had taken place within these very walls, a story that might be as meaningful to him as ancient events were to Sir Richard and Lady Mary.
“Mr. Blayne,” Sir Richard had said when they first met at the breakfast table, “I have been endeavoring to decide what will be the best thing for me to do for my realm — my tenants, that is. Until my decision is clear, you may call in your young men and proceed with the measurements you wish to have made.”
“I’m certainly glad to have something for them to do, Sir Richard. They’ve been fretting a bit down at the inn.”
“Better be busy, even if it comes to nothing, than drink ale all day and listen to gossip,” Sir Richard said.
A quick series of telephone calls was made and before an hour had passed, the rooms of the castle were alive with the four young men busily coming and going. With coats off, sleeves rolled up and collars loosened, they moved about their tasks efficiently and excitedly. Now they were men with a purpose, men with pencils and papers, huge sheets of paper, foot rules, tapes, and blueprint maps. A surveyor squinted through his telescope and checked against a measuring line. A draughtsman recorded his finding in a large notebook. Among them moved John Blayne with calm assurance and brisk commands. He was cheerful and resolute, his chin outthrust, his dark eyes alert. The absurdities of the night were past.
“The glass panes must be counted, numbered to each window, the window to each room, against the time when they’ll be packed in cotton. We’d never be able to duplicate that glass.”
“We’re going full steam ahead, whatever the decision is,” he said to his men. “If we have to stop, we’ll stop. If not, then we’ll be that much ahead. I’m paying you, don’t forget! Well, then, on with the job.”
He was enjoying himself, that was obvious. Nothing suited him better than carrying on some huge enterprise with a purpose, and the purpose now was enhanced by the mystery of Kate. He kept watch for her but she had not yet appeared. Five more minutes and he would go in search. He took off his coat and tie, and the morning wind rumpled his hair and sent stinging red blood to his cheeks. He had never felt better and he shouted his orders and interlarded them with jokes.
“If you find one of those ghosts they are always talking about, attach a note to him as to where he belongs. We’ll put him back in his hole again if he gets to Connecticut. Keep them all happy, that’s what I say, even the ghosts … If she’s a queen, let me have a look at her first! … Easy there, Johnston! These mullioned panes of glass aren’t meant to look through — they’re valued as diamonds.”
In the midst of the banter and the bustle he heard a small scream from the swinging doors into the great hall. He looked up and saw Kate, her hands pressed over her mouth.
“Come in,” he called. “Come in, Rose of the morning!”
She advanced on him slowly, looking very pretty, he noticed, in a blue linen dress and a little ruffled white apron.
“What on earth are you doing?” she demanded.
“Whatever you see,” he replied with an easy smile.
“What I see,” she said distinctly, “whatever it is, all of it, has got to stop — this instant!”
He squinted an eye along a ruler he held up to a window. “Now why,” he said pleasantly, “why do you shout at me when you know that I hear the slightest sound, the creeping footsteps of a mouse, the rustle of a bird’s wing, the whisper of a girl’s voice, the whimper of a ghost—”
She stopped his nonsense by stamping her foot. “Tell your men to clear out of the castle!”
“When I’m paying them handsome dollars to work here? Come now—” He scribbled some figures on a sheet of paper on the table.
“If you don’t, I will,” she declared.
He smiled and went on writing and she clapped her hands. The men stopped what they were doing to look at her.
“Men!” Her clear flutelike voice rang through the spaces. “Will you kindly leave at once?”
“Do we go?” One of them turned to John Blayne.
He did not look up. He was adding the figures down a long column and waited until he had the total. “Certainly not,” he said then. “I have given orders, haven’t I?”
The men went on with their work.
Out of the corner of his eye John Blayne saw Kate approach him. She came to his side and spoke into his right ear. “I shall go to Sir Richard this instant.”
He replied in pretended absence of mind, his mind on figures, it appeared, and his every sense aware of her, the fragrance, the beauty. “Why didn’t you go to him in the first place?” he said calmly. “Always go to the top, is what I advise. No use jumping on me — I don’t own the castle, you know.”
She tapped his shoulder with her forefinger. “You’ll come with me, please!”
He straightened and looked at her, innocence in his eyes. “Why should I? I’m not stealing the castle, either. I’m not even behaving as though I meant to — I’m just keeping my men busy. Whatever I’m doing, it’s all cleared with Webster. I’m within my rights.”
His look, so gay, so impudent, was unbearable. She opened her mouth and closed it, unable for the instant to say a word and then began to stammer, “You — you — I’ll — I’ll have you know — I’ll show you — I’ll—”
“Take it easy, little Kate,” he said.
She gave up, stifled by fury, and while he laughed at her, she ran like a child across the room and into a great hall in the direction of Sir Richard’s library and knocked on the door. There was no answer. She laid her ear against the oak panel and listened, then opened the door. He was not there.
She ran down the passageway to his bedroom. He might still be asleep — it had been such an odd night, with everyone awake at some time or other. She threw open the door of his bedroom. He was not there. Where was Wells? He would know — and now she ran to the kitchens and the pantry to find him. The two of them must be gone somewhere. Sometimes they did go wandering about like two old hounds — No one knew where. But Wells was not to be found, either. There was nothing then to do but to go to Lady Mary.
She tiptoed to the door and opened it. Lady Mary was still resting in her bed. Under the canopy of faded rose silk she lay upon her piled pillows, her delicate profile clear, the white hair flowing back from her pale face, a film of lace upon her head and her hands folded on her breast. At the sound of the door opening on its heavy hinges she opened her eyes and sat up.
Kate ran to the bedside. “Lady Mary, dear! Whatever is it? You’re pale as a ghost. What have you seen now?”
“Why did you wake me?”
Her voice was strangely sad, and Kate was put to confusion. “I was looking for Sir Richard, my lady. These Americans are taking over the castle. They’re everywhere at once. I told him—”
“He?”
Kate took her listless hand. “Your hand’s like ice, my lady. The American, John Blayne … I said, ‘You must all leave at once.’ He paid not the slightest heed, my lady, and so I told the men myself to leave but of course they didn’t obey me and I was trying to find Sir Richard, but he’s not to be found, and I ran here to tell you. You must speak to them, my lady — really you should — the way they’re behaving as though — did you hear me, my lady?”
A strange gray glaze had come over Lady Mary’s eyes. She sank back on her pillows and stared into the tattered canopy above her head.
“It would be best, perhaps,” she muttered. “I’m not sure, after what I–It’s not possible except that I did hear — quite clearly, you know, Kate, while you were so long gone, last night — I’m not imagining — or — or — dreaming or any of those things — two voices — no voice I’d ever heard — mumbling like an old old man, ‘They will kill Richard the Fourth … well hidden here’—and the other voice — oh, such an old trembling voice trying to be brave—‘never betray you, Sire.’ Sire! That’s only for a king. What king, Kate?”
“I don’t know, my lady,” Kate faltered.
“You don’t know,” Lady Mary repeated slowly. “Nobody knows. But I heard those voices — sad, sad old voices — coming from far off somewhere in the walls, Kate. … They can hide in the walls, you know. They don’t have bodies, poor things — Oh, do let’s go away from this castle, Kate — or let the castle go away from us!”
She gazed at Kate in pleading, and Kate saw tears welling into the kind and piteous eyes. “Ah now, my lady,” she said, coaxing. “You’ve been nightmaring, dear — it’s all because of the old silly tales you’ve heard for so long. You don’t feel well, that’s what. I shall call the doctor — your head’s hot and your hands are cold.”
She took Lady Mary’s thin wrist between her thumb and finger. “And your pulse, it’s racing, my lady. Have you a chill?”
Lady Mary turned her face away on the pillow. “They can’t help us, Kate, they’re thinking only of themselves—remembering — that’s all — remembering — remembering — Perhaps it’s the only way they live now. There’s only the past for them—no future. Of course there’s no future—”
She’s raving, Kate thought, or she’s really seen something — Ah no, and nonsense! The room was oppressive and it seemed dark for such a fine day. She put down the slender hand she was still holding and went to the windows to draw the curtains farther back. The morning sun streamed through the ancient glass in broken prisms of color.
“It’s such a day, my lady,” she said cheerfully. “See the lovely sunshine! I do think the way it comes in colors through the glass is so pretty, don’t you? I shall fetch some tea for you, and buttered toast. You’ll feel better when you’ve had a little more to eat. It was a night, wasn’t it! And today not much better — those Americans!”
She busied herself about the room as she talked, straightening the silver brushes on the toilet table, folding the silk dressing gown Lady Mary had dropped on the chaise longue, picking a leaf from the worn Aubusson carpet — the wind, doubtless, in the night—
“If you could see them, my lady,” she went on, “climbing about the castle like — like mountain goats! I’ve never seen mountain goats, of course, but you’d laugh — really you would. Two of them are walking the battlements, measuring. I’d like to see them fall in the moat! They do take over, don’t they? Americans are so beastly healthy — full of eggs and bacon, I daresay, and beefsteak, and those alphabetic vitamins they’re always talking about! You shall have an egg for your breakfast this morning, my lamb. I left an order in the hen house yesterday. There’s such a wise old hen there. An egg, if you please, I said, and she looked at me with one eye and then the other — and went to the nest at once, the darling.”
She glanced at the bed as she talked. There was no sign that she was heard. Lady Mary lay staring into the canopy, motionless, her hand lying where it had dropped. Suddenly she gave a convulsive start. She sat up and looked at the east wall. Her hands flew to her cheeks and she moaned.
Kate ran to her side and poured water from the silver decanter into a tumbler. “Here, my lady — drink this! Yes, indeed, you must. Stop looking at the wall, my lady. … What do you see there? Tell me — tell me—”
She tried to pull her hands away, but Lady Mary was rigid. Kate put down the glass.
“I’ll have to — I’ll find Sir Richard, I’ll be back in a minute, my lady, I promise.”
Lady Mary neither spoke nor moved and Kate ran out of the room into the passage that led to Sir Richard’s room. No use looking for him there — but she glanced into the open door nevertheless, and to her astonishment she saw him sitting now at the table by the open window. He was dressed in his usual tweeds, his hair neatly brushed, his face calm.
“Sir Richard!” she gasped. “Where did you come from? It was only a few minutes ago I was here.”
He did not reply.
She came toward him. “Did you hear me call? You didn’t answer—”
“You forget yourself, woman,” he said sternly. “How dare you come into my room without permission?”
These were his words, spoken in cold, even hostile tones, and Kate could not believe what she heard. He looked so usual, so much himself, and yet this was certainly not he.
“I wanted to tell you — I thought you should know — they’re taking the castle and Lady Mary is ill — very ill — and — and—”
He got to his feet. “Where is Lord Dunsten?”
“Lord Dunsten?”
He pushed her aside. “Get out of my way, stupid woman!”
He strode to the door and shouted. “Dunsten, come here!”
As if he had risen from the floor, Wells was suddenly there. And an instant later Lady Mary had slipped from her bed and Kate saw her standing in the door as Wells entered from the door opposite. She stared from one to the other, these three people, the ones she knew so well and scarcely recognized now.
“Here, Sir Richard,” Wells called.
“Richard!” Lady Mary cried at the door. “You promised me you wouldn’t go there again and you have — I can see you have! Ah, that’s where you were in the night!”
Sir Richard looked at them blankly.
He put his hands to his forehead muttering, “I’ve had a strange dream — very strange!”
“You have been there again,” Lady Mary insisted. She came in and clung to his arm. “What are you hiding in that place? Tell me — you must tell me. I heard something — someone talking — saying such strange things.”
“You know what’s there,” he said. He tried to shake her off but she would not yield. “You’ve been there.”
“I haven’t been there for years.”
“Books,” he said. “Nothing but old books — and — and — a man’s privacy.”
“You’re hiding something!”
“I have nothing,” he cried with sudden anger. “Not even — a—a — a child. I don’t have a child, I tell you!”
Her hands dropped from his arm. She said slowly, “You never forgive me, do you, Richard?”
“No one to — to — take my place … the throne,” he muttered dully.
Wells stepped forward, shaking as if in a palsy, “Sir Richard, please, you’re not yourself.”
He led Sir Richard to a chair and helped him to be seated. “Lady Mary, if I may suggest — Kate, telephone Dr. Briggs, and fetch Mr. Webster. There’s more here than you and I can manage — Don’t stand there like stone!”
She felt like stone. The quarrel between these two whom she had never heard quarrel — what was this quarrel? What throne?
“Kate!” Wells shouted.
She looked into his angry eyes and, terrified, ran out of the room to the telephone and dialed frantically.
“Dr. Briggs? If you please — this is Kate at the castle. We’re in great trouble, sir. … Both of them — like they were dreaming something. … No, sir, I never did see them like this. … Thank you, sir.”
She put up the receiver and knocked on Philip Webster’s door. He opened it immediately and came out dressed in his wrinkled tweeds but smelling of Pear’s Soap. “Ah, good morning, Kate.”
“Please, Mr. Webster,” she said breathlessly, “the Americans are acting as if they’re taking the castle tomorrow.”
“What!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, sir, and Sir Richard and Lady Mary are being very odd, too.”
“Where are they?”
“In Sir Richard’s room.”
He strode off and she followed. When they reached the room, Kate could not believe what she saw. Wells was gone, and Sir Richard and Lady Mary were sitting at the small table by the window drinking tea together out of the same cup, as though there had been no quarrel. Webster paused at the door, unseen, and Kate waited behind him. The two at the table were talking together amicably.
“I tell you, my dear,” Sir Richard was saying, “everything is quite all right. Blayne has my permission to take the measurements and so on. After all, he’s not tearing down the castle. Nothing is settled yet and it’s common sense that his men can’t idle about. He’s paying them, you know, and they may as well be doing something, even if it’s no use in case we do not proceed. But if it troubles you, I’ll have it all stopped, of course.”
Lady Mary handed him the cup. “Do you want to get rid of the castle, Richard?”
Sir Richard waved the cup away. “You finish it, my dear.” He felt for his pipe in his pocket. “It’s you I think of — you couldn’t live without the castle, could you now, my dear? Really, I mean.”
Lady Mary considered. “One never knows,” she said thoughtfully. “One never knows what one can do until one knows one must. In case one doesn’t find the treasure—”
“You’re not giving up, I hope,” Sir Richard said. He lit his pipe and drew on it with enormous puffs of smoke. “It doesn’t do to give up, you know. Certainly I never knew you to give up.”
“I don’t see anything wrong here,” Webster said in a low voice and over his shoulder to Kate.
Nevertheless he entered the room. “Are you all right. Sir Richard?” he inquired.
Sir Richard looked up, surprised. “I? Oh quite! What makes you ask? Wonderful morning and all that! We’ve been having a little chat. Come in, Kate. I haven’t seen you this morning. You’re looking peaked — Isn’t she, my dear?”
Kate had followed Webster into the room and stood there, puzzled, half awkward. Sir Richard reached for her hand.
“You should see the doctor, Kate. Her hand’s hot, Webster.” He fondled it a moment. They were all looking at her and she snatched her hand away. Sir Richard had never before taken her hand.
“Lady Mary,” she said with determination. “You did say that last night you heard a real voice.”
Lady Mary laughed. There was a tinge of pink in her cheeks. “Did I?”
Webster sat down quickly. “Ah yes — you were to find some sort of treasure, weren’t you?”
Kate would not yield. “My lady, you said—”
“Did you or did you not find any treasure, my love?” Sir Richard inquired. “It’s quite possible, you know, Webster. One does find the oddest things — the ruby, you remember — did I tell you I had it set in a heavy gold ring? I must show it to you. Kate, where did I put the ring?”
“I’ve never seen it,” Kate said bluntly. “I never knew you had such a ring, Sir Richard.”
“Oh come now,” Sir Richard said, “Everybody’s seen the ring. I’m immensely proud of it. I don’t wear it all the time — it’s much too conspicuous, unless one’s a king, of course. … There always that chance—”
“What chance?” Kate asked.
Sir Richard smiled. “The chance of — anything,” he said, “the chance of finding a treasure, for example — or of selling the castle — or not selling it—” He flung out his hand in an expansive gesture.
Webster rose. “The next thing you know we’ll be drawing up papers and asking for signatures.”
“Perhaps it’s the only way to break the hold of the past,” Sir Richard said.
“But the treasure—”
“Yes, my love.” He turned to Lady Mary indulgently. “It is said that every castle has a treasure.”
“My lady! Sir Richard!” Kate gasped, but no one seemed to hear her.
“Such a nice young man,” Lady Mary said softly. “I rather think I’d like to call him John. Would it be all right for me to do so, Richard?”
“It would indeed, my dear. After all, you have had some difficulty in remembering his proper name.”
She smiled at him. “Not really, Richard. It’s such a nice name, Blade. It makes me think of that sword lying on the tomb in the church. But John is nicer, so simple, and much easier to say.”
“What are you waiting for, Kate?” Sir Richard asked suddenly and sharply.
Then they were all looking at Kate, smiling, kindly but remote and even cold. They had dismissed her, she knew, and she felt a wall rise between herself and them.
“Maybe I am mistaken in all of you,” she said slowly. “Perhaps I don’t know any of you. … I … I’ve only made a fool of myself … trying to do too much … thinking I was helping. I’ve insulted the American — and he’s the only one who’s been kind, after all.” She heard someone give a sob and realized it was herself and she ran out of the room.
Halfway to her own room in the east wing, tears blinding her as she went, she felt herself suddenly caught in two strong arms.
“Whither so fast?” John Blayne demanded gaily.
“Oh—” She stopped and pulled away. “Please! I was going to find you as soon as I–I must tell you — I was quite wrong this morning.” She was mopping at her eyes with the ruffled edge of her apron. “I overstepped myself. I had no right — being only the maid, to … to … to give orders as though I were …”
“Come here.” He led her into an alcove where there was a stone seat under a high arched window. “Sit down.”
He drew her down and handed her his large clean handkerchief. “Isn’t this what the hero is always supposed to do? Provide a nice clean linen handkerchief to wipe the heroine’s tears away? On second thought, I believe he’s supposed to do the wiping. Kindly allow me — Ah, Kate, you take yourself so seriously, my child!”
What eyelashes she had, long and curling and black — no nonsense here about false ones and mascara and all that! He folded the handkerchief and put it in his pocket again.
“Now that’s better, isn’t it?”
She shook her head and bit her lip.
He looked grave. “Kate, listen to me. You keep reminding me that you are only the maid. You don’t want me to forget it. You won’t let me. Why?”
“Because”—she was very nearly crying again—“that’s what I — am!”
He reached for her hand and held it on his open palm and looked at it, a small hand, plump like a child’s hand, but strong. “It doesn’t matter how many times you tell me,” he said slowly. “It doesn’t mean a thing to me, Kate. I’m an American. We don’t classify people. You can live anywhere, be anybody, if you want to — if you are not too stubborn. That’s a stubborn little thumb — it bends back too far.”
He flexed her thumb. “I’m stubborn, too. See my thumb? I’m more stubborn than you — been at it longer so you may as well give up. You can’t change me. And I’m not going to take the castle away from you if you don’t want me to have it. I’ll go away and everything will be as it was before, as it always has been, always will be — and you’ll be happy again.”
“No,” she said in a low voice. “I won’t be happy again.”
He folded his hand over her hand. “Your hand’s trembling, trembling like a frightened bird. … Kate, tell me who you are. There’s some secret here in the castle — I feel it. It’s not about ghosts, either. It’s about someone who’s alive. … Let me help you.”
“No secret.” She shook her head.
“You don’t want to tell me?”
“Only that I’ve been wrong — about you.”
“But you don’t know me.”
“I’ve been mistaken about you. I mean — I thought you were—”
“What?”
He was gazing deep into her eyes and she could not look away. She tried to smile and felt herself blush and her heart beat. His face was near, very near — his lips—
“Kate!”
It was Wells. He stood there before them, his jaw hanging, his eyes stern. She snatched her hand away.
“Get back to the pantry at once,” Wells ordered her. “The breakfast things are waiting, not to mention that this afternoon the public will be here.”
John Blayne rose. “It’s my fault. Wells. But I don’t think you need speak to her like that, in any case.”
Wells was icy. “And there’s an overseas call for you, Mr. Blayne — it’s waiting in the library — from your father again.”
“Thanks.” He paused to smile at Kate and sauntered toward the library.
Wells waited until he was out of sight, then turned to Kate. She was still sitting there in the deep window and now was looking out into the yew walk. “Don’t get yourself mixed up with this American,” he muttered. “There’s enough wrong here in the castle without you confusing everything, too. Sir Richard would he very angry.”
She did not turn her head. “It’s a confusing world. I know — I agree with you, Grandfather. And I don’t want to get — mixed up, as you call it. We’re working people — that’s all we are. They don’t really care for us. Whatever they do, it’s all above our heads. We’ll never understand them.”
“And you,” he retorted heavily, “you don’t know what you are talking about.”
He left her and she watched his gaunt old figure shuffling down the long passage until it was out of sight. He had never loved her. Who was he? Who was she? Why were they so different, and why, for that matter, did she not love him? She had never loved him even as a child. She was always quite alone … but never so alone as now … and felt herself impelled, in loneliness, to follow John Blayne to find him blindly, merely to be near him for the brief time that he would still be here in the castle.
… He was in the library, sitting behind the great oak desk, his eyes shut, his face grimacing as he held the receiver as far as possible from him, as usual. From the receiver came his father’s voice, loud and rasping.
“Do you hear me? … I want you back here in New York, next Monday. Why? For the merger, Johnny. Where have you been all this time?”
He replied reasonably but firmly. “It’s not so simple, Dad. There are complications here — I don’t understand them altogether, but—”
The voice cut across like a buzzsaw. “You won’t be here, then?”
“I won’t he there.”
“Do you know what you’re saying?” The voice took over again. “Louise’s father will be mad, and when he gets mad you know what he’s like! It makes me mad when he gets mad and between the two of us the merger will fall through again, like as not, the way it always does. What can I tell him now?”
“You don’t need to give him any explanations for what I’m doing. What’s all the opera about anyway?”
Kate tiptoed into the room. He did not see her and she stood waiting and silent.
“The opera,” the voice emphasized each word, “is that Louise is running around with another man while you’re running around a castle. If you’re not here on Monday, you’ll lose her, sure as my name is John Preston Blayne, Senior. Son, why do you throw everything away on a pile of rock?” The voice softened slightly. “You don’t know what love is until you’ve lost it, the way I have. I remember everything I ever said to your mother that hurt her feelings. It’s not just what I said or did, either. It’s the times I could have been with her and wasn’t, the things I wish now I’d done …”
The grating voice faltered and recovered. “To hell with you,” it said distinctly, and there was the bang of the receiver.
Kate tried to escape unseen, but he strode between her and the door. “That was my father.”
“I know.”
“You’re not going before I explain?”
“About mergers?”
“No, something much more important.”
She looked at him bravely. Then she went to the desk, took up the receiver and held it out to him. “Here,” she said, “take it.”
He took it stupidly. “What for?”
“Isn’t there a cable you should send first?”
She walked out of the room, her head held high, and left him staring after her. He took a few steps in her direction, then stopped and walked slowly back to the desk. He sat down and held his head in his hands. Ten minutes passed. He reached again for the receiver, dialed, and waited. Then he sent his message, not to his father but to Louise.
He sat a moment longer, then smiled suddenly and slapped the desk with both hands. To the tune of a waltz whistled under his breath, he all but danced out of the room.
… In her own room Kate sat down and wept. She was out of breath and tired and bewildered. It was a tower room, the western tower, a circle of narrow windows and a small fireplace set low in the gray rock walls. It had once belonged to a maid-of-honor, a very young one, whose home had been in Wales and who, because she was lonely, had hanged herself one night from the broad beam in the center of the ceiling. No one had missed her and it had been days before they thought to look for her. Megan was her name, and Kate had thought of her often, had wondered how she looked and whether there was another reason than loneliness to make her want to die. Perhaps her mistress had been cruel, perhaps she had been in love, perhaps — perhaps — but who knew?
It seemed to her now that she understood how it was that Megan had died in this little room. Perhaps she too had sat weeping on this very stool of oak set by the chimney piece. She was not herself quite ready to die but she wanted to weep and did weep now with long, satisfying sobs until she could no more. Then she got up and washed her face and tidied her hair and after that she opened her chest of drawers and made everything in them neat. This done she sewed on two buttons that had fallen from her wool jacket and mended a rent in her black silk slip. She could think of nothing more to do then, and she opened the door and listened to know how they were managing in the castle without her. Silence was all she heard, and after listening for a moment she tiptoed down the circular stairs and slipped across to the great hall where there was plenty of noise and bustle, John’s voice asking questions, demanding, arguing, contradicting; other voices replying.
“We must provide an incentive,” he was saying. “What, for example, could we do here after the castle is gone? How could the land be used most profitably?”
“You’re providing incentive in the cash sum you’re offering, aren’t you?”
The voice belonged to David Holt, the tall gray-haired man in a neat business suit. He sat at a long table beside John and they were studying figures from a big black book.
“I want a project,” John went on. “Cash is no good these days. Something to keep people at work and earning would be the thing.”
One of the young men stopped by. “Know what, Mr. Blayne? Under three feet of topsoil this whole hill is clay! Cement works is the answer. Rebuild all these old huts. Look at the way they did Park Avenue at home! Steel and glass and cement! Handsome.”
John laughed. “Another New York? Isn’t one enough?”
“You could make a park, Mr. Blayne,” another young man sang from the opposite side of the hall. “Disneyland, England! They need something to make ’em laugh, in my opinion. Public recreation.”
“Jot down the ideas, Holt,” John said to the lawyer. “I’ve been thinking myself of a model farm. That wouldn’t spoil the landscape. Milk parlors, silos, everything. It’s developed country you know, but jungles and castles can be equally unproductive.”
“Are you serious?”
“But certainly! I don’t want to leave a desert behind me. Let’s really go into it for the heck of it. Have the fellows make some drawings just in case — estimate the costs — the most up-to-date machinery, and Guernsey herds brought from U.S.A. There’s something romantic about that! Guernseys came from the Isle of Guernsey but like the rest of us they’ve been improved by their sojourn in America. So we return them in their modern shape. Meantime I’m not discarding any ideas. We have a week to—”
Kate on her way back to the kitchen caught the word. A week! Was he staying a week longer? She put her hands to her lips in an involuntary gesture. How could she bear it? Let him go now while she still had her heart in control! She went quickly down the passage to Lady Mary and Sir Richard in their private sitting room. It must be almost time for luncheon and she had been away wickedly long. They’d been calling her, doubtless. But no, they were sitting placidly by the window, he smoking his pipe and she at her crocheting again, as mild as though there had been no morning commotion. Philip Webster was pacing the floor, his hands in his pockets and his gray hair a tangle, as if he had thrust his hands through it too often.
Lady Mary signed to Kate that she was not needed, and Kate turned and went to her duties in pantry and kitchen.
“You could sell parts of the estate, you know, Richard.”
“I’ll not sell,” Sir Richard said. “I’ll fight to the end. … My dear”—he turned to Lady Mary—“you shall keep your realm whole. It is your realm, you know, this little kingdom — after all, there are such small realms — Monaco, Liechtenstein and now Starborough — it’s not unreasonable. You can depend upon me. I shan’t let the tenants get the upper hand. I’ve been too soft with them. What was it John Gomer said? ‘Three things, all of the same sort, are merciless when they get the upper hand: a waterflood, a wasting fire, and the common multitude of small folk.’ The year was 1385, but what he said is as true today.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Richard,” Lady Mary said absently. She was counting stitches. “Oh bother, I’ve done it wrong.” She began to unravel.
“If I should sell off bits and patches,” Sir Richard said, “people would move in. They’d build houses. The castle would be standing alone in the midst of a village.”
“I suppose they would,” Lady Mary observed, crocheting again.
“We’d be besieged,” Sir Richard went on, “but it wouldn’t be the first time, you know, Webster, and the castle can be defended. The moat is dry, of course, but that’s because it was drained against the mosquitoes. It would be easy to debouch the brook again as it was and the moat would fill up quickly. Essential, too, for people would swarm over the battlements otherwise! I planned it all, long ago.”
Webster sat down suddenly and stared at him. “You’re talking rot, Richard.”
“Indeed I am not,” Sir Richard retorted. His ruddy face was alight and his eyes glittered under his heavy brows. “It certainly is not rot for an Englishman to defend his castle. It’s his duty, he’s the king. It wouldn’t be the first time a king has stood on the tower balcony of Starborough Castle and commanded his men until they forced a retreat!” Lady Mary looked up from the pink wool. “Who would retreat, Richard?” Her voice was quiet and suddenly her face was sad.
He stared at her blankly, “People, you know — their houses—”
“What houses?”
“The houses people would build.”
“Houses won’t walk away,” she said in the same sad and quiet voice. “And they aren’t the enemy.”
“They are,” he cried. “They stifle me! They stifle greatness! That’s why kings always build their castles far away in lonely places. The Commons! That’s the enemy. The common people — the fools — the serfs — the — the — I tell you, I’ll defend this castle as long as I live! I’ll never leave it—”
She interrupted. “Do you know what they’ll do then? They’ll pull down the castle. It can’t stand here alone. In the end they’ll tear it down — or make it into something useful for themselves. It’s been here too long. I am beginning to know that.”
“Perhaps you are right, Lady Mary,” Webster said. Sir Richard was on his feet again. His brain was suddenly a burning torture inside his skull. “You two,” he muttered, “you two — against me! Where’s Wells?” He stamped out of the room.
In the silence Lady Mary continued to crochet and Webster was silent.
“It was he,” Lady Mary said at last, “it was Richard who brought the Americans here, Philip — wasn’t it?”
“Certainly it was he who wanted me to advertise,” Webster said.
“Now he doesn’t want to leave. A moment ago he said he was doing it for me. I don’t really care anymore … It’s only for him … But there’s something else, it seems. … Perhaps we’re coming to the bottom of things at last.”
Webster breathed hard, as though he were choking. “I don’t understand, Lady Mary.”
“I don’t understand either, Philip, not even Richard, it seems, with whom I have lived all these years. We’ve been happy, or I thought we had. I’m not sure about that, either, now. And I’ve always believed — foolishly, I daresay — that somehow … somebody … would help us. Perhaps they can’t. Perhaps it’s too hard for them, too. I don’t think they’ve really gone anywhere, you know, in spite of being dead. Philip, they’re just in another state of consciousness. But that’s the same as being in another country, I suppose — it really is. I’m very sorry for them, consequently. But we can’t depend on them. We must look after ourselves.”
Webster stared at her with round and wondering eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about now, Lady Mary.”
“No, I suppose you don’t.” Lady Mary sighed and put her work away into a small wicker basket.
The door opened and Wells entered. He had brushed his hair and put on a white shirt under his worn uniform, but he looked drawn and ill and very old.
“If you please, my lady,” he said, “what about the American? Do we have him for meals all day?”
His voice quivered and Lady Mary looked at him. “What’s wrong with you, Wells? You look as though you’d — you’d seen something.”
Wells put his hand to his mouth to hide his trembling lips. “I heard Sir Richard talking to you, my lady. He’s upset with me, really — not with you — I know it. But indeed I can’t do everything he wants done. He needs better supporters than I can be at my age, my lady. I’m no longer a proper protector for him. …” Suddenly he began to mumble. “The King needs help. I can’t do it alone — I can’t — I can’t …”
“What king?” Lady Mary demanded.
Wells fumbled for his handkerchief and wiped his eyes before he answered. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“I asked what king,” Lady Mary repeated distinctly.
“I don’t know what you mean, my lady. I was talking of Sir Richard.”
Webster turned to Wells. “You mean you can’t run this place any longer alone, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Wells said. “Thank you, sir. But if I could just speak with you, my lady — alone, for a minute.”
Lady Mary sat with her hands folded in her lap and her head sunk on her breast. She looked up now and spoke with sharp irritation. “No, no, Wells. I don’t want to talk now. Of course we must have the American. We shall all sit down to luncheon together.”
“There are six Americans, my lady.”
“And three of us. That will be nine, Wells.”
She dismissed him with a nod and with another nod to Webster she rose and walked down the passage to Sir Richard’s room. He was not there but if he had been, she thought, she would have entered just the same. The time had come for her to discover for herself what had happened in his mind and memory. She walked across the empty room to the paneled wall and tried to open it. It could move, that she knew, although this only by hearsay. She pressed each panel, each point in the carving, each possible indentation, but it remained as it was.
“Come now,” she murmured. “You do open, you know — don’t pretend with me, please! I’ve lived here too long.”
Still it resisted and she was about to give up when suddenly at her touch, she did not know where, the wall slid back noiselessly — and she was face to face with Sir Richard. He stood there looking at her as though she were a stranger, an interloper. His face was proud and cold and he held himself tensely erect, his hands at his sides. She stared at him. The blood drained away from her head and heart and she felt faint. She tried to cry out and could not. With a great effort she summoned her strength.
“I am glad I have found you at last, Richard. I’ve been looking for you such a long time — all my life, I think!”
She spoke the words as though she had expected to find him there and she waited for him to reply. Instead he put out his hand and touched the panel. It slid between them without noise, swiftly and smoothly, and she was left standing alone.
For a moment she was shocked, then galvanized by anger. This was not to be endured! How dared he shut her out as though she were a stranger? What was wrong with him? She felt a horrible panic of fear. She pounded on the panel with her fists and screamed.
“Richard, let me in! Richard — Richard—”
There was no answer. She laid her ear to the panel. No sound — nothing! In the ivy outside the open window the birds fluttered their wings and flew away.
“I must find him,” she muttered, frantic, and tried again to find the knob in the carving, the secret spot, which would open the wall, but however she pressed and pushed and felt the paneled surface she could not find it. There was no other way in which to get behind the panel — or was there? She tried to remember, her eyes closed, her hands pressed to her temples. Long ago, when she came to the castle a bride, Richard had taken her one day to a tower room, the throne room, he had called it, because when he was a little boy he had played at being king with his father, his crippled father. But there had been no throne in that room — only a heavy old chair.
How had they got there that day, she and Richard? And why had she never gone there again? Ah, but she hadn’t wanted to! She had not forgotten, though she had never allowed herself to think of it, the change that had come over him, Richard suddenly brooding, resentful, sad. She saw his beautiful young face even now and heard his voice across the years.
“I’m glad you never saw my father. He was hideously wounded in the war. Lucky I was born before he left or I’d never been born at all!”
She had been too young, then, too much a child, to understand or to reply. She had stood staring at him and he had rushed on.
“He was proud of me — sickeningly proud of my — my looks — and everything. He kept wanting me to marry young — to have sons. I wouldn’t marry just to provide heirs, I told him — not until I met you. And now it’s too late — he’s dead and he’ll never see our children.”
She remembered how frightened she had been when he gave a great sob. She had never seen a man weep and she had put her arms about him and comforted him. “Richard, darling, we’ll have lots of beautiful children — I promise!”
She wept now, silently, forcing back her own sobs. She had not been able to keep the promise — there had been no children. It was intolerable, this pain of remembrance. She hastened blindly from the room, down the passage in what direction she did not think. She saw Kate in a doorway with a tray of dishes in her hands; at the sight of her startled face Lady Mary broke into a run. It was years since she had really run as fast as she could. Her heart beat against her ribs but she ran on and on by instinct, like a homing pigeon, down the stairs that led to the dungeon — and found herself stopped by the same great door, closed and blocking her way. It was the door behind which she had heard voices. She listened now, both hands clenched on her breast, and heard nothing. She beat on the door and shouted as loudly as she could.
“Richard — Richard!”
There was no answer. Why did she call Richard? The voices had nothing to do with him — or did they? Ah, the door was immovably closed! Her strength gave out and she leaned her arms against it and her head on her arms and felt that she would die of faintness. And then she felt strong arms about her and heard Kate’s voice.
“My lady — my lady, whatever! Lucky the doctor’s come at this very moment. It’s Dr. Broomhall, my lady, the young doctor — old Dr. Briggs said he had to go to London for the day when I called. I followed you as soon as I could set my tray down. You looked ghastly when you ran past me, not seeing anything. When the doctor stepped in the door and I told him—”
The doctor, close behind Kate, interrupted. “Really, Lady Mary, this is very shocking. I’m told you’re in bed and here I find you in this damp hole, running about—”
“Richard,” she gasped. “Find Sir Richard — look after him—”
“Yes my lady,” Kate said soothingly, “yes, indeed we will, but all the same you shouldn’t have—”
“She’s to go to her room at once,” the doctor ordered.
He seized one arm and Kate the other, and they marched Lady Mary between them, half carrying her.
“You’re so uneven,” Lady Mary murmured, dazed.
“Eh?” Dr. Broomhall was a young man, red-haired and lean and strong.
“You’re too tall,” Lady Mary said fretfully, “much too tall and Kate’s short — like — crutches that — don’t match.”
He laughed a loud healthy shout. “Six foot four — I agree that’s too tall. Allow me, Lady Mary.” And with one sweep of his arm he caught her up and carried her as lightly as though she were a child. She felt suddenly better.
“Oh, mercy,” she murmured. “I haven’t been carried like this since my honeymoon. Richard used to tease me by taking me off my feet. I’m not sure I should allow you—”
“There’s not much wrong with her,” the doctor said to Kate over his shoulder.
“It’s Richard who wants looking after,” Lady Mary said. “What’s wrong with him?” the doctor asked, half joking. “He looked very fit when I saw him in the village yesterday, trotting along the street on that fine gray horse of his!”
“I’m frightened.”
She closed her eyes and repeated in a whisper. “Very frightened. He’s — odd.”
“Odd?” The doctor’s voice was quiet and the mirth gone.
“He … he looked at me as though he hadn’t seen me before. … And he shut a … a door in my face. When I called he …he … didn’t answer.”
“Was he down in the dungeon, too?”
“No. I ran down … when he wouldn’t open the … the door … there’s an old stone staircase that leads into the … the … the …”
“The what?”
“I don’t know. A sort of room—”
Lady Mary fell silent. Dr. Broomhall’s eyes met Kate’s in a significant glance. Something is wrong here, the glance said. She nodded. They had arrived at the door of Lady Mary’s room. Kate opened it and he carried her in and laid her upon the bed. But she sat up suddenly and cried out.
“Richard!”
For there Sir Richard stood in the middle of the room, as though he were waiting for her entrance.
“My dear,” he said, coming forward. “Where have you been? I’ve looked everywhere for you. One of the men said he saw you coming in this direction and so I came here, only to find you gone.”
“Richard,” she whispered, staring at him as though he were a ghost. “Why did you lock the panel?”
He lifted his brushy red-gray eyebrows. “Panel? What panel?”
“Richard, don’t pretend!”
“I’m not pretending, my dear. It’s you — you don’t feel well, obviously — Doctor, she’s not well.”
Before the doctor could agree, there was a knock at the half-open door and John Blayne entered.
“Ah, you found her,” he said. “The men told me you were lost, Lady Mary. They’ve all been looking for you. Where was she, Kate?”
“In the dungeon,” Kate said gravely.
“Good God!” Sir Richard exclaimed. “When will you give up that absurd treasure hunt? You might have fallen — the stone floors are slippery with damp — you’ve got a chill. Lie down, dear.”
He pushed Lady Mary gently back on the pillows and chafed her hands and reproached Kate the while.
“Kate, how could you let her out of your sight?”
“She said you had shut her out somewhere,” Kate said bluntly.
“I shut her out? How absurd — I was here all the time,” Sir Richard said, “Why did she run to the dungeon?”
“We had been down there before,” Kate faltered. “To … to look for the treasure.”
“You weren’t serious!” John exclaimed. “I thought it was all in joke.”
“We were serious!” Kate said. She looked from one face to the other and flushed.
“At Lady Mary’s age—” the doctor began but Sir Richard cut him off.
“It’s not a matter of age. She’s always had strange notions about — well, yes, perhaps it’s been worse lately. … Kate, let there be no more nonsense about a treasure. I won’t have her worried. It’s my responsibility — How is she, Doctor?”
The doctor had been examining Lady Mary, her eyes, her pulse, and now he took a powder from his case which stood on the floor where he had left it.
“She’s had a mild shock of some kind,” he said, “and she wants rest. Take this now, Lady Mary. It’s only a mild sedation. You’ll sleep for a bit and wake, feeling better. I suggest that we all leave the room. She’s having too much excitement,”
“I shan’t leave her,” Sir Richard said with decision.
“Very well, then the rest of us,” the doctor said. “I’ll call again later in the day.”
He led the way, John and Kate following, and they walked softly out of the room. Sir Richard drew a chair to the bedside and sat down. He stroked her hand gently and Lady Mary looked at him with pleading, doubting eyes.
“Was I dreaming, Richard?” she said faintly. “Didn’t you … weren’t you … behind the panel when I—”
He interrupted her. “My dear, you are simply to stop worrying. I shall attend to everything. In due course, I’ll take care of everything. Close your eyes, you’re safe in your own room, in our own home, our castle—”
“I don’t think it was a dream.”
“One has all sorts of dreams — there’s nothing wrong with dreams,” Sir Richard said.
His voice was far away and she could only just hear what he said. But perhaps it did not matter, perhaps it was true that she had only dreamed. He would take care of her … And she drifted away into a realm of peace.
And Sir Richard sat there beside her, stroking her hand rhythmically, lovingly, and murmuring to her with tenderness as he gazed at her sleeping face.
“You’re so pale, poor darling … I must take care of you. And I can, I’ve kept it a secret from you — I still can’t tell you.”
He leaned toward her, his face close to hers. “Do you hear me, my love?”
Her eyelids would not open. They were too heavy to lift. She could not speak. This unutterable weariness, lying like a weight of lead on her body — she could only hear his voice echoing in her ears.
“She doesn’t hear,” he was muttering. “Just as well … the crown is my responsibility … my fault … I’m a weakling. I should have dealt with my enemies the way Father did, with a sword! … I’ve waited too long. I was afraid to be called a monster as he was, poor crippled king! But I’ll be worthy of my name at last — Richard the Fourth!”
He dropped her hand and left her side and began to pace about the room aimlessly, stooping to stare at the bowl of spring flowers on a small desk of rosewood, at the silver brushes on the dressing table, at his own photograph, himself as a young man, framed in gold and hung on the eastern wall.
“Handsome, I suppose — I was called that — even my father — But he said I was weak. I wasn’t, I’m not — he was a monster — no, not a monster. He knew how to deal with people. I don’t — I don’t want to — but you must be strong — you must—”
He leaned toward the photograph and stared into his own gay young face.
“You’re weak — weak — hiding yourself, not telling even your queen! She’s lying there on the bed — ill, unconscious — your daughter defiled — even your son killed by foreigners, your only son — alone in London — an outpost — why wasn’t he here in the castle — safe? You didn’t dare — you and your secrets — you let the prince be killed — the foreigner is here — here in the castle where you’ve been hiding all these years. I hate you!”
He smashed the picture with his fist. The glass broke and crashed to the floor. He stood staring at the ruins.
“My father’s sword,” he muttered.
From far away Lady Mary heard the crash. She struggled upward against the enveloping darkness of sleep. She opened her eyes and saw him turn blindly toward the door, his face flushed, his eyes unseeing. She forced herself to cry out.
“Richard, Richard — you’re—”
Ill was what she wanted to say—Richard, you’re ill. Come, let me care for you. Someone come and help us both. She thought she had screamed but her voice had not left her throat. She tried to get up, to run after him, and could not move. She was pulled back into sleep and unconsciousness.
… Before Dr. Broomhall left the castle he spoke privately with Kate. “I am not so concerned about Lady Mary,” he said, “her indisposition is temporary, the result of a fright and exposure, and a certain amount of exhaustion. She will be quite herself when she comes out of her sleep in a few hours. Keep her warm and as quiet as possible and”—he smiled encouragingly—“free from worry.”
“I’ll do my best, Dr. Broomhall. And Sir Richard?”
“He is the one about whom I am really concerned, though I must wait for Dr. Briggs to return from London to discuss the case.”
“But he seemed …”
Dr. Broomhall shook his head. “Whatever he said in his own self-defense was negated by the expression in his eyes. Quite obviously he is subject to delusions. How long has this been going on, Kate?”
“I … I can’t rightly say, sir.”
“With Lady Mary, a sudden shock caused her trouble; but with Sir Richard the delusions are functional and thus their treatment is not so simple.”
“What would you mean by that, sir?”
“Emotionally determined and reaching over a considerable period of time.” He glanced around him. “It’s beautiful, this old castle, but I wish Sir Richard and Lady Mary could get away from it for a while, a good long while. When the past begins to affect the present, as it would seem to be doing with Sir Richard, its hold should be broken. But, as I said, I will have to discuss this with Dr. Briggs.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Do the best you can for them, Kate, and I’ll come by again within a few hours to see how Lady Mary is.” He turned and went toward his small car that had been standing behind the Americans’ large one.
Half an hour later, luncheon was announced. Sir Richard was nowhere to be found, and as his horse was not in the stable it could only be assumed that he had gone for a canter. Lady Mary was deep in sleep. Philip Webster sat down at the long table with the six Americans and luncheon was served by Wells and Kate. They did not linger over their coffee. Wells had reminded them all that this was the day the castle was open to the public and by three o’clock the charabancs would arrive.
“There’ll be people all over the place,” Wells said dismally, “as you well know, Mr. Webster.”
“That I do, Wells, and I’ll not be one of them. I’m going to the inn to do some telephoning. How about you, Mr. Holt, may I offer you a ride in my Austin?”
“You may indeed, Mr. Webster. I, too, have business to transact that can best be done in the relative quiet of the village inn. John?”
“I’ll stay here with the boys. We’ll work until we hear the buses, then we’ll make ourselves scarce. Sir Richard got out ahead of us all, didn’t he?”
“He often does this, sir,” Wells said apologetically. “He can’t abide having these people in his castle. Invaders, he calls them, though they’re most of them British and they pay good money.”
… Sir Richard, without benefit of Wells, changed into his riding clothes; then he strode rapidly through the familiar passages of the castle, out the wide west door, and across the lawn to the stable. Again, without benefit of Wells, he led his gray stallion from the stall, saddled and bridled him, and mounted with the ease of one long accustomed to horses. He ran his hand down the smooth neck and spoke in a low tone. The stallion pricked his ears and flicked his tail. His iron-shod hooves echoed on the cobbles of the stable yard, then thudded softly on the grass as he yielded to the direction given him. Trotting first, then breaking into an easy gallop, he carried his master over greening meadows and along lanes still starry with primroses.
Half an hour later, Sir Richard reined up by the church and dismounted. Before looping the reins over the hitching post he put his hand to his head to quiet the pain that had begun its raging. Usually a brisk ride made the pain abate, sometimes even cease, but this was not the case today.
The church was dim and empty, as he knew it would be in the early afternoon. He walked up the center aisle and turned to the alcove at the left of the altar. There his ancestors were buried; there he would lie someday with Mary beside him, the last of the Sedgeleys. At one side was the tomb of his father. Upon it lay a bronze statue in a coat of mail, gauntleted hands folded across the breast. Placed close to the figure and filling the space from shoulder to knee was the sword of his ancestor William Sedgeley, the man to whom the castle had been given five centuries ago. Tradition said that it lay there ready to be used, but only by a Sedgeley and only in a moment of utter need.
Sir Richard stood by the tomb, then he put his right hand on the sword and drew it from its scabbard. It came with difficulty, but he put his strength to it and the sound it made as metal scraped against metal echoed in the silence of the church. He lifted it in his hands, bent his lips to the hilt, then held it upright before him.
“I swear,” he began, in a loud hoarse voice, “I swear, by my father and by my forefathers—”
“Sir Richard!”
There, coming up the altar steps, was the vicar.
“Yes, it is I, Sir Richard Sedgeley of Starborough Castle.”
“You surprised me, Sir Richard,” the vicar said uncertainly, peering into the shadows of the alcove. “I thought I heard an unusual sound and came to investigate.”
“You see Richard the Fourth,” Sir Richard said stiffly, the sword still upright before him.
“I beg your pardon?” the vicar asked. He stared at the strange figure, at the flushed face and blazing eyes, the upright sword. “Are you quite yourself, Sir Richard?” he inquired, frightened.
“Richard the Third was my father, the crippled king, you remember! His armies were very strong. He could wield the sword easily. And I am here to claim the sword,” Sir Richard declared in an unearthly voice.
So speaking, he pushed the vicar aside and left the church, the sword held high in his right hand.
“… You’ll not get up, my lady,” Kate declared, “even though the tourists are coming this afternoon.”
“But I am up,” Lady Mary said crossly. “What’s more, I’m half dressed. Go away, Kate.”
“I will not,” Kate retorted.
After serving luncheon and finishing her work in the pantry, Kate had come straight to Lady Mary’s room expecting to find her still asleep, or perhaps drowsily waking. She had found Lady Mary sitting on the edge of her bed, trying to put on her clothes. Remonstrances were of no avail, her ladyship was adamant.
“Kate, I tell you, I must see that American. I have something to talk about — business — it’s very important. Where is he?”
“The doctor gave me my orders,” Kate said stubbornly. “You’re to stay in bed, my lady. Tomorrow, if you feel—”
“Tomorrow will be too late,” Lady Mary said, gently stubborn. “And how dare you talk about orders, Kate? You forget yourself, indeed you do. I’m surprised at you. You’re getting above yourself, you really are. I’ve noticed it before. We’ve spoiled you, and now, just because we’re in difficulties you’re behaving very badly. You’re taking advantage.”
Kate stared at her astonished and burst into tears. Never before had Lady Mary spoken like this. “Oh, my lady, you know that I can’t bear seeing you and Sir Richard in trouble.”
“I must speak with that American. I want to tell him to go at once. It’s he who has caused all this trouble.”
“Oh, I agree that the American should leave us,” Kate wailed. “I do want them to go, all of them to go. If we could only get back to the sweet old days, dear, with just the three of us here, and Wells, so peaceful it was.” She continued to sob.
“Do stop crying, Kate,” Lady Mary said impatiently. “It upsets me. You know we can’t do without you, whatever you are. Now help me with my things, for my head does feel a bit heavy. Mind that button, it’s almost off. Now, that’s better — I’m properly dressed. Take me to the American, wherever he may be.” She leaned on Kate’s arm and talked as they walked together.
They found him on the terrace in consultation with one of his young men. Lady Mary straightened her frail body. She lifted her head and her eyes shone blue. “Mr. Blayne!”
“Yes, Lady Mary.” He smiled good-naturedly. “If you’ve come to tell me to go I want to assure you that we will be off at precisely five minutes to three.”
Lady Mary looked at the young men inside the castle who were making measurements and drawing sketches on large pieces of paper. “Those Americans seem to be everywhere,” she said, “don’t you think so, Kate?”
“I haven’t thought about it, my lady,” Kate said.
“You should think, you know, Kate,” she went on with gentle severity. “Everyone should think these days, if at all possible, about everything. Which reminds me, Mr. Blayne, would you mind leaving immediately instead of when the tourists come?”
He stood there bemused, wondering if he was being made game of in some obscure English fashion.
“Leave, Lady Mary?”
“Please do so,” Lady Mary said in the same pleasant voice. “With all cohorts! Kate, tell the men that Mr. Blayne is leaving, at my request.”
“They won’t listen to me, my lady. I tried that before,” Kate said.
There had been enough of this game, whatever it was, and John broke in impetuously. “Of course we will leave, Lady Mary, but I must remind you that Sir Richard gave us permission to remain — in fact, he asked us to proceed with the castle as planned, and—”
Lady Mary drew herself up so suddenly that she tottered. Kate stepped forward to offer her arm, and Lady Mary steadied herself. Indignation enlivened her whole being.
“How dare you,” she cried. “Do you question who I am? This is my home, Mr. Blayne — I have the right to — to—”
“We go at once.”
“Kate,” Lady Mary said imperiously, “go with him, else he’ll lose his way.” She lowered her voice. “And he’s not to go near Sir Richard, mind you. If you see Wells, send him here at once.”
“Yes, my lady,” Kate said, and followed John Blayne. Instead of going immediately to inform the rest of his young men, he had gone into the garden. She caught up with him near one of the elephant yews. For a moment they looked at each other without speaking.
“Kate, what does this mean?” He spoke impatiently. “And how am I to know what to do? Sir Richard tells me to stay, Lady Mary tells me to go, and both of them act as if they were living in the Middle Ages when people could be ordered around.”
“In a way they are living back in the past, Mr. Blayne, that’s what’s the trouble. It’s the castle — they’ve got to get away from it.”
“There may be a way, though it may not be the eternal way,” he reminded her. He reached out and took her hand, holding it in his palm like a flower. “Do you know you have pretty little hands?”
“Please—” She blushed and tried to pull her hand away, but he covered it with his other hand.
“Why do you distrust Americans?” he inquired.
“I don’t,” she said. “Not at all,” she added. “Why should I? You are the only one I know.”
Oh, what a pretty girl she is, he thought. Assured and graceful and proud-looking, her face was a picture with its straight features, fine skin and violet eyes.
“Then why don’t you trust me?”
“Please, Mr. Blayne—”
He saw the look in her eyes and let her hand slip away. “Kate, what is it?”
She bit her lip and tears brimmed her eyes. “It’s just that I …” She faltered, paused.
“Just that you what?” He tipped her head up to look at him, his forefinger under her chin, but she twisted away from him.
“There, it’s nothing — it’s more than just the castle. Sir Richard and Lady Mary grieve so only about the castle. I have to think of them, you know, take care of them—”
“It’s the treasure in the castle, isn’t it?” he asked.
She took him seriously. “Yes, yes, I expect it is.”
“Have you any idea what that treasure is?”
For a moment she looked almost frightened as his eyes kept their steady gaze on her. “N-no, no I haven’t, Mr.—”
“John,” he interrupted.
“John,” she repeated, like a child learning a new word in school.
“I’m just beginning to understand.”
“I wish you would go away, really I do,” she said in a low voice. “I wish you would leave us to ourselves.”
“You mustn’t blame me, you know, Kate. It’s not my fault, and my going away won’t solve anything. If you’d only explain—”
She interrupted him in sudden impatience. “I can’t explain, I tell you. I’m only the maid.”
“You’re not! You’re everything here in the castle and I can’t leave you,” he said firmly. “Here I stay, until—”
She could be firm, too. “You’re not. You’re going, as Lady Mary asked you to.”
He yielded suddenly, seeing that neither was to be gainsaid. “We go at once,” he said.
… Presently Wells stood before Lady Mary. “You sent for me, my lady?”
“I did. I want to know where Sir Richard is.”
His eyelids flickered. “I do not know, my lady. He went off on his horse before luncheon. Will that be all?”
“You should know. It’s your duty, Wells, always to know where Sir Richard is.”
“I’ve a good deal to do, my lady.”
“Don’t speak to me like that!”
“No, my lady. I’m sorry, my lady.”
She paused, to signify he was not forgiven, then went on, “Go and find him.”
“Yes, my lady.”
He had walked as far as the entrance to the castle when suddenly she called him back.
“Wells, come here!”
He came back slowly, his gnarled hands hanging at his sides, surprise on his long, old face.
“Wells,” she said in a low hurried voice, “I understand — what I didn’t before.”
He looked blank.
“Wells!” she said sharply.
“Yes, my lady?”
“I know everything!”
“Everything, my lady?”
“Everything. … Wells, I saw him.”
The look on the long face changed. The cheeks quivered, he blinked his eyes rapidly two or three times, he wet his lips before he spoke.
“Then I can only say I’m glad, my lady. It’s been a strain — fearful, I might say.”
“I’m sure it has been. You did what you thought was right. I don’t blame you.”
She paused. Her face quivered piteously and he looked away, in tender respect. She went on, hurrying her words, her voice low.
“Wells, the boy — Colin — wasn’t yours, was he?”
“No, my lady—”
“Then, why did you—”
“For his mother, my lady. Elsie, that was. I was daft about her. In love, that is. … She wouldn’t look at me, though she knew Sir Richard couldn’t — his father would never have allowed a farmer’s daughter to—”
“Stop for a moment, Wells.”
She looked so desperately pale that he was frightened and yet he dared not call anyone. To think that all these years she had not known! He’d wondered, but Elsie had said no, she didn’t know — not Lady Mary.
“Don’t take it hard now, my lady,” he whispered. “It was all done with long ago.”
“Did he — love her, Wells?”
“Sir Richard? Oh no, my lady — it was just a fancy, on a summer’s day. Even she knew that. And she — she was afraid of him, in a way, so far above her station.”
“But she gave him a son.”
Wells hesitated. “Well, in a manner of speaking. The child was a boy — yes, my lady.”
“So it was my fault that—”
She was wiping her eyes on a wisp of lace handkerchief which she pulled from her belt.
“What was your fault, my lady?”
She shook her head and could not answer for a moment.
“You must help me, Wells,” she said at last.
“Anything, my lady.”
“We must get rid of the Americans, or have they gone already?”
“I couldn’t say, my lady. I’ve been in the kitchen. I’m putting together a lamb stew for dinner—”
“Come with me now. We must find Sir Richard.”
She put out her hand to lean on his arm as they went into the castle.
… The four young men were folding their papers into their briefcases, laughing, ironical.
“No explanations?”
“Command from the brass, that’s all! Be out of here in fifteen minutes — said he’d meet us at the inn.”
“Waste of time from the beginning—”
“Not if we’re paid for it—”
“Look at the old lady coming in — and the old ghost—”
They stared at Lady Mary as she stood watching them.
“Make haste, if you please,” she said coldly.
“Nothing suits us better, lady.”
“Impudence,” she muttered, but they heard her.
“Damn the Americans, eh, lady? Send us to hell, if it’s America, that is—”
“Move on, Wells.”
From room to room they went, but nowhere was there a glimpse of Sir Richard. Ahead of them Kate and John were walking side by side.
At the door John stopped. Her face, so sweetly young, so childlike when she was hurt, was upturned to him now, lips quivering, eyes misted — those violet eyes, he thought as he looked deep into them.
“Where will you go?” she asked.
“To the inn in the village.”
“Shall we never meet again?”
“Is there any reason for us to meet, Kate?” He stood looking down at the upturned face. He had not fully realized until now that she was only a little thing. She was always so brisk, so vivid, so busy, that she had seemed taller than she was. Now, the briskness gone, the vivacity subdued, she looked small and helpless. He wanted to take her hand and did not.
“I suppose not,” she said. “I can’t think of any reason except—” She bit her lip.
“Except what, Kate?”
“In a queer sort of way,” she said haltingly, “I shall — miss you. Silly, because of course you won’t be missing me.”
“In a queer sort of way,” he said, gazing at her steadily, “I shall miss you.”
He took her hand now in both of his. “Good-bye, little Kate,” he said.
“Good-bye,” she said, her voice a whisper.
He ran down the steps to his long green car. He got in and turned to wave before he drove off. Kate smiled as his lips shaped the words, “I’m not leaving for good.”
Then Lady Mary, accompanied by Wells, joined Kate on the steps. She held up her frail hand to wave. John Blayne gazed at the three of them with strange premonition, with strange regret. What would become of them? What would become of Kate? The sun was high above the western tower and the golden light flamed over the dark stone walls. Their figures all looked small and helpless in the shadow of the castle.
The soft purr of the engine beat like a heart alive and Kate, hearing it and knowing who was behind that wheel, was filled with a forlorn sadness. Never had she felt so alone. Instinctively her hands flew to her cheeks in a gesture of fright. How could she stay here now? How could she bear never to see him again? Watching her, John Blayne was impelled by the same instinct to cut off the engine, open the door of the car and dash back to her.
Yet when he reached them it was to Lady Mary he spoke. “Lady Mary, please, I beg you, can I be of help to Sir Richard? Is something seriously the matter?”
She was surprised, agitated. “No, no, please go, please go now.” But she was touched by his move and struggling hard for words said, “And tell — your men — I am sorry that I spoke sharply to them. I–I am not quite myself today. Now, go.”
He bowed, defeated yet grateful, and walked slowly back to the car. Kate followed him as if she did not know why. They looked at each other once more, she silent and her eyes beseeching.
“No,” he replied to her pleading, questioning eyes. “No, I’m not going away until I know what is wrong. Call me if — if—” he stopped.
She nodded, unsmiling. He stepped into the car and drove away. Kate, standing there looking after him, suddenly found herself sobbing, not caring who knew, or why. Behind her on the terrace Lady Mary and Wells stood, the one shocked, the other vexed. Kate crying! Why should Kate cry now when the Americans were gone at last?
“Kate,” Lady Mary commanded. “Kate, come here!”
But before Kate could comply, the screech of a bus rounding the corner into the park was heard. The first of three charabancs filled with tourists came sweeping up to the steps. The doors opened and people poured out.
Wells took up his position by the door to the castle. Kate sped to Lady Mary’s side, slipping her hand through her arm. Lady Mary stood as if at attention, but the trippers had no eyes for her or if they did they said nothing. They had come to see a relic of ancient England and each one was determined to get his shilling’s worth.
“Quaint little castle,” someone said.
“It’s one of England’s oldest,” another replied.
They went into the great hall and walked slowly about, looking at the tapestries on the walls, touching the paneling with admiring fingers.
“Silly little towers, I say,” someone remarked.
“Norman,” another answered, “or so the book says.”
“How could people ever live in such moldy old places?” a woman asked.
“For reasons of their own,” her husband answered.
“It’s not like a house, is it, Mummie? It’s more like a museum.”
“That’s about all castles are good for these days, and to teach children their history.”
“It would give me the creeps to live here, fair give me the creeps.”
“That’s what I say, let’s get out into the sunshine.”
So the conversations went as the tide of curious, wide-eyed people flowed from room to room.
… Lady Mary and Kate were sitting on a bench under an ancient beech until they could enter the castle as their own again. Through the quiet of the drowsy afternoon came the sound of galloping hooves, then Sir Richard could be seen riding in from the direction of the village, and be was riding as if leading an army into battle. His right hand was held high. In it was a sword whose blade flashed in the sunlight. Kate, with Lady Mary clinging to her arm, hastened from their shelter. They reached the steps that led up to the west door as Sir Richard reined in his stallion before them. His face was flushed, his eyes wild, and he whirled the sword above their heads.
“Where is he?” he shouted. “Where is the foreigner? Where are his men?”
Wells hurried down the steps to lay his hands on the bridle of the horse.
They stared at Sir Richard with a strange mixture of terror and admiration. He made a picture there, on the panting horse, a portrait from another age, his splendid carriage, his powerful frame, the handsome head, the strong right arm swinging the sword.
“Oh, Wells,” Lady Mary whispered, “isn’t he glorious? My heart breaks — what shall I do? What shall I do?” Then she cried out, “Richard, where have you been?”
“Leave him to me, my lady,” Wells whispered.
Gently he stroked the horse’s nose. “He’s all in a lather, Your Majesty,” he said quietly. “You’ve come a long way, I daresay. But you can rest now — they’ve gone — all of them.”
“Then I must go after them,” Sir Richard cried. “I’ll pursue them to the very end.”
“It’s no use, Richard,” Lady Mary said. “Now, please get down from your horse and come in. We’ll have tea. I’m sure you’re famished.”
He stared at her as though he did not know her. “Silence, woman! Into the castle! This is war — Lord Dunsten, your horse! Follow me — we’ll find them—”
Kate had not stirred from where she stood. Was this a nightmare and in the middle of the afternoon? Why did her grandfather coax Sir Richard as though he knew what it was all about? And Lady Mary—“Oh, please,” Kate moaned.
Then Sir Richard saw the three charabancs standing in the drive, and the people strolling across the terrace and into the garden. “They’re attacking again!” he screamed. “They’ve come in full force!”
Now Kate ran to his side, and suddenly she knew exactly what to do. “Sir Richard, come down off your horse. We must go into the castle, all of us quickly, and lock the great gates. You’re quite right. We are besieged.”
He looked at her uncertainly. The people in the garden stared at them but went on with their tour.
“Come, come,” Kate urged, “before they take the castle.”
He responded at once. “To the throne room then,” he shouted. “Meet me there, Lord Dunsten! Kate, help me — this sword — damned heavy — I daren’t put it down.”
She helped him dismount, Lady Mary standing by, the tears running down her cheeks, and they went into the castle, not by the great hall, filled with tourists, but by the side entrance, across the west terrace, into the library.
“Leave him to me,” Kate whispered to Lady Mary. “I’ll coax him to his room. … Grandfather, tell the people to go away again — he’s ill, tell them — they’ll have their money back—”
Wells nodded and she followed Sir Richard, taking his arm, letting him lean on her. He seemed lucid again for a moment or so she thought when they had reached his rooms.
“I’ve ridden a long way, Kate,” he said in his usual voice. “There was some urgency it seemed — only what am I doing with this great sword?”
“I’ll take it,” she said.
He looked at her with sudden wild suspicion, a look of desperate fear.
He was someone else again.
“No, no — I’ll not let it out of my hand. It’s a trick — do you think I don’t see it?”
She stood facing him, bewildered, and then to her horror, he pointed the sword at her and advanced toward her. She backed away from him until she was against the wall and could go no farther. She stared at him terrified, speechless. He stood over her, his eyes glaring under the brushy brows. Then he lowered the sword and a strange savage melancholy took the place of anger.
“My child,” he muttered. “My child — my child—”
His voice was husky, his eyes suddenly tender, and she was only the more frightened.
“Don’t,” she gasped. “Don’t hurt me!”
He shook his head, smiled, and laid the sword down on a table; then, seeming to forget her, he pressed the panel behind her. It slid back as she stepped aside. He entered the space it opened and the panel closed again. She caught her breath and then ran to find Lady Mary and tell her — tell her what? That Sir Richard had disappeared!
She found her back on the terrace, an indomitable figure of command, while Wells pushed the grumbling people into the waiting charabancs.
“The bloody aristocrats—”
“We’ll report them, never fear—”
“Castle belongs to the public now, don’t it?”
“A heap of rubble — that’s all it is.”
Kate went to Lady Mary. “Come, my dear,” she said gently. “Come and have your tea, before you die of all this.”
The dust stirred by the bases had scarcely settled when Philip Webster drove up in his small and noisy car. He was surprised to see Lady Mary with Kate beside her standing on the terrace, and Wells shaking his hands as if he could never free them of contamination.
“Then I’m not too late for tea?” Webster asked hopefully.
“No, no.” Lady Mary’s manner was always gracious when entertaining was in order. “As a matter of fact, we were just going in to make ourselves ready. It has been an unusual afternoon.”
“Are you feeling better now, Lady Mary?”
“Certainly, Philip. I’m not sure that there was ever anything wrong with me. Where have you been and what have you been doing with yourself?”
“I’ve been on the telephone for hours, Lady Mary”—he spoke rapidly, nervously—“whenever I could get David Holt off it. My, my, how long-winded an American can be! I presented our case over again to all the top people, and they promised to look into it as soon as possible, which may mean next week or next year. I say, where’s Sir Richard?”
“He is in the castle. I only hope he is all right,” Lady Mary said as she led the way inside.
Wells disappeared in the direction of the kitchen muttering something about tea, while Kate walked beside Lady Mary.
“What, what?” Webster spluttered as they walked. “Is there another mystery?”
“Let us go and find him,” Lady Mary said.
Kate spoke. “I think he’ll be in his room, my lady.”
“What about tea?” Webster complained.
They were deaf to the complaint and he could only follow Lady Mary and Kate. Somewhere along the passage Wells joined them unobtrusively. The door to Sir Richard’s room was closed but not locked, and Kate opened it. Across the room the panel stood open again. Sir Richard had come back — ah, for the sword! It was gone from the table.
Lady Mary turned to Webster, her face gray, her voice cold. “Did you know about this panel, Philip?”
“Yes,” Webster said. “It was his father’s idea. This was always his room, you know, but when he died Sir Richard moved into it.”
“I never knew that,” Lady Mary said. “Nor did I know about this — this exit. Where does it lead?”
“To the east tower room,” Webster replied. “I was there once. As a matter of fact, his father died in that room.”
“That, too, I did not know,” Lady Mary said.
“I knew, my lady,” Wells put in. “I was there when he died. So was Sir Richard — a very young man he was then. The death came all of a sudden. His father was sitting in the big oaken chair that’s still in the room. They were looking at a book — a biggish book, very old. It tells about the castle. Suddenly his father gave a loud sigh and fell forward, his head on the book. It was a fearful shock, though we knew his heart was bad ever since he was wounded so grievous. In the war. At Liège. He’d been joking with Sir Richard — the two of them were very close — almost mysterious — and he’d just said something about his son, the prince, and he raised his arm and waved an old silk flag that was folded into the book — Sedgeley coat of arms it was on the flag — and he sang out something like ‘The King is dead — long live the King,’ in French it was, and he was laughing. The very next minute he was dead.”
“How much I’ve never known,” Lady Mary whispered. Her white face was whiter than ever. She looked about the room vaguely. “Where is Kate? Tell her I–I—I must—”
“Here I am, my lady,” Kate said, alarmed. “Shall you go back to your own room, dear?”
Lady Mary shook her head. “No. We must find him … in there. …”
She pointed to the open panel and again led the way, now into the passage beyond, Webster on one side, Kate on the other and Wells behind. They walked in silence up the ascending way until Wells spoke. “There was stairs here once, my lady, but his father — Sir Richard’s father — had them made into a ramp, so he could walk more easy-like.”
No one replied. They walked on until they came to the end, winding their way through the tower until they reached the closed door at the top.
“I remember this,” Lady Mary said. She tried the door but it was bolted from the inside.
“Richard,” she called. “Open the door, please.”
They heard no sound except a strangled cough.
“Richard, open the door at once,” she commanded.
Something fell to the floor. A chair moved — a heavy chair.
“Let me talk to him, my lady,” Wells said in a low voice. He went close to the door and raised his voice. “My liege, the enemy is defeated. We’ve routed them. I am at your service, my liege!”
Sir Richard made instant reply in a great voice. “You are a traitor, Lord Dunsten! It was you who allowed the enemy to enter my castle! Call my guards!”
They listened, they looked at Wells. He shook his head and began again bravely. “Your Majesty, you wrong me — indeed you do! I served your father and I serve you faithfully! But if you believe me guilty, I’ll call the guards — I’ll give myself up!”
“Dismiss those persons who are with you,” Sir Richard shouted. “I will open the door but only to you.”
Lady Mary nodded, she motioned to Kate and Webster to follow her and they walked some feet away along the passage and looked back at Wells. He stood for a long moment, giving out great gusty sighs. He took a few steps away, then returned again to the door. He folded his arms, glanced at them, bowed to them as though in farewell, then gave seven knocks on the door.
They heard the sound of the bolt
“Are you alone?” Sir Richard’s voice echoed down the passage.
“Yes, my liege,” Wells said in a loud voice.
“Have the horses saddled! You’ll follow me.”
“Saddle the horses!” Wells shouted, his high old voice cracking with effort. “His Majesty’s orders! Americans to be routed!”
The door opened to reveal not Sir Richard but his right arm, holding the sword. Wells went in and the door closed with a slam.
Lady Mary held her breath until the door closed. Then she turned with sudden strength to Webster.
“Call the doctor,” she said. “Tell him to come at once. We do not know what will happen behind that closed door — tell him there is no time to waste.”
She walked rapidly down the passage toward the great hall.
Kate ran after her. “My lady,” she gasped. “If you will excuse me for a moment — I’ve thought of something. Wait for me in the great hall, my lady.”
She had indeed thought of something — John had said he was not leaving the village yet! She flew to the pantry telephone and called the inn. The innkeeper himself answered.
“Is Mr. Blayne there, George? This is Kate at the castle.”
“He’s here, all right, just sat down to a cup of tea in the garden. What’s amiss? You’re breathing like a grampus.”
“I must speak to him, if you please,” she cried. “A very important message, tell him.”
“Well, I’ll call him,” George grumbled.
“Please, George,” she begged, A moment or two later she heard his voice.
“John Blayne—”
“Oh,” she cried, still breathless. “Please, will you go to America immediately?”
“Kate! What on earth?”
“Please, I can’t say it on the telephone, what with the whole village listening in — but it’s very dangerous for you. Don’t delay at all, not a moment!”
He remonstrated. “Now, really, Kate, this is too mysterious! If it’s as dangerous as that, I shall come to the castle and see for myself.”
“Indeed you must not!”
“Then tell me—”
“It’s — it’s that Sir Richard’s not well — he’s not himself. We don’t know why — but he wants to — to — kill you.”
He laughed. “Kill me? How absurd!”
“Ah, but he does! It’s better if you never see him again. Believe me, better for all of us.”
“Why should I be afraid?”
“He thinks you’re his enemy.”
He laughed again. “Nonsense — we’re not living in the Middle Ages.”
“Sir Richard is — and it’s not for laughing, either, if it’s me you’re laughing at! I tell you he wants to kill you!”
“Kate—”
“Yes?”
“Are you afraid for me?”
Her voice came very small and hesitant. “Yes.”
“Then I’m coming.”
“No — please, please leave the village — leave England — pack your things now, at this moment—”
“Can’t I wait until tomorrow just to see how he is?”
“No. It’s life and death. Good-bye, good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Kate,” he said and hung up.
When he turned, the innkeeper was standing behind him.
“What was all that?” he inquired. “What’s wrong at the castle, Mr. Blayne?”
“They want me out of the country,” he said slowly. “I don’t know why. I don’t understand.”
“When Sir Richard gives an order, he means it to be obeyed.” The voice held a note of warning.
“Perhaps it depends on who receives the order.”
“That Kate is a strong-minded lass, Mr. Blayne, but she’s a good girl. Lady Mary is lucky to have such a maid in this day and age. Why, it’s all I can do to get—”
“She’s not a maid, George.”
“What is she then?” George’s round eyes grew rounder. “Who is she then?”
“I shall find out. That’s why I’m staying.”
“Shall you want a room here at the inn tonight, Mr. Blayne?”
John did not answer for a moment, then he nodded his head thoughtfully. “Perhaps I will, George, just for tonight, just in case.”
“What will you be doing now, Mr. Blayne?”
“I’m going back to the castle as soon as I’ve finished my tea.”
… In the tower room Wells was facing his master.
“Put down the sword, Your Majesty,” he said.
Sir Richard, with the sword pointed at Wells, muttered thickly, “I’ll run you through.”
The room was dancing in circles through his bloodshot eyes, purple circles shot with brilliant lights. He could barely see Wells, a dim ghost in the whirling colors.
“I must open the door, my liege,” Wells said. “Your queen must know everything now.”
“I’ll tell her myself, you traitor,” Sir Richard roared. He advanced, searching for the gray figure that now was there and now was gone.
Suddenly he heard noises behind him — someone grunting and groaning, the shriek of a bolt in its rusty hasp. Wells had stepped behind him. He whirled about, nearly fell, and recovered himself. Wells had to sidestep, the door still fast shut.
“You devil!” he shouted. “You’d trick me, would you? You’d run to my enemies! I’ve a way to stop you at last. Richard the Fourth — I’ll do what Richard the Third did — this sword — this sword — these damned colors floating everywhere! … Hah, but I see you there!”
He did indeed see a white and terrified face, the face of an old man, a stranger. He thrust the sword toward that face and even as he did so the body crumpled and fell to the floor. He saw a head at his feet and the sword in his hand. He stared down, bewildered.
“It’s bloody,” he muttered in disgust. He dropped the sword and it clattered on the stone floor.
…Outside the door the little group stood in the passage, listening in awe and terror. Nobody had come to help them. The doctor, Webster reported, was not in his office. The Americans had long since been dismissed.
“Should I not call the vicar, at least?” Kate was saying, and at that moment saw John, at the far end of the passage and running toward them.
“Oh, thank God, thank God,” Lady Mary cried at sight of him. “Only, how did you know that we needed help?”
“Kate told me not to come — some sort of danger — so, of course, I came. I went straight to Sir Richard’s room and that panel was open — I simply went through it and kept going like the White Rabbit in Alice in—” He broke off at the sight of their faces. “Tell me quickly,” he demanded, suddenly grave.
“Sir Richard is in there.” Lady Mary gestured. “He’s bolted the door.”
“My grandfather is in there, too,” Kate said and stopped.
“Sir Richard is very ill,” Webster said. “We must find a way to reach him.”
“The dungeon,” Kate exclaimed. “There’s a passage—”
“The door to it is solid iron,” Lady Mary reminded her. “And it’s locked.”
“There’ll be a key somewhere,” Webster said. “The lock will be rusty, of course, but if there was a hatchet—”
“Wait,” John cried. “Is there electricity down there?”
“Yes,” Kate told him. “Sir Richard’s father had it put in for the wine cellars.”
“If the door’s iron—” Webster began but John cut him short.
“One of my men had an electric drill with him, he was coming back tomorrow to get it.”
He turned quickly and sped back through the passage, Kate after him. By the time Lady Mary and Webster could reach the dungeon door they heard the sound of the electric drill cutting through the metal. The machine made hideous noises and it was impossible to speak. They could only wait.
“Now,” John said at last, “help me, Webster. This door is heavy and we must let it fall easily. Lucky it’s narrow! Kate, take this machine away. Now then, Webster — you on that side. I’ll take this. Stand back, please, Lady Mary.”
They obeyed him without a word. Together he and Webster lowered the door slowly to the stone floor. They peered into the darkness beyond and saw a windowless cell. John stepped over the threshold.
“It’s a shaft,” he exclaimed. “Look, Webster — there’s no ceiling. I see a square of light at the top.”
Webster went in and stared upward. “You’re right — it leads up the tower.”
“How to get there,” John mused. “There must be steps — yes — in the wall here. Can you feel them?”
“Good God, yes,” Webster exclaimed. “But I’d hate to—”
“Do you hear a voice?” Lady Mary called.
“Not even a whisper,” John answered. He was searching the steps carved into the rock. “I can climb. I’ll climb up and see — what—”
“Oh no!” It was Kate, pressing into the shaft. “Oh please, don’t climb up there. If you fall—”
“I shan’t fall,” John said. “I’m a mountain climber, Kate — a good one.”
He was already beginning to climb, clinging with his hands to the step above him, feeling his way.
“Oh, but what will happen to you when you get there?” she cried, wringing her hands. “How do you know—”
“The only way to know is to find out. Take Lady Mary upstairs. Obey me, Kate — Webster, go with them. I’ll meet you at the top when I get that door open.”
They obeyed again and alone he climbed slowly but skillfully the shallow steps. The square opening at the top was, he surmised, a trapdoor. He remembered such a door in the old stables of his childhood home in Connecticut. Then he had climbed through tunnels of hay. Now he climbed through rock, trying not to think, determined not to be afraid. The silence was unearthly, not a voice, not a sound. Where was Sir Richard?
Endlessly he climbed, trying to make no noise. Once on the edge of a step his hand slipped and he was all but catapulted to the bottom of the shaft, but he caught himself on the step above. Hand over hand, one foot after the other, he felt his way to the opening and pulled himself through the trapdoor and into the room. It was ablaze with light from a lamp set on a carved oak table. He tried to shut the trapdoor, but it would not fold back on its ancient hinges.
Someone was sitting at the table in a great oaken chair, a strange figure wrapped in an old robe of purple velvet, and wearing a gold crown — no, a crown of gold tinsel. Sir Richard! It could not be and yet he knew instantly that it was. He was mumbling over a book, an enormous book, and he was holding something in his right hand, resting one end on the floor. A scepter? It looked the real thing. Heavy with gold and glittering with encrusted jewels! There was this much treasure then. Sir Richard had found it. Why in heaven’s name was he hiding it here? What was the mystery?
John stood alone by the trapdoor. Should he speak? He must speak—
“Sir Richard,” he said gently.
Sir Richard lifted his head as though to listen, and without answer let it fall again as though be had not heard. Then John saw what lay beside the door, the crumpled body of Wells! Beside it was a sword, a long, thin blade, and, he saw to his horror, it was still shining wet with blood.
He stood in shock, staring at the sight. Sir Richard was mumbling again, his head sunken on his breast. What could be done? John wondered. Certainly he must not rouse him until the door was opened. He remained motionless, endeavoring to see whether the bolt of the door was still shot into the hasp. Bolt? There were three bolts! All bolts were shot, the door still barred. He must creep to it without a sound and draw the bolts back one after the other, and so throw the door open. But the sword — he must take that, for safety, and keep it near him.
Holding his breath, his eyes upon Sir Richard, he reached the door and put out his hand across the dead body. Poor Wells! He looked away from the dead face set in a grimace of fear, the open eyes. … The first bolt drew easily without a sound. The second bolt made a slight screech. The mumbling stopped. He stood motionless for an instant and then turned to look behind him. Sir Richard had not moved. He still sat with his head bent above the book, seeing nothing and yet intent on the open page.
But he was silent! Were his eyes closed? It might be that he had fallen into a doze. He waited, watching — perhaps Sir Richard was asleep, the light sleep of the aged. He must make haste. He tried to draw the third bolt back. It was stiff and would not yield easily. He had to use both hands and all his strength. The bolt was not half drawn when he felt something at his back, something sharp and pressing. He glanced backward toward his right. The sword was gone from the floor. He knew instantly whose hand held it.
“Sir Richard,” he said distinctly. “I am here only to help you.”
At this the sword pressed more deeply, forcing him to move toward the left, and yet he could not escape it. However he moved, Sir Richard held the sword into his back, cutting through his clothes, he could now feel, and pricking his skin.
“I wanted this meeting,” Sir Richard muttered through his clenched teeth. “I sought it! This settles everything between us after all these years, now you are in my power. After all these years — pursuing me—”
“Sir Richard, recall yourself,” John urged. He was being pushed step by step toward the trapdoor, the sword in his back.
“Forcing me to hide my son to save his life — in vain — in vain! Your bombs killed him.”
Son? What son? Sir Richard had no son. A dream of a son never born!
He felt a stab of pain and a warm trickle down his back.
“Sir Richard! I am your friend,” he cried desperately. “You can’t hate a friend — come now!”
“I do not deign to hate you,” Sir Richard retorted. “And call me by my proper name! What I do is my duty as a king. I could have had you poisoned while you sat at my table. But that would have burdened others. This task I must perform alone. To your knees, to your knees—”
For John had twisted himself suddenly up and now the two faced each other. … Good God, the absurdity of this, that he should be at the mercy of a mad old Englishman! Yet here he was, pinned between the point of a sword and a trapdoor. He had been a good fencer at Harvard. Once in his freshman year he had caught a sword in his hand, and he knew how fierce a weapon a sword was.
“To your knees, I tell you!” Sir Richard was shouting. “I’ll teach you how to show yourself before a king!”
“Now, please …” John began. He tried to laugh but laughter died in his throat. Those eyes, glaring at him with maniacal fury, impossible … to …
“Down on your knees!” Six Richard ground the words between his teeth.
He slipped to his knees to escape the sword. “Sir Richard — listen to me! All right — king, whatever you are — Lady Mary was right — there is a treasure — it’s on the table yonder — your royal scepter — a king’s ransom — you’ll keep your castle. Put down your sword. You don’t need it, I tell you. I’ll call Lady Mary and tell her you are waiting for her with the treasure — the treasure, man!”
Sir Richard was staring at him, but the fury was fading. He looked puzzled. His right hand dropped, he went to the table uncertainly and putting down the sword, he took up the scepter.
John stood upright again and edged his way toward the table and the sword, still talking.
“Webster will know how to dispose of the scepter — it’s a fortune in itself.”
He reached for the sword. Ah, thank God, he was in control now. He could open the door and get help; but he had no sooner grasped the sword than he saw Sir Richard lift the heavy scepter high in both hands and to his amazement prepare to bring it down on his head, as though it were a mace. He stepped back and thrust the sword in fencing position to fend him off, feinting this way and that, diverting each blow that Sir Richard dealt, but by so narrow a margin that he knew he could not relent for the fraction of a second. He saved himself once by leaping aside as the scepter glittered above his head. It fell then on a corner of the oaken table and split it off.
And while the mad duel went on, he trying not to wound Sir Richard but only to save his own life, he was aware, though dimly, of a constant muttering in his ears, a gasping groaning stream of broken talk pouring from Sir Richard’s foaming mouth.
“His body ashes — my son, my son! Wells knew. Where’s Wells? Wells — Wells — Wells—”
Sir Richard’s voice rose to, a shriek and he lifted the scepter again, high over his head, and staggered forward.
Out of the welter of words John heard the scream and dared not pause. The scepter was above his head. He feinted and darted right and left, escaping from corner to corner. Sir Richard pursued him erratically, managing somehow to pin him at one side or the other, using the scepter like a club. Once it skinned his cheek, once it struck his left arm, now it fell on his shoulder. Ah, but the sword was strong, a gem of a sword, as he could tell, and his hand had not lost its cunning. Sir Richard played for strength and he for skill, he in silence trying not to wound his opponent, and Sir Richard gasping and muttering beneath the scepter’s weight. Scepter and sword locked. They were face to face and Sir Richard hissed in his face.
“You want my scepter. I know you. I know your sort. Smooth tongue … black heart … traitors, all of you. I’ll brain you. That sword’s mine… my father’s sword… put it down … I’ll deal with you as I did with Dunsten. I trusted him … these years … raised him from a commoner … the only one who had my confidence. I … I … gave him my son … my only son … told him my secret. How else could he have got a wife like her? He let her die in childbirth. Killed her, likely. And then let them kill my son. There’s only a girl left… no heir … a girl …”
He heard these groans, these mutterings, his ears alert and his mind whirling with what they meant. This mystery, this hidden secret story. And the man gone mad with fear at the thought of losing all he had. Oh, who was Kate? Would he ever know, now that Wells was dead?
“Fool,” Sir Richard was saying between clenched teeth, “I’ve been the fool — thinking myself safe because I had the castle … all these wild peoples rising everywhere in the world … British lion — the castle’s besieged … lost. They’re coming … I see them … I see them … I see them … I give my life …”
He lifted the scepter high above his head again, his arms trembling under its weight, and charged at John, forcing him back, back toward the trapdoor.
“Down — down!” he bellowed. “Down where traitors belong!”
“Take care — for yourself!” John cried.
His feet caught on the edge of the trapdoor. He thrust the sword upward to ward off the descending weapon. The scepter fell on the sword, the blade broke at the hilt. He was flung to one side by the impact. He rolled on the floor, ducking like a football player. Sir Richard, unable to save himself, was hurled head first into the trapdoor.
John Blayne crawled to the door, dazed, his bead aching from the blow, the broken sword still in his right hand. The body of Wells lay there, unmoved by all the strife. With his left hand John put the limbs gently aside so that he could open the door. Still clutching the broken sword, scarcely knowing that he did so, he worked the last bolt from its hasp and opened the door.
They were waiting outside and they stared at him.
Kate cried out at sight of him. “You’re bleeding!”
She snatched the little ruffled apron from about her waist and ran to him and began wiping his face, talking all the while. “We heard the most dreadful — oh, John — such a bruise! How did it happen? And you with the sword broken—”
“Where is Sir Richard?”
It was Lady Mary, standing in the doorway, her eyes searching the room. She pushed her way in and saw the body on the floor.
“Oh Richard,” she whispered. “Oh no — How could you, how could you …”
Now she saw the scepter. She went to it, took it up and dropped it as though it burned her hands. For there before her the hole gaped and he was nowhere … nowhere …
She turned, her eyes searching, comprehending, until they rested on John. She stood looking at him, trying to speak. When her voice came it was a whisper, a gasp.
“Take this castle away. Take it … it’s evil. I always knew it was. It’s full of … ghosts.” She swayed, and caught herself and stood leaning against the table, her face white and cold.
“Kate, take care of her!” John cried.
But Lady Mary pushed them all away when they came to her side.
“I am quite all right,” she said. She tried to moisten her lips, her mouth dry. She turned to them with a wild sad smile, her haunted eyes unseeing.
“They were no help at all — no help! So perhaps they simply don’t exist!”
This she said in her high clear voice, and repulsing the hands stretched out to help her, she walked away from them all.
… The day was cool, the air clear with the delicate sunshine of an English morning in summer. The castle had never been more beautiful, John thought. He had strolled up from the village, needing time to be alone before he met Kate. The landscape was still and calm, the village too had been silent. People stayed in their houses, talking quietly of the shadow that had fallen upon the countryside. The inquest had been held — accidental death. So Sir Richard was dead, the last of the Sedgeleys, and who was to have the castle now? John had ordered his breakfast sent to his room, but Thomas had waylaid him at the door.
“What will we all be doing now, sir?” he asked. “We looked up to Sir Richard, you know, sir. Fussy he was at times, and a man of his own mind, but we was used to that from him and his father. High and mighty, but they’d a right to be. The likes of them made old England. So what’s to happen to us?”
“I don’t know, Thomas,” he said. “I don’t think anybody knows just yet. But you’ll be told, doubtless.”
“We’ll have to wait,” Thomas said dolefully.
John had nodded and gone his way along the cobbled road to the edge of the village, and then the country road through the meadows and the wood. Kate would be waiting for him in the yew walk. Last night when he had seen to it that all was arranged for the funeral today, they had clasped hands at parting.
“I’ll come in the morning,” he had promised. “I’ll meet you in the yew walk — about eleven?”
She had nodded.
Yes, he could see her figure now — a white dress, in the shadowy walk. How small she looked between the great shrubs towering darkly above her! The sunlight fell straight and she walked in a path of sunlight, narrow, but wide enough for her to escape the shadows, and her hair was bright in the sunshine.
They met, he held both her hands in his and restrained himself from taking her in his arms. It was still too soon. She was grave from all that had happened.
“The vicar’s here,” she said. “He came early. Lady Mary sent for him. She wants the crypt to be full of red roses. She won’t have a long sermon, she says. And the people are to be allowed to come in and stand as close as they like — and the broken sword is to be put back into its place.”
“How is she?” John asked;
“Brave,” Kate said. “She talked about him this morning quite calmly, though I’m sure she hadn’t slept — such deep shadows under her pretty eyes. She said she was glad he had gone first, because she could bear being alone better than he could; because women are stronger about some things, she said. Men want so much, she told me — but we women ask very little, really. Just someone to give us a little affection, someone to talk to — and a hand to hold—”
Her voice broke. He took her in his arms. She leaned her head on his breast, and he laid his cheek against her hair.
“Kate—” he said after a moment.
“Yes, John?”
“I’m not coming to the funeral. Will she mind too much? I can’t — after that last dreadful meeting in the throne room.”
They paused, still holding hands, and he looked into her upturned face, flawless in the sunlight.
“No,” Kate said. “She’ll understand — a wonderfully understanding woman. She said this morning she wished she hadn’t to go to the funeral, either. She stayed with him alone yesterday evening. She said she was glad he was peaceful at last with his ancestors, where he’d always belonged.”
He wondered, watching her, if Lady Mary had told her anything of herself. Did Kate know that she was the daughter of Sir Richard’s son, and so his own granddaughter?
“Kate, look at me!”
She obeyed instantly, lifting her face to his, and meeting his smile she blushed sweetly.
“Yes, John?”
“Has Lady Mary ever said anything to you about a child?”
“A child? No, John. What child?”
Kate was thinking, remembering. “She did say she wished so much she could have given Sir Richard a child. She said it was her fault they hadn’t an heir. But I told her it wasn’t, because she wanted a child as much as he did — a son, of course, for the castle.”
“What did she say then?”
“She said there was no use in talking about it. And then, I don’t know why, she told me that Queen Elizabeth came here to this castle after Essex was beheaded. She loved him, you know, though he was half her age, but she said nothing after he was dead. Her motto had always been Video et taceo. And it was a good motto for a woman, Lady Mary said, especially for a woman who loves a man.”
“I see and I am silent,” John repeated, “It’s a good motto for us all.”
A silence fell between them.
“You don’t want the castle now, I suppose,” Kate said. She pulled her hands away as she spoke and tucked them into the pockets of her dress.
He answered slowly, pausing often to reflect. “It would be easy for me to run away from it, run away and forget. Yes, the castle fills my heart with horror, and with love. It’s an old, old castle. … Even castles must have evil in them when they live too long. But it isn’t the castle that’s evil, it’s the people who used it for evil. See how the sunlight falls there on the towers, Kate? See how beautiful it is?”
He drew her with him and they looked between the yews. “It’s a work of art. I don’t want it destroyed, any more than I want a book or a painting ruined. I want generations of people — new generations — to enjoy it, and purify it through new life.”
“And you’re taking it away?”
“Yes, I think that’s been settled legally and voluntarily,” he said, “but I’ll leave something in its place — a fine modern farm, the best of machinery. My father will like that! And Lady Mary will live nearby and see the earth bloom—”
“And I’ll be staying with her,” Kate said in a low voice.
“You’re wrong,” he said firmly. “She won’t let you. If I know her, and I think I do — ah, but I’m sure I do — she won’t let you. And I won’t let you. You’ll live on the other side of the ocean, in a new country, my little Kate. With the man who loves you.”
She drew a deep breath, then tried to laugh. “How you can be so sure of — of everything!” she cried. “How you can tell it all out like that!”
He took her face between his hands. “You tell me,” he said. “Am I right?”
A long look passed between them — no, much more than a look. He saw through those violet eyes straight and deep into her heart, and she looked up and saw what she wanted to see, a man she could adore and did, and did—
“Yes!” she said.
“And shall we go on living in the castle,” she inquired, “after it’s moved to Connecticut?”
“No,” he said firmly. “We will not live in it. Nobody will live in it, ever again. We’ll live in a new house, you and I, and there’ll be a wing it it for Lady Mary, if she likes the idea of a new country, another life — without ghosts—”
“Oh,” she breathed in ecstasy. “How you do think of everything!”
They kissed then, for what else was there to do after that, and drew apart at last and only because the church bells were tolling. No, they were ringing.
“Hark,” Kate whispered. “Lady Mary said they weren’t to toll. They’re ringing a song he used to sing with her when they were young — it’s what she told them to do. ‘I won’t have the smell of death, nor the sound of it,’ that’s what she told the vicar …”
She hesitated and gave him a coaxing smile. “But I’ll just go and be with her a bit, John, shan’t I? Until this is over? Since I’m to have the rest of my life with you?”
How could he refuse her, now or ever?
He nodded, smiling, and sat down on a garden seat, from where over the dark yews he could see the castle towering against the blue sky.
“I’ll wait,” he said.