In the kitchen he lit the lamp and stirred up the fire.
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Into a small saucepan he put sugar, ginger, rosemary and dried lime blossoms, poured water on them and brought the concoction slowly to the boil, all the while murmuring something in a strange language. Then he strained the liquid into a mug and brought it to Nan.
“Drink it up, maid,” he said, “and come the morning you’ll be neither sick nor sorry.”
Nan was drowsy long before she had finished her drink. She was vaguely aware of Ezra carrying her up to bed and the next thing she knew it was the morning, and in spite of Emma’s book and the sorrowful story of the little boy, and not as much sleep as she was accustomed to, and the fact that it was once more pouring rain, she felt splendid.
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It rained solidly all the week, it rained as though it would never stop, and the weather came down like a curtain between the children and the queer things that happened at the top of the hill, and the separation did them good. Uncle Ambrose said that such rain was designed by meteorologists for the encouragement of intellectual labor, which is why the wettest parts of England produce the best brains. The children were skeptical but to please him they did work very hard, and when they were not engaged in intellectual labor they cooled their hot brains by collecting snails in the rain. The only person who had any adventures was Robert,
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for Uncle Ambrose bought a saddle for Rob-Roy from one of the farmers, Ezra made a bridle of rope to do duty until Robert could save up enough to buy a real one, and whenever the rain let up a little, Robert rode Rob-Roy not up the hill to where it was queer but down the hill, over the bridge and away onto the great healthy moor beyond. What he and Rob-Roy did there he did not say but he came home again with his wet face rosy and his eyes very bright. He became older during that week and somehow nicer. Nan in her free time forgot about the book of spells and withdrew into her parlor like a snail into its shell, and Timothy and Betsy painted pictures and made little figures out of plasticine under Ezra’s tuition. He could make the most wonderful little figures, of birds and beasts and people. He made figures of Uncle Ambrose, the children, himself and Absolom. He seemed to have magic in his fingers.
But on Sunday it was fine again and Ezra drove them to have tea with Grandmama and Miss Bolt. It was a queer visit for though they had been with Uncle Ambrose for only a short while so much had happened that it seemed like years. But the queerest thing was that they found they now liked Grandmama and Miss Bolt, and they rather thought that Grandmama and Miss Bolt liked them. Uncle Ambrose, when asked to explain this, said briefly that distance lends enchantment to the view.
And the next day it was still fine and the top of the hill called them like a distant trumpet call. After they
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had helped Ezra wash up (a penny each, fourpence all told) they assembled in the yard and sat on the well swinging their legs. Absolom swung his tail.
“Today we’re going up the lane that leads between the Bulldog Inn and the manor-house wall,” said Robert. “We’re going to the wood.”
“Not yet,” said Nan. “We’re going to see Lady Alicia.”
“But we’ve seen her,” objected Timothy.
“I haven’t,” said Nan. “And you told me she asked you to bring me to see her.”
“Not today, Nan,” said Robert. “I want to do something new today.”
“And I want to see Lady Alicia,” said Nan. It was not like her not to want to do what other people wanted and Robert looked at her in surprise. She looked very determined and Betsy took her part. “So do I want to see Lady Alicia,” she said. “And I want to see Moses Alleluja again, and Abednego and Gertrude.”
“And I want to go to the wood,” said Robert obstinately. “And so does Timothy. And what’s more we’re going. We don’t want you girls.”
There was a silence and Nan felt as though Robert had stabbed her, because they always did everything together. Then because she knew she had to see Lady Alicia, and because she did not want to have a row with Robert, she gave in. “Very well,” she said, “you and Timothy go to the wood. But you must each have a sprig of rosemary in your pockets. Ezra says rosemary
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is a holy herb and not much harm can come to you if you have it in your pocket.”
"What rot!” said Robert.
“Nothing Ezra says is rot,” said Nan. “We’ll go up through the garden and through the churchyard so that we can pick rosemary. Come on.”
They trooped up the garden and Robert pulled Nan’s hair to show he was sorry he’d said he didn’t want her. She pinched him gently to show she understood and when they reached the rosemary bush near the beehives she gave him an extra large sprig to put in his pocket. Pausing to bow and curtsy to the bees they went through into the churchyard and today, as they were not following Uncle Ambrose like ducks going to the pond, they were able to stop and look aboout them. One of the ivy-grown tombs behind iron railings attracted them because a wonderful show of red flowers was growing inside the railings and they went over to look at it. They found it was not a regular-sized tomb but a square pillar about five feet high. The bees were hovering over the flowers.
“They aren’t wallflowers,” said Nan, “and they aren’t hyacinths. What are they?”
“Don’t know,” said Robert. “Look, there are words carved on one side of the pillar under the ivy.”
He put his hand through the rails and pulled the ivy away and underneath was a carved crest, a gloved hand with a falcon on the wrist, and below it the words, HUGO FRANCIS VALERIAN. Born July 12,1846. The date of his
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death is known to God. And below that again, They sought for a city.
“Valerian!” exclaimed Robert. “That’s the name of the red flowers. I saw them in a book of flower pictures at Grandmama’s.”
“That’s a nice bird,” said Timothy, regarding the falcon with keen interest.
“It’s a falcon,” said Robert.
They stared at the pillar for a long time, feeling deeply concerned with it but not knowing why. Then Timothy moved around to the other side and pulled the ivy away and cried out to the others, “Here’s another falcon. And more words.” They ran to join him. The inscription had the same crest and the same name, Hugo Francis Valerian. But the dates were different. They showed that this Hugo had lived for only eight years. And the text below was, All flesh is as grass.
“Only eight years old,” said Nan, and then suddenly, “Why, it must be Lady Alicia’s little boy!”
“Then the other Hugo must be Lady Alicia’s husband,” said Robert.
“But Betsy said that Lady Alicia said that her husband lost himself in Egypt,” said Timothy.
“Yes,” said Betsy. “He was looking for a city and he vanished.”
“Then there’s no one in the tomb,” said Timothy.
“Then they aren’t dead,” said Betsy.
“Yes, they are,” said Robert. “But not in here. That’s not a tomb. It’s what’s called a memorial.”
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“They’re not dead,” repeated Betsy obstinately.
“Yes they are, silly, it says so,” said Robert.
And Nan, in spite of the story that Ezra had told her, heard her own voice saying in loud firm tones that matched the brilliance of the flowers behind the railing, “People are not dead because they’ve vanished.”
They went on through the churchyard and came out on the green. There was no sunshine so far today. It was gray and very still. When they came to the lane that led into the wood between the Bulldog and the manor- house wall, and stood looking up it, the wood looked very
dark and not a leaf moved.
“Good day, young maids an' masters,” said a voice behind them, and they all looked around. The inn door had opened and on the threshold stood Tom Biddle propped on his two sticks, nodding and smiling. In the shadows behind him was the bulldog and it growled at Absolom. “Surprised to see me ’ere?” he asked. He glanced up at the Bulldog sign- over his head and pointed with one stick to the words, Eliza and William Lawson. Licensed victuallers. “Me daughter and her husband,” he said. “Be going to the wood?”
His eyes were bright with inquiry but just as Robert opened his mouth to reply, Nan said quickly, “Goodbye, Mr. Biddle,” and turned away toward the manor- house gates, pulling a reluctant Robert with her.
“Linden Manor?” Tom Biddle asked.
“Yes,” said Nan.
He nodded, produced his clay pipe and became ab-
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sorbed in filling it, but all the time they were struggling to get the gates open Nan felt that Tom Biddle was watching them; yet when she glanced back he seemed to be still filling his pipe.
“What did you do that for?” complained Robert when they were in the shrubbery. “Timothy and I wanted to go up that lane into the wood.”
“Not with Tom Biddle watching you,” said Nan. “Ezra doesn’t like Tom Biddle. There will be another way into the lane. Do you remember Ezra saying that Moses and Abednego come and go over the wall? Let’s get through the shrubbery first.”
The shrubbery no longer scared them now that they were used to it and they pushed through it quite quickly and came out into the sea of grass and docks and nettles beneath the apple trees. Robert, who was quick at seeing the lay of the land, turned left and made his way along the edge of the shrubbery, the others following, and in a few minutes they reached the wall that divided the manor-house garden from the lane and the wood. The wall was high but full of crannies where good climbers could cling with toes and fingers, and Robert and Timothy didn’t have any trouble climbing it. Ab- solom barked to go too, because he was Robert’s dog, and Nan handed him up to them when they were astride the wall.
“Do you remember the branch of rowan over the back door that I showed you this morning?” she said. “Rowan trees grow in woods and on hillsides and Ezra
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says that witches are frightened of it. He says if you are attacked by wicked people you can pick a branch of rowan and use it like a sword.”
Robert nodded and disappeared from sight and Timothy, handing down Absolom, followed him, and suddenly Nan was scared. And then she saw three bees flying over the wall after the boys and she was happy again.
“Come on, Nan,” said Betsy, pulling at her skirt, “we don’t want to be late for jackstraws and tea.”
Neither Moses nor Abednego was in the kitchen and Nan and Betsy decided that they would go straight up to Lady Alicia. The passage did not seem so long and dark now there were two of them holding hands, and Betsy enjoyed doing the honors of the place and showing it to Nan. “This is the hall,” she said. “Aren’t those cobwebs lovely?”
“Beautiful,” said Nan with awe, as they climbed the staircase. “They are like lace curtains. But it’s dark. Are you sure you can find the way to Lady Alicia’s room?” “Of course I can,” said Betsy. “You go along a landing and up some steps and along a passage. And then you see a light shining through a keyhole and that’s it.” They went along a landing and up some steps and along a passage but they didn’t see any light shining through a keyhole. What they did see was a faint line of light showing under a door at the end of the passage. Four steps led up to the door.
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“That must be it,” said Nan. Betsy was puzzled because she didn’t remember the steps and she did not think Lady Alicia’s room had been at the end of the passage. But they went up the steps and Nan knocked at the door. There was no answer but thinking that perhaps she had not been able to hear an old lady’s soft “come in” she opened the door and they went in.
“It’s not Lady Alicia’s boudoir,” said Betsy.
It was a fairly large room, a shut-up room but with light in it because from one of the two windows the velvet curtains had been drawn aside. One window looked out on the terrace, and this was the curtained one; the other, on the garden of the fountain. “Oh look!” cried Nan, standing at the second window. “Look at that wonderful man!”
Betsy joined her and they stood together looking down at him.
“But he’s got legs like an animal,” said Betsy, and she slipped her hand into Nan’s. “I don’t like him,” she went on in quavering tones.
“I do,” said Nan. “Oh, I do! Listen, Betsy. He wants us to listen.” She opened the window and they both leaned out. But Betsy couldn’t hear anything and Nan could only hear the distant sound of a lark and mingling with it, very far away, the voices of the sheep on the moor.
“Why, he’s only a stone statue in a fountain!” said Betsy, and was no longer afraid.
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“So he is,” said Nan slowly. “But all the same he wanted us to listen.”
She closed the window again and turned back to the room. It gave her a shock for it seemed as though some man had left it only ten minutes ago. His cloak lay over the back of a tall carved chair and his gloves were on the kneehole writing desk. In one corner of the room were fishing rods, sticks and riding crops, and on the mantelpiece above the big empty hearth were racks of pipes and jars of tobacco. Three walls of the room were lined with glass cases containing ancient treasures, bead necklaces and pottery figures of birds and men, and bookcases full of books, and above these were pictures of ruined temples and cities, and fierce heads of wild beasts, snarling tigers and weird heads with horns. On the fourth wall, one on each side of the window looking on the garden of the fountain, hung two large maps, one of central Africa and one of Egypt.
“Egypt!” said Nan. “Look, Betsy. It’s Egypt, where Father is.” There was no response from Betsy and Nan did not look around, so intent was she on the map. Egypt, where Father was. It seemed to bring him here into the room with her. She stood close to the map, tracing the blue ribbon of the Nile with her finger and finding names that she knew. Then there was a sudden crash behind her and she swung around. “Betsy!” she said. “What have you done?”
Well might she ask. Betsy had pulled out one of the
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drawers of the writing desk and pulled it a little too far. The whole thing had fallen to the ground, spilling papers and bundles of letters all over the floor. Betsy, a child not easily intimidated, was intimidated now and on the verge of tears. “The drawer has a brass handle like a lion’s head,” she said, “and I just wanted to see if it would pull out.”
“Well, it has pulled out,” said Nan and her voice was so dry that she sounded like Uncle Ambrose at his most sarcastic. It was bad enough, she thought, to walk into a room in a strange house without permission, even though it was by mistake, without pulling out drawers and scattering their private contents on the floor. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Betsy,” she said. “Now we must pick them all up and put them back.”
This was the first time in her life that Betsy had heard her dear Nan speak to her in anger and the shock of it, on top of the shock of the falling drawer, brought the tears over the verge. Seated beside Nan on the floor she wept like a cataract. Nan was too angry to comfort her. With grimly folded lips she began gathering up the scattered papers and putting them back in the drawer. One bundle of letters, tied with a scarlet silk ribbon, had burst open in its fall. The ribbon, frayed with age, had snapped and the letters were all over the floor. Picking them up she saw that they were in a handwriting she knew, and she went cold all over, for it was Emma Cobley’s handwriting. Not knowing what
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she did, drawn by that wri
ting as a fascinated bird is drawn to hop nearer to a snake, she began to read. They were love letters, written by Emma to Hugo Valerian. Nan had come across some gentle love letters in books she had read but never anything like these, and the wild and vivid language both fascinated and repelled her. There was nothing gentle about this love. It was like a tempest, all rolling protestations of undying adoration shot through with fiery flashes of anger, threats and reproaches.
Suddenly Nan dropped the letters and her face turned scarlet with shame. What was she doing, reading letters which were not hers? That was a dreadful thing to do. It was far worse than what Betsy had done. She was so upset that she began to cry too and her tears dripped down onto the letters as she gathered them together again, retied the red ribbon and put them at the back of the drawer.
“And what, may I ask, are you two children doing?”
Nan scrambled to her feet and curtsied to a very dignified and very angry old lady. She was so stiffened by annoyance that she looked as though she would never be able to bend again. One hand rested on her ebony stick and the other on Abednego’s shoulder, and the rings on them sparkled like ice and her eyes flashed blue ice-fire. Abednego, with Gertrude in his arms, shook his head and chattered more in sorrow than in anger. Nan’s tears had been checked by shock and she wiped
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her eyes and blew her nose and was done with it, but Betsy wept on. She did not weep often but when she did the thing was thoroughly done.