“Betsy was bringing me to see you and we opened the wrong door,” said Nan. “I was looking at the map of Egypt because my father has just gone there . . .” She paused, partly because the children never told tales on each other and partly because Betsy’s grief had now reached its crescendo.
“And Betsy pulled a drawer out too far,” said Lady Alicia. She did not raise her voice to dominate Betsy’s grief but she spoke with such icy sharpness that she cut right through it. “Betsy, stop crying at once.” Betsy stopped instantly and sniffed. “Have you a handkerchief? Then blow your nose. I do not like a sniffing child. Is this the only drawer you have opened, may I ask?”
Betsy blew her nose on the handkerchief Nan handed her and gulped. “Only this one. It has a lion’s head on it.”
Lady Alicia’s face softened a little. “Ah yes,” she said. “Pleasant to pull. Abednego and I heard the crash but could not at first discover from which room the sound came. I did not expect to find you in my husband’s library.” She turned and glanced around the room with interest. “Moses keeps it swept and dusted by my orders but I have not myself entered it since my husband left home for the last time.” She looked at the gloves on the desk and the cloak over the back of the chair. “How strange!” she murmured. “He has kept this
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room exactly as Hugo left it. Almost as though he expected him to come back. Very odd. Abednego, assist these young ladies to clear up this mess.”
Abednego put Gertrude on the desk beside Hugo Valerian’s gloves and in a few moments the papers had been packed neatly away in the drawer again. “Tea, I think,” said Lady Alicia, and turning abruptly she led the way out of the room, down the passage, up another and then they were at the door of her boudoir, which Abednego opened for her. “Abednego, fetch the tea,” she said and swept in.
Once more enthroned in her chair, with Nan and Betsy on chairs facing her, she said, “If I am to be often honored with your company you must have the exact position of my boudoir clear in your minds, my dears. I do not wish you to go blundering about in my house without my knowledge or permission.”
“We are very sorry,” said Nan humbly.
“Of that I am aware,” said Lady Alicia graciously. “And we will say no more about it. So you are Nan.” Her blue eyes scrutinized Nan very thoroughly. “Plain but pleasing,” was her comment. “And so your father is in Egypt. To what part is he going?”
“He’s going up the Nile to a place called Abu Simbel.”
“Ah!” said Lady Alicia. “That is where the great temples are. My husband was last heard of at Abu Simbel.”
This remark had for Nan a most ominous sound and
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she was thankful to see Abednego come in with the tea. Gertrude was now on his back, hung around his neck in a little hammock made of string. He was looking quite a different person now that he had Gertrude. He was a cheerful monkey now.
It was while they were drinking tea out of delicate fluted cups like seashells, and munching cupcakes, that Nan looked up and for the first time saw the tapestry of the horsemen riding up through the wood with the falcons on their wrists. She put her cup down very carefully and stared and stared.
“Do you like my tapestry?” asked Lady Alicia, and Nan nodded, speechless. “It took me years to do. I began it on the day I became betrothed to my late husband and I only finished it just before he left on his last journey. My husband was a great traveler and so was his father before him. All the Valerians were restless men, never content to stay at home. And so with my needle I painted that portrait of them. A falcon is the Valerian family crest and so they all carry falcons on their wrists. They are riding to a city in the clouds. That is what the Valerian men have always done.”
“The hill is shaped like Lion Tor,” said Nan.
“Yes,” said Lady Alicia. “My little boy was always wanting to be on top of Lion Tor. He called the Castle Rock a city. He was a Valerian like all the rest.”
To Nan, Lady Alicia’s voice seemed to come from far away because she was stunned with astonishment. For that picture on the wall in front of her was the pic-
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ture that Daft Davie had painted on the wall of his cave. She was glad that Betsy was chatting away to Abednego, and he to her in his strange language, for the noise they made covered up, she hoped, her confusion.
She was herself again by the end of tea and then they played jackstraws, Nan keeping her eye on the clock. “Because of having to be home by six for Robert and me to do our lessons,” she explained to Lady Alicia.
“If they are late they don’t have supper,” said Betsy. “I do because I don’t have to do evening lessons.” “Youth has its blessings,” said Lady Alicia. “Do not worry, Nan. I will tell you when you must leave.”
So Nan relaxed and enjoyed her jackstraws. She had small, neat, steady fingers and she played nearly as well as Abednego, but not quite. He beat her, to his great delight, and Lady Alicia gave him a prize, a pink satin ribbon to tie around Gertrude’s waist. To Nan and Betsy she gave consolation prizes, a blue velvet snood for her hair to Betsy and to Nan a tiny green silk purse on a green cord to hang around her neck. Nan was not a conceited child but she couldn’t help knowing that during the course of tea and jackstraws Lady Alicia had become very fond of her. When it was time to go she came with them to the top of the great staircase and she kissed them both and her hand lingered on Nan’s shoulder. “My compliments to your uncle,” she said. “And I trust he will permit you to visit me again. I am sorry that Moses is not here to see you safely home. He
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has gone to town to do the shopping. You know your way. Straight down the long passage. The front door is not in use at present.”
“It was dull today,” said Betsy as they walked home. “Nice but dull. There wasn’t Frederick getting into the house and everybody chasing him and Moses getting angry. I wasn’t frightened today but I was dull. I’d rather be frightened than dull.”
“I think,” said Nan, “that I’d rather be dull than frightened. But one can’t choose, you have to take what comes, Father says. Do your legs ache? Shall I give you a pig-a-baek?”
They were home in good time but there was no sign of the boys and Absolom, and Uncle Ambrose and Nan started work without Robert, Uncle Ambrose looking decidedly grim and Nan trying to work hard enough for two. But though she tried hard she did not cover herself with glory and presently Uncle Ambrose said, “That will do, Nan. Shut your book and tell me what you have been doing this afternoon.”
Nan looked up at him. “Stop working?” she asked incredulously.
“Yes,” said Uncle Ambrose. “Stop working and tell me why you have those unbecoming shadows under your eyes. Have you been crying? I dislike a weeping woman but I dislike even more not knowing the reason for her tears.”
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“I did something dreadful,” said Nan, and she found she was thankful to burst out with it. “I read somebody else’s letters.”
“Most reprehensible,” said Uncle Ambrose with interest. “Whose? And what was in them?”
“Emma Cobley’s. And they were love letters written by her to tell the squire, Hugo Valerian, how much she loved him.”
Uncle Ambrose’s spectacles, that had been placed rather low down on his nose, fell off it onto the table and Hector, who was sitting on the back of his chair, uttered a loud derisive hoot.
“Hector,” said Uncle Ambrose, “return to the Parthenon.” Hector returned and Ambrose replaced his spectacles and looked at Nan over the top of them. “You had better tell me how these letters came into your hands,” he said with severity.
Nan told him how they had gone into the wrong room by mistake and what had happened. “I didn’t mean to read the letters,” she said, the tears beginning to well up again, “and
when I realized what I was doing I stopped.”
“Then do not disturb yourself,” said Uncle Ambrose, “and do not, I beg, weep. Sin, my dear Nan, lies more in the intention than the actual deed. A reprehensible action which is not premeditated remains reprehensible, and should not be repeated, but is not in the eyes of heaven a grave sin. Have a peppermint, my dear, it is
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difficult to cry while sucking.” He took a screw of white paper from his pocket and handed her one and again there came that gleam of interest in his eye. “Do you recollect anything that you read?”
Nan shook her head. “I didn’t read much. It was just that she said she loved him and that if he didn’t marry her, as he’d promised he would, dreadful things would happen to him and his family.”
“A woman’s notion of love can be peculiar,” said Uncle Ambrose. “In celibacy lies the only safety. So, it’s true.”
“Please, what is true?” asked Nan.
“A story I was told by a respectable old lady, now deceased, but once resident in the village. She liked a good gossip and I used to humor the old soul while lending little credence to her tales. Women are gifted with narrative power but I make it a practice to believe only one third of what they tell me, for their notions of veracity, like their notions of love, are not to be relied upon. The only exception, Nan, being yourself. I shall always believe, my dear, every word that you tell me and I place great reliance upon your affection.”
Nan was so astonished and overwhelmed that she turned scarlet and was once more so near to tears that Uncle Ambrose had to hand her another peppermint.
“I think, my dear,” he went on, “that I had better tell you the story as told to me. It will then be easier for you to put the whole thing from your mind and attend to matters more suited to your tender years, English
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grammar for instance, and the Greek alphabet.” He leaned back in his chair and put his fingertips together. “Emma Cobley was the only child of a farmer who lived out on the moor, a strange man reputed to be a warlock. He died when she was sixteen years old and she came to the village to be housekeeper to a retired doctor who lived here. He became very fond of her and finding her clever and quick to learn, he educated her. She also appeared to pick up a good deal of medical knowledge. My informant thought it likely that she read his medical books after he was in bed at night, and that what she read became interwoven with the strange things she had learned from her warlock father. Be that as it may she made a good deal of money by concocting and selling medicines and ointments, love potions and such nonsense, quite unknown to the old doctor. When he died he left his house and most of his money to his sister, the old lady who told me this story, but he left money to Emma too. She purchased the cottage on the green where she lives now and with her legacy and her own earnings to support her she lived quite like a lady. She was, my informant told me, quite startingly beautiful.”
“She has twinkly eyes now,” said Nan.
“Do not, I beg, interrupt me,” said Uncle Ambrose. “Where was I? Ah yes. Hugo Valerian, a boy in his teens and six years younger than herself, fell in love with her and gave her his promise that he would marry her as soon as he was of age. His father was dead
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and his mother had little control over him so foolishness on his part was only to be expected. Then his mother also died, he came of age and to celebrate this event the uncle who had been his guardian took him abroad with him. The journey gave him the taste for foreign travel which later became a passion with him. It broadened his mind and in the course of it his passion for Emma Cob- ley became somewhat cool. When he came home he did not at once end his betrothal to her but he did not make it public, and he appears to have refused to fix a date for their marriage. At about this time the vicar’s young daughter left her schoolroom, put her hair up, went to Paris to be finished and returned a very lovely young lady, wellborn, graceful and accomplished. She also, in the intervals of her duties in house and parish, was partial to foreign travel, having relations in Italy and France. When news reached home that she had married Hugo Valerian in Paris it gave much pleasure, for both the young people were held in affection.”
“And Emma?” asked Nan.
“She was greatly enraged, so much so that for a time she quite lost the ladylike demeanor and genteel manners which she had been at great pains to cultivate. Then she calmed down and returned to her former way of life, winning a great reputation in the neighborhood for her cures, and when she got older she started her very successful grocery business. She apparently entirely forgave the squire and his wife but I fancy it must have been something of an embarrassment for them to have
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her living always at their gate.” He paused and sighed. “Poor things!”
“Were they unhappy?” asked Nan.
“For some years they had no children,” said Uncle Ambrose carefully, “and the squire was increasingly away from home. Lady Alicia must have been very lonely. Then at last she had a son. There was great rejoicing in the village and I understand that both parents drew together in their attachment to the child. But I regret to say that he died. And that, my dear, is the end of the story as I know it.”
Nan did not tell Uncle Ambrose that Ezra had told her of the way in which the little boy had disappeared, for she was afraid he might be angry with Ezra for telling her such a sad story. Instead she said, “Uncle Ambrose, Emma Cobley is what in India is called a witch doctor, isn’t she?”
“Something of the sort,” Uncle Ambrose reluctantly agreed.
“Do you believe that witches and warlocks, the black ones and the white ones, can really harm people or help people with their spells?”
“I do not,” said Uncle Ambrose forcibly. “And I trust that Ezra has not been filling your head with any of his nonsense. Ezra is a very excellent old man but he is devoid of education and shares the superstitions of this benighted countryside.”
Nan fixed her clear eyes upon her uncle’s face. “You bow to the bees,” she said.
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Uncle Ambrose looked at her and then suddenly threw back his head and laughed. “Yes, Nan, I do. I have the greatest respect for bees.” He paused and then said very seriously, “And I am very deeply aware of the mystery of things.”
“Do you think Emma Cobley could have harmed Lady Alicia and her husband?” asked Nan.
“Not by her spells, which are nonsense,” said Uncle Ambrose, “but possibly the thoughts of an unloving mind can have power to do harm if they are not confronted by a corresponding power for good. But such considerations, my dear, are unsuitable for your age. It is suppertime and where are Robert and Timothy? You and I had better have supper together.”
They did so while daylight faded outside the windows. Nan could see that Uncle Ambrose was anxious, and Ezra too. Hector also seemed uneasy and Andromache kept prowling in and out in a restless sort of way, trailing kittens in her wake. When supper was over and Ezra was lingering anxiously at the door, Uncle Ambrose said, “Nan, where did you say those boys had gone?”
Nan explained how they had climbed over the wall from the manor-house garden and to comfort him she said, “Three bees are with them.”
“Three bees?” ejaculated Uncle Ambrose.
“Yes. I saw three bees fly after them over the wall.”
Ezra smiled and relaxed but Uncle Ambrose seemed to find little comfort in the statement. He got up and
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turned to Ezra. “You’ve nothing to smile about, Ezra,” he told him, “for you and I must now go and search for these boys. Fetch me my cloak, for it may be cold in the wood before we End these objectionable children. How intensely do I dislike children! Nan, you’d better wash up the supper things, that’ll be another penny, let’s say tuppence as you
will be doing it alone, and then join Betsy in bed. Do not worry, my dear. Only good boys die young.”
Nan saw them off at the front door, Uncle Ambrose looking very imposing in his cloak and his battered wet- weather hat, with Hector on his shoulder, and Ezra carrying his shepherd’s crook. Nan had not seen his crook before and she found the sight of it reassuring. She washed up and then put herself to bed beside the sleeping Betsy. But in spite of the bees and the crook, and the sprigs of rosemary in the boys’ pockets, she couldn’t sleep. She lay awake listening.
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Lion Tor
“It’s nice not to have the girls,” said Robert.
“Women slow one down,” agreed Timothy.
They were certainly getting along at a good speed in spite of going steeply uphill through the marvelous wood. The trees grew thickly and below were ferns and brambles and moss-covered boulders. “Look!” said Timothy and they stopped, for they had never seen such a splendid tree. It was a giant beech with wide- spreading branches and platforms of green leaves that went up and up like clouds in the sky. The trunk was of polished silver and below it the great roots spread out as the branches did, with ferns growing between them,
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making a wonderful place for someone to sit and rest, or sit and make music, and Timothy thought he heard a faraway piping.
“Listen!” he said, and he and Robert stood and listened, while Absolom seized the opportunity to sit down and have a good scratch. At first they could hear nothing and then, distantly, the sound of a lark singing and the voices of sheep on the moor.
“Is that all?” asked Robert.
“That’s all,” said Timothy, but he wasn’t disappointed for nothing could have been more beautiful than what they had heard.
They went on. The lane soon petered out into a cart track and then into no track at all, or rather into an invisible track, a sort of magic under the ground that held one’s feet to something that had been here once but wasn’t visible now. Timothy expressed it by saying, “Once the road went right up to the top of the hill, like in that picture.”
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