A String in the Harp

by Bond, Nancy

  When they had all sat down to full plates, Dr. Rhys lifted his glass of wine gravely. “I shall propose a toast if I may. To Jennifer.”

  Jen blushed hot and couldn’t look at anyone.

  “Then one to all of us,” said Becky, “or can’t you do that?”

  “Of course, you can,” David said. “To all of us!”

  “There, it is delicious, what did I say? I shall eat until I can’t move,” declared Mrs. Rhys, piling her fork.

  Jen was kept gratifyingly busy refilling plates for people; everyone had a good appetite. No one but she knew how much fretting and planning had gone into this dinner, which was perhaps just as well. But she caught David’s eye for a moment and he smiled; he knew. The dinner meant as much to him as it did to her, and it was a success for them both.

  “What were you talking about before dinner?” Becky wanted to know.

  “The wolf hunt,” said David, “and whether or not it was magic.”

  “Magic? Do you think it was?” Becky looked from her father to Dr. Rhys.

  “I’m a skeptic,” said David. “I need convincing. I admit the business was very odd, but I’m not sure I’d go that far.”

  “But what is your definition of magic, David?” inquired Dr. Rhys.

  “There are different kinds, aren’t there?” asked Peter.

  “Oh, indeed.”

  “Not just card tricks and magic wands and sawing people in two,” said Becky.

  “All right,” said David, “what do you mean?”

  “I am afraid that is what we have done to the word, do you see,” said Dr. Rhys a little sadly. “We have taken the real magic away from it. To me, it is something very old and not in the least scientific, a feeling, perhaps, most of all. I am not sure I can give you a satisfactory definition. But it is there behind all my work—the ancient beliefs of the country.”

  “But people still believe in magic,” said Becky. “Almost everyone we know here—Mr. Evans and Rhian, my teacher, Hugh-the-Bus and Mr. Williams-the-Shop. Even Gwilym, though he won’t come out and say so.”

  “They’re superstitious,” Jen corrected. “They don’t necessarily believe in magic.”

  “But they do,” objected Becky.

  “Why not?” said Mrs. Rhys. “If your magic is there, you’re safe because you believe. And if it’s not, well, no harm done, is there?”

  “That’s what Rhian says.”

  “But one becomes extremely vulnerable when one admits a belief in magic, especially one in my position,” said Dr. Rhys. “It makes people uneasy when I speak of it, perhaps because such an admission touches beliefs in them they would rather ignore.”

  “You mean they believe, but they would rather not,” said David with a frown.

  “Exactly. Some fight very hard against their own natures. Those who are sure of themselves, whether they believe in magic or do not believe, are the fortunate ones. Your Mr. Evans is comfortable with himself, it sounds. My friend John Owen at the Cardiff Museum is equally comfortable, and he is certain that magic is nonsense.”

  “Which are you?” asked Peter.

  “I must declare myself with Mr. Evans. He is closer to the country than I, and if it stirs, he would know. John Owen and I have had many discussions on this subject and we will not alter one another’s minds. Still, we keep trying. I spoke with him last week in fact, at the annual meeting of the Cambrian Archaeological Society. He told me how much he had enjoyed meeting you in Cardiff.”

  “He did?” Becky sounded disbelieving.

  And David said, a little too quickly, “The museum is a fascinating place.”

  “Indeed it is,” agreed Dr. Rhys. “I have spent much time there. It is John’s life, you know. He is responsible for many of the best pieces in it.”

  “So I understand,” said David.

  “Come on, Becky, let’s get the dessert,” said Jen, and Becky went with her reluctantly. Peter stayed where he was.

  “John has a finely developed instinct when it comes to archaeological finds of any importance. He is extremely clever at ferreting them out,” Dr. Rhys went on. “And once he is on the track, he will seldom be distracted. He can be a little difficult at times, I think.” He placed his wine glass exactly over a spot on the tablecloth. “John is interested in your children, David.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Something one of them said while you were at the museum, I believe. He asked me in particular about Jennifer. He said she had asked some questions?”

  “Mmm. Yes, I guess she did.”

  “He said he never did have a chance to talk to her properly—someone was ill?”

  “Tired. It was Becky.”

  “She is over it now?” asked Mrs. Rhys. “I was just thinking how very well you all look—as though Wales agrees with you!”

  “Yes, she’s fine. It was a long day, nothing serious.”

  “Did he ask you—about Jen?” asked Peter urgently. The scene in Cardiff in the museum came back to him with gruesome clarity. He had just begun to think of Dr. Rhys as a real ally. He had forgotten Dr. Owen.

  Dr. Rhys sighed and looked at Peter. “I am afraid I may have been careless. I mentioned to John that I knew you were interested in ancient Welsh history and you might indeed have discovered something in this area. I did not think before I spoke and I did not realize how interested he already was.”

  “He knows,” said Peter in a low, hopeless voice.

  “John and I are very old friends indeed, but I do not always agree with his methods of dealing with people. He has the best of intentions and the highest principles, you must understand.”

  Mrs. Rhys snorted. “You and John Owen seldom agree about people, and that’s a blessing! That man has no notion of tact!”

  “I think,” said David, regarding his son, “I don’t really know what’s going on, do I? It’s not the first time this year I’ve had that feeling.”

  At that moment Jen and Becky returned with bowls of ice cream and chocolate sauce. “Would you like coffee, or . . .” Jen’s voice trailed away as she saw their faces.

  “Does everyone know? Have you told?” asked Becky at once.

  Peter shook his head.

  “Told what?” asked David.

  “No,” said Dr. Rhys.

  “But it doesn’t matter,” said Peter miserably. “Dr. Owen knows.”

  “Oh, Peter!” said Becky, distressed.

  “Well, David,” said Mrs. Rhys calmly, “it seems as if you and I are the only ones who haven’t a clue what’s happening. But the ice cream is melting, and I would very much like a nice cup of coffee, Jen, love. So would Gwyn.”

  Jen had been standing stricken, unable to take her eyes from Peter. At Mrs. Rhys’s words, she set down the bowls and slid into her chair. “The water’s on,” she said absently.

  “But we don’t ever have to see Dr. Owen again, do we?” said Becky. “We don’t have to go back to Cardiff.”

  “I am afraid he is coming here, however,” Dr. Rhys said apologetically. “He will be in Aberystwyth next month to deliver a paper at the University and to do some work at the National Library. He asked me to mention that he would like to see you again, especially Jennifer.”

  “Why me?” asked Jen, alarmed.

  “You asked all the questions,” Becky reminded her.

  Peter said nothing; his hand had gone protectively to his chest in a familiar gesture.

  “You need not tell him anything,” said Dr. Rhys gently. “It is entirely up to you, do you see, Peter. But he is a very single-minded man, and I wanted to give you a bit of warning.”

  “Single-minded!” Mrs. Rhys exclaimed. “He runs on one track only, like the steam engine up the Rheidol! And I don’t suppose you will tell us what it is you’re talking about, Gwyn Rhys?”

  “I have already said too much, and I have had no business saying anything at all.”

  “All right,” said David. “I can’t pass any kind of judgment on this when I don’t know what’s goin
g on, but I will say we can’t refuse to see Dr. Owen if he wants to talk to us when he comes.”

  “But, Dad—” began Becky.

  “Talk,” David repeated firmly. “Talk won’t hurt.”

  Mrs. Rhys was the only one who did justice to the dessert. She declared it the best chocolate sauce she’d ever eaten and continued imperturbably to make pleasant, determined conversation, as if she hadn’t noticed the abrupt change in atmosphere. David and Dr. Rhys did their best to help, but the enthusiasm had gone from the evening. They moved back to chairs by the fire, and Jen brought in coffee.

  And all the while she sat trying to drink hers, she agonized over Peter’s white, expressionless face. She wished he’d come out and say it was her fault, but he was silent. It was pointless to blame anyone now, the whole matter had gone out of their hands and there were no more choices. They would have to talk to David about it, they would have to see Dr. Owen. Peter would lose the Key.

  All along, Jen had thought that was what she wanted, and now it was too late, she wasn’t sure any more. The four of them: Jen, Becky, Peter, and David had only just begun to grow together, to understand they belonged to one another; they could so easily pull back and lose each other again.

  Guiltily, Jen found herself wishing the Rhyses would leave. There was a great deal to be said among the four Morgans.

  And the Rhyses must have guessed as much, for neither of them would have a second cup of coffee. As soon as was polite, Mrs. Rhys got up.

  “We really must be getting back to Aberystwyth, I suppose. Gwyn has a Department meeting in the morning, first thing. But it was so nice of you to have us. Dinner was lovely! Jen, love, if you stop in next time you’re in town, we’ll have a cup of tea and I’ll give you that knitting wool I mentioned. Just enough for mittens and a hat, I should think. David, where did you put my coat? There, is it? Oh, yes, thank you! We shall have you all come to us again soon. Have you got your gloves, Gwyn? Thank you all again for a delightful evening!”

  On the doorstep, Dr. Rhys paused. Jen heard him say, “I am afraid I have upset your son, David. I would not have done it intentionally, please believe. If I can be of any assistance to him, please tell him to ask without hesitation.”

  “I will. And I’ll see you at the meeting tomorrow.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, good night to you.”

  Jen, Becky, and Peter cleared away the last of the dishes from the lounge in silence. Jen ran water in the kitchen sink, Peter stacked bowls, and Becky rummaged for a clean dish towel.

  “There isn’t anything I can say, is there,” said Jen at last.

  “No,” said Peter.

  “It’s my fault and I’m sorry, even if it doesn’t help.”

  “I know it’s your fault,” Peter replied, “but it doesn’t matter. I want to be mad at you”—he gave her an odd look—“but I can’t be. It wouldn’t do any good. I just have to figure out what happens next.”

  “Will you tell Dad?” asked Becky. “There isn’t any reason not to now, and he might be able to help.”

  “How?”

  “You won’t know till you try me,” said David, joining them. “Becky, find another towel, will you? Let’s clean up while we go, it might be easier.”

  It was hard to know how to begin. They washed and dried the glasses before anyone spoke. Then David said, “Can you tell me why you don’t want to see Dr. Owen?”

  “Because he wants something Peter has,” answered Becky.

  “Why has he waited? Why hasn’t he said so?”

  “He isn’t absolutely sure I have it,” said Peter. “He hasn’t seen it.”

  “Do you have it?”

  Peter hesitated, unwilling to take the plunge. “Yes,” he admitted at last.

  Thoughtfully, David wiped a dirty plate with his towel. “And you’re sure he wants this object?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you must be sure it’s important to him; that means it’s old. Who else has seen it?”

  “Becky and I have,” said Jen, drawing lines in the soapy water with her finger.

  “Dr. Rhys?”

  “Hasn’t. But we told him about it,” Becky said.

  “I told him,” Jen corrected her. “I wanted Peter to get rid of the thing, so I went to Dr. Rhys about it.”

  “But it was Peter who found it, not you?”

  Jen nodded.

  “So you’ve been minding Peter’s business.”

  Jen swallowed her protest; David had put it bluntly but accurately. This was not the time to try to explain her fears and doubts about the Key and what it did to Peter. There was a more important matter to discuss and Becky went straight to it. “What do we do now?”

  “Well, if this thing you’ve found, Peter, is really something important, why shouldn’t you give it to Dr. Owen? I know you don’t like him particularly, but this doesn’t sound like a question of personal feelings. It’s business, and he does know his business. You’ve heard Dr. Rhys say so.”

  “It doesn’t belong to Dr. Owen.”

  “Neither do any of the other objects in the museum, if it comes to that. They belong to the country.”

  “But this one shouldn’t be put in the museum. It can’t be! I found it, not Dr. Owen.”

  David ran a hand through his hair making it stand on end. For an instant he looked very like Peter. “Do you want to keep it yourself? Is that it?”

  “I—I’m not sure. I just know I can’t give it to Dr. Owen.”

  “You’ve got to give me more than that, Peter. What about you two? What do you think?” He turned on Jen and Becky.

  With reluctance Jen said, “It’s up to Peter.” Becky nodded.

  “I thought you were the one who wanted to give the whole game away, Jen.”

  “I did,” said Jen unhappily. “I still do in a way, but—I was wrong,” she finished lamely.

  “Do we have to see Dr. Owen?” asked Becky.

  “Yes,” David replied. “I’m afraid we do. If he wants to talk to us, it would be terribly rude to refuse him.”

  “But—”

  “And it wouldn’t be very smart,” he continued. “If we did, there’d be no question we were holding something back. Use your head. But, Peter, what I want to know is why you’re so sure what you’ve found is valuable to Dr. Owen? Suppose he looks at it and says it’s nice but not worth adding to the museum and lets you keep it? Have you thought of that? You might be worrying over nothing.”

  “No,” said Peter. “I know it’s important.” Meeting his father’s eyes, he saw the question. Peter suddenly longed to try to explain everything right then: all the strange, improbable songs the Key had sung, the places it had shown him, the story it was telling. But, said a small, cold voice in his head, that’s exactly what it all is: improbable. And Peter knew, even if he might have been able to find the words, he couldn’t risk his father’s disbelief. It was too dangerous.

  “You only have to see it to know,” agreed Becky. “If Peter showed it to you—”

  “No!” David spoke so sharply they all looked at him in surprise. “I don’t want to see it. The less involved I am the better it is for all of us, right now. I don’t begin to understand this, but I’m not sure I don’t already know too much. I probably should simply confiscate this object and hold onto it until we have an official opinion on it.”

  Peter turned white and Jen bit her lip.

  “Don’t,” pleaded Becky.

  “I still don’t understand why I shouldn’t,” said David quietly.

  “Because—” said Becky.

  “Please.” Peter’s voice was oddly stiff. He had just got himself under control. “Please don’t take it.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  The kitchen was dead still, waiting. Then Peter said, “Trust me with it.”

  “All right,” David answered. “I’ll make a bargain with you. I will leave you alone until Dr. Owen calls—you have that much time. And if I possibly can, I will leave the
decision to you. I can’t promise more.”

  “That’s enough,” said Peter, suddenly shaky. “I need time.”

  “It isn’t always easy to trust people you love—not because you don’t love them enough, but because you don’t want them to be wrong and get hurt. But getting hurt is a part of life, and so, thank God, is trust,” said David. “I do trust you, all three of you.”

  ***

  The wind funneled up the hill behind Peter, swirling dry leaves and dust, making him sneeze. He had to blow his nose while he waited on the top step of Pen-y-Garth for someone to answer the doorbell. He had just time to stuff the handkerchief back in his jacket pocket when the door opened.

  “Well, Peter Morgan! Good afternoon to you!” boomed Mrs. Rhys cheerfully. “This is a lovely surprise! Have you just come by for a visit, or is there something special I can do for you? Or Gwyn perhaps?”

  “Yes,” said Peter nervously. “I mean, I came to see Dr. Rhys, actually.”

  “Well, do come in. We can’t leave you standing about on the doorstep in this wind. Beastly weather, isn’t it? I sometimes doubt we shall ever see the sun again. No matter, we do manage to get through the winter somehow, and the Welsh spring when it does arrive is almost worth all the wind and rain! We certainly enjoyed ourselves last night—your sister is becoming a first-rate cook. Do take off your jacket, won’t you? I’ll go along and tell Gwyn you’re here. Was he expecting you?”

  “Oh, no. I don’t know—that is—perhaps he’s busy?”

  Mrs. Rhys laughed. “Bless you, no more than ever! It’ll do him good to take his nose out of his books for a while. Just you wait there a moment, I’ll be right back.”

  Peter shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, wondering if he’d been right to come. He did have Dr. Rhys’s book to return, but he could have mailed it or put it through the letter slot in the front door or asked his father to deliver it for him, instead of interrupting this way. He glanced furtively at his jacket, hung over the back of a hall chair. He could just grab it and . . .

  But Mrs. Rhys was back. “He’s delighted you’ve come and says go right in. There, just pop along to his study, won’t you?”

  No escape now. Clutching The Mabinogion, Peter walked down the hall and met Dr. Rhys at the study door.