‘Oh, really! Thanks for pointing it out—I must get some men to come and start work on it immediately. Do you happen to know a couple of good woodmen?’ She congratulated herself that this was neat, to ask him to recommend the despoilers of the green Rath that obviously meant so much to him. The man laughed, his curly head, now bare of any covering, tilted back against the brown bark of the tree.
‘Good woodmen, hey? Who should know but I, who’ve spent day and night these—well, more years than you’d think, Missy—in the green Rath. . . . Oh yes—I could tell you of woodmen eno’—but it might be they wouldn’t suit you; they’re old . . . and set in their ways now. . . . No. No. They’d do a lot for me—but I wouldn’t risk asking them to lay axe or bill-hook to Robin’s Rath—’
‘Who are you? What is your name?’ Ellen asked suddenly, her puzzled eyes studying him.
‘My name? Oh, my name is just Rob Woodson, Missy. But I’ve a lot of names. Happen if you ask the folk round here they’ll call me the Man in Green. . . .’
A wren flew whistling fussily across the glade, and the man held up a brown hand, his lips pursed to a tiny soothing note. To Ellen’s great astonishment the wee brown bird lighted on his outstretched finger, chirruping agitatedly in his face. He nodded, laughed, and, flinging up his long arm, threw the bird into the air. Forgetting her annoyance, Ellen spoke delightedly.
‘Oh, can you tame them, really? I wish you would tame some for me!’
Her vain little mind was already visualising a delicious picture of herself in white on the wide terrace of the Hall, surrounded by tiny fluttering creatures taking crumbs from her hand, unafraid, and in the background a circle of admiring guests. The man in green looked down at her and laughed amusedly.
‘Teach you, eh? ’Twould take more than your lifetime to learn what I know about birds, Miss. That little chap, now . . . he’s in a rare taking, him and his missus, for fear you cut that path. His nest’s in an elder bush right in the way, and she hasn’t hatched her eggs yet.’
‘It’s absurd to talk of birds in that way—as if they were human!’ said Miss Vandermyl coldly, flushed and angry again now at the fresh introduction of the vexed question of the path. She moved away into the sun-patched bluebells, leaving a trail of crushed stalks and flattened blossoms behind her—turning a haughty head over her shoulder, she nodded a patronising goodbye to the strange keeper who stood knee-deep in the blue flood beneath the trees, watching her silently. She jumped as he answered her unspoken thought.
‘A right to do what you like with your own land, eh, Missy? Why, that’s fair. . . . But think a minute—what’s the name of this green Rath, anyway? Robin’s Rath—the Rath of Robin. Well, well, isn’t that enough? Wait till Robin tells you what he thinks of that path of yours—cuttin’ across his ground! Think it over, Missy . . . and come down and see the Rath again tomorrow. I’ll be here—if you come to the Rath again tomorrow!’ The light mocking voice died away behind her as Ellen Vandermyl hurried away—she flung a hasty glance over her shoulder as she scrambled out of the Rath into the wide cool stretch of turf that swept up to the Hall—the man in green had gone and only the sunlight twinkled through the leaves across the tree-trunk where he had been. . . .
Her aunt, Miss Eustasia Vandermyl, met her in the hall, and commented on the mess she had made of her smart tweed suit—torn in two or three places it was, and bits of leaf and twig stuck to it still. Ellen raised annoyed eyebrows and, slipping into another skirt, sat down to lunch, full of her adventure.
‘Auntie—I had the most astonishing meeting this morning, coming up from the water-meadow through Robin’s Rath.’ Molly the housemaid, a comely, strapping girl, daughter of old Giles, was handing her the potatoes at the moment of speaking, and Ellen went on:
‘Do keep the dish still, Molly—what’s the matter with you? Well, I came through the Rath—suppose that’s why I’ve made such a mess of my tweed—the bushes can’t have been cut for ages . . . there’s not even a path. I shouldn’t think anyone’s ever even walked through till I did—absolutely wild it is. Lovely, of course, in a way . . .’
‘Well,’ said Aunt Eustasia, with mild impatience, ‘is that all the adventure, or is there some more? Molly, the potatoes, please. Well?’
‘Oh no! There’s a lot more. I met a strange man there—a keeper he said he was. He said his name was Woodson—but he’s not an ordinary keeper by any means.’
Rosy Molly’s pink cheeks had suddenly faded to white, and she stood with her hands knotted together in her apron as she listened, her round blue eyes on her unconscious mistress, eating her cutlet daintily as she went on:
‘I can’t help thinking he’s one of the Ruddocks in disguise, or something of the sort—oh, yes, he speaks with a funny accent, but I feel it’s put on somehow. Like all these crazy villagers, he seems set against this idea of mine of cutting a path through the Rath to the links.’
‘It’s such a good idea, too,’ commented Eustasia, languidly. ‘What reason did he give against it?’
Ellen laughed with a trace of asperity, remembering her old vexation over the subject.
‘Oh—no real reason at all! They none of them have. Only that it’s never been done before—so English! As if that was a reason why it should never be done at all! I asked him to recommend two good woodmen—just out of sheer mischief, of course, as I knew he wouldn’t—but he said those he knew were too old or something . . .’
‘What did you say his name was?’ Eustasia asked curiously.
‘Woodson—Rob Woodson, he said,’ said Ellen, ‘but he said that the people around here knew him best as “The Man in Green”.’
Crash! Both ladies jumped and exclaimed as Molly’s shaking red hands let fall the fruit dish she was just placing on the table—scolded, she had nothing to say but that ‘she couldn’t help it’—‘she was very sorry’ . . . the door closed on her downcast figure, and Ellen laughed vexedly.
‘What a fool! Well, Auntie, I’m going to lie down for a while, and then I shall make you doll me up for tea. Don’t forget the Anselms and Lady Craven are coming. . . .’
The Anselms, Joe, Lylie and their mother were very charming, as was Lady Craven, and tea a complete success. Ellen looked charming in a vivid green frock, and accompanied Joe Anselm in several songs with great éclat—as an heiress, she was worth the county’s cultivating, and certainly Ellen felt she stood on the threshold of her longed-for position in English society as she walked down the well-kept drive with her guests. Lady Craven’s car drove away, but the others were walking—it was a lovely spring evening, and Joe Anselm good-looking and obviously rather intrigued with the pretty American. His mother, Lady Anselm, regarding possibilities with an amiably approving eye directed towards the paternal millions that would ultimately become Miss Vandermyl’s, suggested that Ellen should walk back part of the way, at least, to the village. A wrap and hat hastily donned, Ellen joined them, and the merry little group descended the steep sloping lane to the village. Passing the end of Robin’s Rath where it ran into the lane, Joe Anselm peered inside laughingly.
‘Cut your famous path yet, Miss Vandermyl?’
‘No,’ said Ellen, laughing. ‘I’m going to very soon, though!’
‘Find any difficulty in getting woodmen?’ asked Lylie Anselm, suddenly.
Ellen’s brows wrinkled.
‘Well—I haven’t taken any very special pains to find any yet, but now you speak of it, I believe I shall find it difficult. The villagers don’t seem to like the idea of my cutting a path at all!’
Lylie glanced at her brother oddly.
‘Yes. I don’t think you’ll get any of the local men to touch Robin’s Rath, Miss Vandermyl.’
Ellen laughed vexedly—here again, even these aristocrats were casting cold water on her scheme! She answered with a touch of heightened colour.
‘If they won’t, I shall have some men over from Brayling or Little Witchet! But why in the world this extraordinary reluctance to have Robin’s Ra
th touched? Even you—’ Joe nodded, colouring a trifle.
‘I wouldn’t, Miss Vandermyl. Really I wouldn’t— I’d leave the Rath as it is. . . .
Ellen’s temper, never too easy, suddenly snapped.
‘This is too idiotic really! Why?’
Lylie came to the rescue of her brother.
‘It’s nothing really, Miss Vandermyl. Only—a sort of story that the village people believe. We don’t—but, anyway, one of the Ruddocks once tried to clear Robin’s Rath and make it into a wild garden. . . .’
Joe’s glance held his sister’s, and she stopped suddenly, to Ellen’s great annoyance.
‘Well? What happened?’ Lylie was silent, but Joe answered, guardedly.
‘They stopped. They never finished it. Something stopped them.’
‘Good Heavens—what?’ Ellen’s tone was frankly scornful, and the young man winced, but answered her unmoved.
‘I don’t know. . . . But nobody touches Robin’s Rath—the villagers say—without some awful misfortune—’
‘What rot!’ In her relieved indignation Ellen was none too polite. ‘Really, Mr Anselm, I thought you were more sensible! Anyway, it’s safe enough to human beings, for I met one of Sir George Ruddock’s old keepers there only this morning, and he was all right—said he spent all his time there!’
Joe’s eyebrows were wrinkled, puzzled.
‘Keeper—thought all the Ruddock’s keepers left when—when the Hall was sold? What sort of a man is he?’
‘Says his name is Woodson,’ said Ellen. ‘As to what he looks like—well, he’s tall and brown-faced, dressed in green. . . .’
At that moment they stopped at the door of the village store, where Ellen was to say goodbye to them—Lady Anselm and her three dogs were a little behind, and the brother and sister stood silent, regarding Miss Vandermyl. There was a faint pause, and they looked at each other.
Lylie spoke softly, her voice oddly hushed.
‘We know who you mean—now. No, we’ve never seen him. But you have—you’ve seen the Man in Green. Goodbye, Miss Vandermyl. . . .’
Oddly silent, the two strode away—round the bend of the road they looked at each other again, and Lylie’s eyes were frightened.
‘Joe—Oh Joe! What can we do? She’s seen him—and do you remember Andrew? Andrew persuaded Jim Ruddock to try and clear the Rath—and Andrew saw him. . . .’
Joe’s freckled face twitched in painful memory of Andrew Stirling, his chum—first in all sports, bright and brave and handsome, and of that faint shadow of the Andrew they had known that had been found sprawling, half-dead, at the edge of the Rath one awful morning. With a jerk he brushed the memory away, and replied:
‘We can’t do anything, Lylie. We’ve done our best—and everybody’s tried to warn her. But she’s a wilful, spoilt little specimen, and I’m afraid it’s useless. We can’t—nobody can—you know it—say more than we have done. One can only warn her as best we can—and hope she’ll take it. . . .’
Next morning was, if anything, lovelier than before, and Ellen’s little soul expanded beneath the life-giving sunlight as she wandered about the lovely old house and grounds, planning fresh alterations, improvements, everywhere. Her restless American mind, overmodern, unable to let anything alone, but must forever be tinkering with it, altering, experimenting, fairly purred in its pleasure at having this gorgeous piece of the old world to play with. The immense expanse of jade green turf that swept down from the Hall windows to the distant Rath, was to be cut up into flower beds and a pergola—two new tennis courts were to be laid down, thereby sacrificing an old walled garden that had stood for over three hundred years; a huge and wonderful oak that happened, unfortunately, to shade her bedroom windows too heavily was to go, and endless other alterations. . . .
‘Good morning to you, Missy!’ The man in green stood with his arms folded along the top of the rough fence that divided the Rath from the grounds.
‘Oh—good morning!’ Ellen was confused for a moment—why, she wondered, had she come wandering down to the Rath again, all unconsciously?
The man in green laughed suddenly, amusedly.
‘You came because you said you would, of course! Now, now—no cross looks this wonderful morning! I know you never said so in words—why, come over again then, and we can talk in the Rath together, just we two.’
Rob Woodson’s voice was seductive, warm as the spring sunshine that flooded Miss Vandermyl’s bare head where she stood, a few feet away from the fence, her eyes puzzled, half-dazed, half-frightened. She answered rather vaguely, her eyes on his merry, light brown orbs, twinkling at her beneath the pulled-down brim of his green cap.
‘Why, I—of course, I was coming. I meant to come. . . .’ The fence was high and the green tangled undergrowth of the Rath a few feet lower than the smooth-shaven lawn that met it. One doubtful hand on the fence, Ellen looked at the man in green questioningly. Pulling aside a slat or two, he made room for her feet to mount, then, as she balanced precariously on the top, stepped back and laughed, a full-throated gust of merriment that brought tears of vexation to the girl’s eyes. At the sight the man in green stopped at once and came forward, his brown eyes suddenly tender behind their elfish laughter.
‘That was too bad, little lady!’ His voice was low and beautiful, and his arms were held out to her where she balanced on the top of the fence, level with his shoulders. ‘Let yourself go now—into my arms. . . .’
Obediently she sank forward into the arms held ready to receive her, and her head went down on his shoulder with a little tremulous sigh of happiness as his warm lips found hers. With the girl curled close in his arms, his head bent to hers, he turned swiftly into the heart of the Rath, and the green closed over them. . . .
Miss Eustasia Vandermyl kept lunch till almost two o’clock, and then, just as she was beginning to be seriously agitated, Ellen stepped into the dining-room through the open French window. Her eyes were wide and dazed, but her mouth was tremulously red, and she broke into a little running laugh of happiness at her aunt’s grim face of disapproval. Coming forward, she kissed the old lady, to the latter’s great astonishment—Ellen was never in the habit of kissing people, especially relations.
‘Well! I’d begun to give you up, Ellen. And Mercy! What have you done to yourself?’
Eustasia’s restless old hands were picking leaves, bits of moss and twigs from the girl’s tumbled hair and skirt, but Ellen twitched away, and seizing an apple declared she was not hungry. Molly eyed her furtively with a sort of terrified interest as she served the older woman’s meal, but Ellen’s eyes were absent as she munched, and she never noticed. Lylie Anselm, striding down to the village later, met Molly on her afternoon out, and the two stopped. Molly had been in service with the Ruddocks, and known Lylie and her brother since babyhood. The village girl’s usually rosy cheeks were pale again today, and she seized on Lylie with feverish urgency.
‘Oh, Miss Lylie—I dunna how to say it—but I’m sa scared I cunna sleep o’ nights. I mun tell you—’
‘What is it?’ Lylie said, though her own paling cheeks showed kinship with the fear that whitened the other’s ruddiness.
They stood near the Rath, and Molly dropped her voice as she spoke.
‘It’s—it’s the same coming as came to Muster Andrew—oh, Miss, I cunna bear it! Father he tried to warn her an’ all—an’ she wunna see, she wunna see! Messin’ with the Rath an’ all—d’ye mind how Muster Andrew wud say he met the Man in Green? . . .’ The girl was nearly crying, and Lylie patted her arm soothingly.’
‘Don’t worry, Molly—perhaps it’ll be all right. Anyway, we’ve all tried to warn her—we can’t do any more. If I were to tell her just the truth she would laugh—and besides, you know one can’t. . . . Something stops it every time. . . .’
There was a crackling of elder bushes above them where the Rath ran up to a steep bank, and a wren flew out, chattering indignantly, almost as if he had been thrown out to startle the g
irls—with a scared little cry Molly took to her heels, and Lylie, her young lips compressed, strode on towards the village.
As she turned the bend in the path past the Rath that led into the water-meadow it seemed she heard a faint laugh somewhere deep in the green tangle of bramble and hawthorn and wild rose—Lylie’s steps were no slower for that, for she was thinking of Andrew, as he used to be—and as he was—when the Rath had done with him.
The next two weeks were anxious ones for Miss Eustasia. Ellen, she thought, was suffering from some form of nerves—while she lost no interest in the house and grounds, and directed the workmen energetically in the alterations, she was given to sudden inexplicable absences from the house, sometimes in daytime, but more often now about dusk, and as the month was approaching its zenith, and the fat, honeycoloured Spring moon waxing larger each night, the evenings saw her less and less with her aunt. She came back from these expeditions faintly flushed, with eyes like stars, and an unwonted sweetness about her like a magic cloak—but for all that, distrait and absent, and with the vaguest possible explanations. All she would say was that she had been wandering in the Rath. At last her aunt grew suspicious of the mysterious Man in Green and one day interrogated Molly. The latter flushed and paled suddenly, and averred, with a furtive glance towards the Rath, sleeping in the warm pale afternoon sun, that the keeper was all right, she heard: was he well known? Well, yes—bin here a long time. Cunna tell how long—maybe years and years. Yes. Known him herself? Why no, ma’am—’twas a bit of a cold makin’ her shiver like that—cunna help it, like. No. She’d heard tell of him often though—happen that was all ma’am wanted?
NIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE Page 5