I caught myself sharply. I was getting overcome with the cold. I had been a fool to stop at all. I would have to go on. If I did not go on, I would die.
Numbed and quivering, I gathered up the reins again in my stiffened hands and looked along the highway to find out if the storm was showing any signs of slackening off. It was certainly snowing less heavily than it had been. I could see my way clear to the last of the pines and the lane that branched off just beyond to Rest-and-be-thankful. I could even make out the turn itself, and — I leaned forward unable to believe my eyes — four . . . six . . . no, at least ten dark figures on horseback coming down the road towards the crossing. All the breath of my body seemed to rush to my throat in one sob of relief and thankfulness. There was only one man in the region likely to be out with ten mounted men on a day like this.
I flung up my head, and sent my tired voice down the road as far as it would go.
"Dick!" I called frantically. "Dick!"
There was an answering call from the foremost rider — I saw him turn his horse and the others crowd in behind him — then a hand was steadying my arm, and a gentle voice I did not recognize was asking what had happened to me?
"The storm caught us," I answered weakly, too faint with cold and exhaustion even to look up. "Almost a mile back ... on my way to Shipley Farm ... I'm Barbara Grahame . .. didn't Dick come with you?"
There was a little murmur of surprise from the circle around me. A man laughed and another voice made a remark which I did not catch — a harsh voice, stinging and disagreeable, but this time a voice which I was sure I had heard somewhere before. I tried to glance down at the speaker, but my head was beginning to swim — and all I could see was a mass of dim shadowy forms that kept wavering and dissolving and wavering back again.
"Where's Dick?" I whispered painfully. "Didn't he come with you?"
"No, Miss Grahame. He was still in the house when we left it," the gentle voice answered; "but you'll see him as soon as we can get you there. Put your hand on my shoulder — so. I'm going to take you over on my horse with me. You're too far gone to ride by yourself."
I put my hand out blindly — then there was a dreadful moment of plunging confusion — and then the sharp pressure of an epaulette against my cheek roused me for an instant again to feel a hard arm around me and hear what seemed to be the end of a command: "... sure to fetch her mare along with you, Porson."
"Now you listen to me, Capt'in!" It was the harsh voice again, angry and protesting. "Why don't we just take the mare and go? You leave that girl where she is, and never mind none of your hifalutin, fancy gentleman stuff! Somebody else'll find her. Lord ha' mercy! Ain't we got enough trouble?"
"Your lack of proper feeling disappoints me very much, Porson." The gentle voice was exactly as gentle as ever. "Are you by any chance trying to argue with me?"
The last sound I remembered with any distinctness at all was the harsh voice saying "No, sir" submissively. . . .
. . . The gentle voice was speaking somewhere a long way off, urging somebody to wake up and swallow. Somebody swallowed obediently, got a mouthful of hot brandy that made her choke, and opening her eyes, found herself stretched out before a crackling fire on about two armchairs and six pillows, a blanket tucked over her shoulders, and a young man in a black cloak kneeling beside her with a wineglass in his hand.
"Better?" said the young man, swinging to his feet and setting the wineglass down on the mantel. "No, don't try to sit up yet — just lie quietly, while I go see if I can open one of these confounded window blinds. I'd like to lay my hands on the fool who thought fit to design them."
"Where's Dick?" I murmured sleepily.
"All in good time, Miss Grahame," the gentle voice floated back from across the room. "Just lie quietly and rest another moment — though I'm thankful to say there's nothing wrong with you but cold and a little too much exhaustion, which you've been sleeping off nicely by the fire for the last three hours. And that mare of yours is safe in the stable — that is, if Porson hasn't fed her a poisoned carrot by this time. She had the good taste to kick him twice when he was trying to bring her in."
Still only half awake, I lay contentedly listening to the voice and watching the blessed firelight flicker over the andirons and the big footstool and the — I caught my breath with a sudden gasp — the black splotch on the hearth where Christopher had spilt the ink the day we closed the house eight months before.
Very slowly and cautiously I turned my head.
I was not at the Shipley Farm. I was in the library at Rest-and-be-thankful.
The locked secretary — the bookcases draped with sheets — the stack of curtain rods I had thrust into the corner to clear them out of the way — the whole room exactly as I had left it, except for the young man in the black cloak, who had at last contrived to wrench open the inner blinds of the south window, and was standing there gazing dreamily out at the falling snow. He had a thin, very calm, and curiously attractive face, with lazily drooping eyes that made him look almost half asleep.
And at that moment I remembered precisely where I had once heard the harsh voice that had spoken in Martin's Wood. It belonged to a man named Abraham Porson, an old soldier who had kept the George Tavern on the Goshen road until he disappeared under peculiar circumstances just after the skirmish at the Beemer Mill. General Washington had halted his line of prisoners at the George that night while he and the guards drank a glass of flip to celebrate the victory. By the time they finished the flip and called the proprietor to bring the score, the proprietor had mysteriously vanished, taking two of the General's prisoners with him. Dick later discovered that he was the only member of the gang who by some chance had not received his orders and joined the attack at the Beemer Mill.
I stared aghast at the young man by the window, suddenly and most horridly convinced that I knew exactly who he was and exactly what he was doing there. Dick had always maintained that with his secret Tories gone and his supplies cut off, it would only be a question of time before cold and hunger forced him and his few remaining followers down from their hills like so many starving wolves or catamounts. But that he should dare to take shelter in Rest-and-be-thankful itself — yes, that was quite reasonable too, when I came to think of it. Rest-and-be-thankful was, of course, the last place in Orange County where Dick would ever dream of searching for him.
The young man at the window glanced up, caught me looking at him, and lifted one shoulder in a slightly rueful shrug. Then, very slowly and deliberately, he removed his cloak, came back across the room with the firelight making one glorious blaze of his scarlet and gold, and stood gazing down at me in silence, a quizzical, faintly amused glint in his sleepy eyes, as if he were waiting for me to shriek or cower or swoon away, like a well-bred girl with the instincts of a lady. Unfortunately, however, as Aunt Susanna often remarked, I entirely lacked the instincts of a lady, and had no intention whatever of shrieking or cowering or swooning away for anyone's entertainment, least of all his.
"I am very grateful to you, Captain Sherwood," I said with calm politeness, "for saving my life."
The quizzical, faintly amused glint disappeared from Peaceable's eyes. He dropped down on the big footstool, where he had a better view of my face, and sat there with his arm across his knee regarding me with a new look — grave and considering — as if he had suddenly found it necessary to form an entirely new opinion of my character.
"And I am grateful to you, Miss Grahame," he answered, "for accepting the situation with so much intelligence. I thought you would go into hysterics when you found out who I was. But do let me assure you that I was well brought up, little though I may look it just now" — he glanced mournfully at a patch on the left elbow of his scarlet coat — "and you really have nothing to be afraid of. I'll see that you get back to the Shipley Farm somehow — as soon as I can."
"Now, that is kind of you," I said, smiling at him. "I don't want my poor brother going out of his head worrying over what's become of
me."
Peaceable Sherwood picked up the tongs from the rack and bent forward to attend to the fire.
"That need not concern you, Miss Grahame," he replied, in his gentlest voice. "He knows you're here."
"What?"
Peaceable Sherwood did not turn his head. He was very carefully thrusting a blazing stick back under the big log and pulling up another to make the fire burn better. It was almost as if he did not wish to see the look on my face when he answered me.
"Your brother, Miss Grahame, very foolishly rode over alone to this house last night to find some trifle or other he wanted to give Miss Shipley for a Christmas present. He is now locked up in your little private prison at the foot of the cellar stairs."
There was a dead silence. For one terrible moment I thought I was going to scream aloud — everything began to waver and dissolve again — then I got control of myself, and came rigidly upright against the cushions of my chair, with my hands clenched over the arms so hard that I could see the tendons standing out. Then somehow I managed to unclasp the hands, and laid them quietly together in my lap.
"How very fortunate for you, Captain Sherwood." My voice was just as level as his own; I might have been congratulating him on finding a stray shilling.
Peaceable Sherwood straightened up sharply, and sat there regarding me again with that odd, grave, considering look on his face. It was a moment before he replied. When he did, he sounded almost absent-minded, as if his thoughts were really on something else.
"Very fortunate indeed, Miss Grahame. I have found it practically impossible to form a new organization while your brother remains in charge of this district — the neighboring farmers' respect for him appears to be even greater than my own. When they once find out he is safe with us in the mountains, I trust I shall have no further difficulty with them."
"You intend to take Dick back to the mountains with you?"
"Of course, Miss Grahame. This is only a brief expedition to obtain supplies, you understand. When we return in the morning, your brother will naturally accompany us."
I almost said, "Not if I can prevent it!" to his face; but I bit the words back, and lay there in silence gazing down at him and thinking harder and faster than I had ever thought in my life before. At that moment, it was a little hard to believe that I couldn't get Dick out of his clutches somehow — he looked so young and innocent sitting on the footstool with the fire tongs in his hand that any mother in New Jerusalem would have walked up and given him her baby to mind without an instant's hesitation. Then I remembered the scene in Martin's Wood, and Abraham Porson's insolent voice saying "No, sir" submissively. Abraham Porson had been known as a "hard man" when he kept the George Tavern; it was his favorite boast that no one could force him to change his mind or compel him to obey an order.
"I wouldn't try it if I were you," said Peaceable Sherwood, suddenly.
"Try what?"
"Whatever it is you are going to try," retorted Peaceable, hanging the fire tongs back in their place. "And now would you care to pay a brief visit to Colonel Grahame while they're setting up the table here? I ventured to order Christmas dinner served in the library at half past two, in the hope of having your company."
"May I take Dick a piece of fruitcake the cook gave me for him this morning?"
"Certainly, Miss Grahame."
The fruitcake, wrapped in a damp napkin to keep it fresh, was in the outer pocket of my cloak, just underneath the little sealed bottle which contained Aunt Susanna's headache drops. I dipped my right hand into the pocket and closed it carefully about them both to conceal the bottle as well as I could; then with a quick movement I lifted them out, and transferred the cake boldly to my left hand while I quietly slipped the bottle down a hidden fold in the trailing skirt of my riding habit.
Peaceable Sherwood apparently failed to see the bottle at all. At least, his gentle face did not change by so much as a quiver as he courteously assisted his guest to rise and conducted her through the empty rooms to the cellar door with all the ceremony of a gentleman-in-waiting handing a duchess through the halls of a palace. The cellar door he unlocked with a small key he took from his waistcoat pocket and then put back with a mocking quirk of one eyebrow at me.
"Merry Christmas, Barbara," called my brother from the gloom at the foot of the stairs. "Captain Sherwood told me you were here."
"Merry Christmas, Dick," I called back, feeling my way down the steep steps one by one. "Hannah sent you a piece of fruitcake."
"Good old Hannah!" He accepted the fruitcake through the bars of the door with a brushing kiss on the back of my hand as he took it. "How is she, these days?"
"It desolates me, Colonel Grahame," interrupted a pleasant voice from the open door above, "to remind you that enemy ears will be obliged to listen to every word of your conversation. I regret the necessity for so much caution, which I beg you to believe I should not dream of using if I did not consider your sister a very remarkable young lady." He had seated himself at the topmost step and was leaning lazily against the door frame. I could see his thin profile delicately outlined in shadow on a square of lighted wall halfway up the stairs.
"I only wish you could have met her under more pleasant circumstances," Dick was replying with equal courtesy; "and forgive us if we bore you with all the family news. Have you heard anything of Father lately, Barbara? Or Mr. MacTavish? What's become of dear old Mr. MacTavish?"
I stared at my brother in bewilderment. Mr. MacTavish was a disagreeable fool of an elderly Scotsman, once our tutor, who had, much to our joy, quitted Rest-and-be-thankful in fury ten years before, when my father refused to agree with him that the Iroquois Indians were descended from the Lost Tribes of Israel. I had long since forgotten his very existence.
"Mr. MacTavish, Dick?" I echoed uncertainly. "Why, you know as well as I do that I haven't seen Mr. MacTavish in — "
"And please tell Hannah I was never more hungry for a piece of her fruitcake in my life," Dick cut in loudly before I could complete the sentence. "Not that Captain Sherwood hasn't fed me well, you understand — in fact, he breakfasted with me down here only this morning: we had a most entertaining talk on field-fortification and got through a whole quart of baked beans between us. That's the crock now, rolling about on the floor there by your left foot — your left foot, Barbara."
Then I understood. Back in the evil days of Mr. MacTavish, Dick and I had invented a simple method of conducting conversations with our feet under the cover of the schoolroom table. It was an almost foolproof system of little taps and pressures, easy to learn and impossible to forget once you had learned it.
I drew a deep breath, and stealthily moved the toe of one riding boot an inch nearer the door.
"We received a letter from Father only last week, Dick. He's been stationed at Philadelphia for the winter, very comfortably except for the difficulties his friend General Arnold is having with the Congress. Aunt Susanna, thank heaven, continues fairly well, though she complains of dizzy spells, terrible fluttering pains, wakeful nights — " Safely launched on the long list of Aunt Susanna's complaints, which I could reel off by the hour without thought or effort, I cautiously advanced my toe another inch and met Dick's toe under the grating.
" — indigestion, palpitations of the heart... KEY. WHERE. QUESTION MARK."
"PEACEABLE. POCKET."
" — spasms, fits of coughing, faintness . . . WILL. GET. KEY."
Dick's boot merely came down heavily across my instep with a dull thud that had once meant, DON'T TRY ANYTHING SILLY, NOW.
" — occasional headaches, shortness of breath, unnatural fever, and nervous attacks."
"Poor Aunt Susanna! Give her my affectionate regards. What's she dosing herself with nowadays? Remember when it used to be vinegar, rhubarb . . . MEN. FEAST, KITCHEN, TONIGHT. . . . laudanum, antimony . . . DRINK, HEADS, OFF . . . sulphur and molasses . . . WON'T, WATCH . . . elixir of rose hips . . . YOU. DODGE. PEACEABLE. GET. AWAY . . . poppy seed and hot lemon juice?"
"She's changed to Seneca oil and Peruvian bark now, with sleeping-drops for her headaches . . . WON'T, LEAVE, YOU."
"FOOL, NITWIT, MUTTONHEAD . . . Sleeping-drops? I thought the war had cut off the supply."
"There must have been another shipment. The apothecary filled an order for me only this morning on my way here. That's how I contrived to get away." I made the sign which had once meant: YOU JUST LET ME HANDLE THIS, WILL YOU?
"NO. EXCLAMATION MARK. REPEAT. NO. DANGE — " He broke off abruptly with the word half-finished, and gave me the sudden kick in the ankle which had once meant: BE CAREFUL THE TEACHER IS WATCHING US.
"Dinner is served," said Peaceable Sherwood from the top of the stairs, "and little as I like to interrupt this exceedingly interesting conversation, I must ask Miss Grahame to accompany me back to the library."
"Bring me the crusts when it's all over," was Dick's only comment. "And don't let Barbara eat the mince pie if there is any. It always gives her nightmares."
Someone had evidently worked hard in the library during our absence. My tangle of pillows and blankets and armchairs had disappeared, and in its place a small table was drawn up before the fire, and decorated bravely with pine sprays, lighted candles, a strange array of mixed crockery, and an even stranger collection of assorted foods.
"What have we here?" said Peaceable Sherwood, courteously seating me at the head of the table and beginning to uncover the dishes one by one. "Will you object if I wait on you myself, Miss Grahame? — my men, though excellent riders and very fair shots, are rather unskilled in the little niceties of passing the butter and handling the gravy. The chicken and the ham I can recommend. They came from Mrs. Tatlock's oven no later than this noon. The wine you probably know better than I do — at least you ought to — it's your own. Mrs. Hopegood's plum pudding I hesitate to offer you. I distrust the cooking of any woman who faints away at the very sight of a British uniform."
The Sherwood Ring Page 10
