EMBERON
"Welcome, thrice welcome to Emberon," he greeted. "And you, my dear," he
continued as they walked in through big doors to a high old hall, "you,
I'm sure, are Nancy Sherwood." His voice was soft and low as he spoke to
her. He placed his hand on her head. "A Blake through and through," he
went on, smiling down at her surprise at his instant recognition.
"The same clear eyes, determined little chin, and proud carriage. Your
mother has it too, when she is well. And her father before her, Randolph
Hugh Blake--he was a wee lad when he first visited his uncle here--he
had those eyes. You are all cut from the same pattern as Hugh Blake, the
well-beloved steward of Emberon for nigh on to sixty years.
"We are glad to see you, little mistress," he said quaintly, as he rang
a bell for a servant.
Nan looked up, startled, at the term "mistress." Was it right to
address her so? A wave of shyness came over her. She looked about at the
ancient hall with its obsolete firearms hanging on the walls, its big
soft rug, tapestries, and the armor of a knight long dead standing in
the corner. So this was Emberon! This was the estate her mother had
inherited! This was the place her mother and father had visited a year,
two years before, while she had been in Pine Camp and then at Lakeview
Hall. Nan drew a deep breath, trying hard to realize it all.
For a few moments, they all stood around telling the venerable old
gentleman, James Blake, who was a distant relative of Mrs. Sherwood's,
of their journey. Then, as the servant he had summoned appeared, he
spoke again to Nan with the utmost deference.
"Your apartments are ready upstairs," he said. "Go quickly, for it is
late and some in the village have prepared an entertainment for the
lassies from America. It is quite necessary that you go down, for most
of them down there are people who know the Blake story from beginning
to end. Hugh Blake was an idol in these parts.
"He treated those who were under him with such kindness and
thoughtfulness that they looked upon him almost as a father. He
took care of them when they were sick, watched over them when they
were in trouble, comforted them when their young folks went off to the
cities or to America. He saw that none went hungry. He helped them
whenever he could, and when he died, they mourned as though he was one
of theirs. Now they are anxious to see his youngest descendant.
"Though I know you are tired," he chuckled as they all shook their
heads, "you must make the most of your short stay here. Upstairs, my
sister has everything in readiness. Now, begone with you." He dismissed
them and turned toward the big fireplace to warm his hands.
"Why, Nan Sherwood!" Bess exclaimed as soon as they left the reception
hall, "it's a castle! And you are the princess!" Although Bess was
fooling, she was very much impressed at all she had seen.
"You are my subjects and you had better behave," Nan laughed as they
were ushered into a group of big bedrooms with high canopied beds, huge
chests, heavy rugs, thick damask drapes, everything dark and faded, the
luxuries of ages gone by.
"Yes, princess of Emberon," Laura made a brief curtsey. "We are at your
command. Your ladies in waiting await your orders." She took Nan's hand
and led her to a high-backed oaken chair where Nan seated herself for a
moment.
"Your subjects, madame," Laura waved her hand toward the others, and
then added, "They don't amount to much, but they are the best we have to
offer at present."
"That's treason!" Amelia exclaimed, "treason! We're loyal subjects and
true. We are daughters of Scotland and defenders of the Blake clan."
The girls were acting. It was their own version of a scene from a class
play they had once acted in at Lakeview. The room's setting had brought
it all back to mind. But in acting they were prophesying too,
prophesying something even more romantic than the scene the present
brought to mind.
"Defenders of the Blake clan! Ah, how it needs you! Come, rally round!"
Nan pretended to sound the call to battle as she left her regal seat and
plunged into the job of unpacking.
The others followed suit. The stern faces of the ancient lairds of
Emberon that looked down on them from heavy gilt frames on the wall
never saw six more industrious girls than those in the Lakeview crowd as
they unpacked and dressed.
Once Laura looked up at them. "I must say," she said then to Nan, "that
this isn't a very cheerful looking bunch of ancestors that is watching
us."
Nan paused in her work to look, too. "They aren't, are they?" she
agreed, walking around the room and looking intently at each of their
faces. "These are portraits, I think, of the first of the lairds of
Emberon. A fighting lot they were and as straight-laced as the best of
the Scotsmen."
"They look it," Laura answered. "I, personally, feel as though they
disapprove of every single dress I'm taking out of this bag."
"Let's see, how should they be made to satisfy those crusty old
gentlemen?" She held one up to herself. "It should be tighter in the
bodice, have a ruff around the neck, and the skirt," she looked down at
the trim pleats in her own, "oh, that's all wrong! It should be long and
full, just touching the floor. No wonder they disapprove. I am disgusted
myself," she added, looking up at one of the solemn faces and winking.
"Why, Laura Polk," Rhoda had been watching and listening to the little
by-play, "You had better be more respectful to your hosts," she nodded
toward the portraits, "or tonight, at the parade of the ghosts, you will
be taught a well-deserved lesson."
"Parade of the ghosts!" The exclamation was Grace's.
"Why, of course, I had forgotten completely about that," Laura looked
very serious. "At the stroke of midnight in these ancient castles, all
of the skeletons come out of the closets and the dungeons and the secret
stairways and the cellars and the attics, walk through the halls, rattle
around a bit, clank a few chains and then do some fancy haunting. If
they are healthy ghosts, they groan. If they are weaklings, they just
whistle round a bit. Oh, there is no end to the excitement in these
hoary places.
"Besides the ghosts and skeletons, there are always a few dissatisfied
retainers who welcome the first opportunity to polish off the living
owners. They hang around," Laura was entirely oblivious to the fact that
she had, for once in her life, startled Nan, "in caves, abandoned
buildings, and sometimes behind sliding doors, and appear on the
slightest pretext.
"But never fear, my lassies," her voice came from the depths of her
case, as she searched around the bottom for a small gold bracelet, "the
line of the lairds of Emberon has died out, the Princess tells me, and
so there's no one here to be polished off. We have nothing to worry
about," she ended as she found the bracelet and clasped it around her
wrist, "except ghosts and skeletons."
"And old Mr. Blake who is waiting downstairs for us, I am sure," Nan
added as she moved toward the doorway.
"He wouldn't harm a hair of anyone's head," Rhoda joined Nan. "Are all
the Blakes so nice?"
Nan didn't answer. Both Laura and Rhoda had brought to mind one of the
Blakes whom she was trying hard to forget--Robert Hugh Blake, the
hunchback. She remembered suddenly that she had forgotten completely to
reread the letter that had come to mind again those last days on the
boat. Now, there was no time as together they went out, joined Dr.
Prescott, and descended to the Great Hall where old James Blake was
awaiting them.
"Are you all quite comfortable?" He smiled at the excited faces. It was
good to have voices and laughter ringing through the rooms again. It
reminded him of the old days when people were always about. In his
mind's eye he saw men returning from the hunt, couples dancing, great
tables groaning with food, excited groups discussing politics, Christmas
parties for the young folk, feasts for everyone, servants and all, on
the master's birthday.
Then, in a flash, for he was a religious soul, the vision changed, and
it was Sunday morning. The Laird himself was at the head of the room,
there near one of the two great fireplaces. The Bible was open before
him, and he was reading to the household of Emberon, kneeling in the
Great Hall before him.
Those had been the good days. James Blake wiped an involuntary tear out
of his eye. He was an old man and tears came easily.
"Come, come," he said gruffly as he nodded to the girls, "the carriage
is waiting and already we are late." He led the way out of the room to a
side entrance. Soon the dull sound of the horses' hoofs beating against
the road was echoing back through the night to the castle, as the
carriage wound its way down the road to the lighted village.