Pearl Buck - Death in the Castle

She put out her hand to lean on his arm as they went into the castle.

… The four young men were folding their papers into their briefcases, laughing, ironical.

“No explanations?”

“Command from the brass, that’s all! Be out of here in fifteen minutes — said he’d meet us at the inn.”

“Waste of time from the beginning—”

“Not if we’re paid for it—”

“Look at the old lady coming in — and the old ghost—”

They stared at Lady Mary as she stood watching them.

“Make haste, if you please,” she said coldly.

“Nothing suits us better, lady.”

“Impudence,” she muttered, but they heard her.

“Damn the Americans, eh, lady? Send us to hell, if it’s America, that is—”

“Move on, Wells.”

From room to room they went, but nowhere was there a glimpse of Sir Richard. Ahead of them Kate and John were walking side by side.

At the door John stopped. Her face, so sweetly young, so childlike when she was hurt, was upturned to him now, lips quivering, eyes misted — those violet eyes, he thought as he looked deep into them.

“Where will you go?” she asked.

“To the inn in the village.”

“Shall we never meet again?”

“Is there any reason for us to meet, Kate?” He stood looking down at the upturned face. He had not fully realized until now that she was only a little thing. She was always so brisk, so vivid, so busy, that she had seemed taller than she was. Now, the briskness gone, the vivacity subdued, she looked small and helpless. He wanted to take her hand and did not.

“I suppose not,” she said. “I can’t think of any reason except—” She bit her lip.

“Except what, Kate?”

“In a queer sort of way,” she said haltingly, “I shall — miss you. Silly, because of course you won’t be missing me.”

“In a queer sort of way,” he said, gazing at her steadily, “I shall miss you.”

He took her hand now in both of his. “Good-bye, little Kate,” he said.

“Good-bye,” she said, her voice a whisper.

He ran down the steps to his long green car. He got in and turned to wave before he drove off. Kate smiled as his lips shaped the words, “I’m not leaving for good.”

Then Lady Mary, accompanied by Wells, joined Kate on the steps. She held up her frail hand to wave. John Blayne gazed at the three of them with strange premonition, with strange regret. What would become of them? What would become of Kate? The sun was high above the western tower and the golden light flamed over the dark stone walls. Their figures all looked small and helpless in the shadow of the castle.

The soft purr of the engine beat like a heart alive and Kate, hearing it and knowing who was behind that wheel, was filled with a forlorn sadness. Never had she felt so alone. Instinctively her hands flew to her cheeks in a gesture of fright. How could she stay here now? How could she bear never to see him again? Watching her, John Blayne was impelled by the same instinct to cut off the engine, open the door of the car and dash back to her.

Yet when he reached them it was to Lady Mary he spoke. “Lady Mary, please, I beg you, can I be of help to Sir Richard? Is something seriously the matter?”

She was surprised, agitated. “No, no, please go, please go now.” But she was touched by his move and struggling hard for words said, “And tell — your men — I am sorry that I spoke sharply to them. I–I am not quite myself today. Now, go.”

He bowed, defeated yet grateful, and walked slowly back to the car. Kate followed him as if she did not know why. They looked at each other once more, she silent and her eyes beseeching.

“No,” he replied to her pleading, questioning eyes. “No, I’m not going away until I know what is wrong. Call me if — if—” he stopped.

She nodded, unsmiling. He stepped into the car and drove away. Kate, standing there looking after him, suddenly found herself sobbing, not caring who knew, or why. Behind her on the terrace Lady Mary and Wells stood, the one shocked, the other vexed. Kate crying! Why should Kate cry now when the Americans were gone at last?

“Kate,” Lady Mary commanded. “Kate, come here!”

But before Kate could comply, the screech of a bus rounding the corner into the park was heard. The first of three charabancs filled with tourists came sweeping up to the steps. The doors opened and people poured out.

Wells took up his position by the door to the castle. Kate sped to Lady Mary’s side, slipping her hand through her arm. Lady Mary stood as if at attention, but the trippers had no eyes for her or if they did they said nothing. They had come to see a relic of ancient England and each one was determined to get his shilling’s worth.

“Quaint little castle,” someone said.

“It’s one of England’s oldest,” another replied.

They went into the great hall and walked slowly about, looking at the tapestries on the walls, touching the paneling with admiring fingers.

“Silly little towers, I say,” someone remarked.

“Norman,” another answered, “or so the book says.”

“How could people ever live in such moldy old places?” a woman asked.

“For reasons of their own,” her husband answered.

“It’s not like a house, is it, Mummie? It’s more like a museum.”

“That’s about all castles are good for these days, and to teach children their history.”

“It would give me the creeps to live here, fair give me the creeps.”

“That’s what I say, let’s get out into the sunshine.”

So the conversations went as the tide of curious, wide-eyed people flowed from room to room.

… Lady Mary and Kate were sitting on a bench under an ancient beech until they could enter the castle as their own again. Through the quiet of the drowsy afternoon came the sound of galloping hooves, then Sir Richard could be seen riding in from the direction of the village, and be was riding as if leading an army into battle. His right hand was held high. In it was a sword whose blade flashed in the sunlight. Kate, with Lady Mary clinging to her arm, hastened from their shelter. They reached the steps that led up to the west door as Sir Richard reined in his stallion before them. His face was flushed, his eyes wild, and he whirled the sword above their heads.

“Where is he?” he shouted. “Where is the foreigner? Where are his men?”

Wells hurried down the steps to lay his hands on the bridle of the horse.

They stared at Sir Richard with a strange mixture of terror and admiration. He made a picture there, on the panting horse, a portrait from another age, his splendid carriage, his powerful frame, the handsome head, the strong right arm swinging the sword.

“Oh, Wells,” Lady Mary whispered, “isn’t he glorious? My heart breaks — what shall I do? What shall I do?” Then she cried out, “Richard, where have you been?”

“Leave him to me, my lady,” Wells whispered.

Gently he stroked the horse’s nose. “He’s all in a lather, Your Majesty,” he said quietly. “You’ve come a long way, I daresay. But you can rest now — they’ve gone — all of them.”

“Then I must go after them,” Sir Richard cried. “I’ll pursue them to the very end.”

“It’s no use, Richard,” Lady Mary said. “Now, please get down from your horse and come in. We’ll have tea. I’m sure you’re famished.”

He stared at her as though he did not know her. “Silence, woman! Into the castle! This is war — Lord Dunsten, your horse! Follow me — we’ll find them—”

Kate had not stirred from where she stood. Was this a nightmare and in the middle of the afternoon? Why did her grandfather coax Sir Richard as though he knew what it was all about? And Lady Mary—“Oh, please,” Kate moaned.