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The Inn at the Red Oak

L >> Latta Griswold >> The Inn at the Red Oak




They had reached the stile by now that led into the meadow which sloped
down from the clump of poplars a hundred rods or so above, in the midst
of which the Red Farmhouse stood. Instead of helping his companion over
the steps in the wall, Tom stopped and stood with his back to them.
"Let's stay here a minute, Nance, and have it out."

"Have what out?" she asked a trifle sharply.

"You haven't any queer wild plan in your head to go away, have you?"

"I don't know--sometimes I think I have. I dare say there are things
somewhere a girl could find to do."

"But Mrs. Frost--?"

"Oh, Mother would not miss me long--she'd have Dan."

"But Dan would miss you."

"Yes, Dan might. I couldn't go, if Dan really needed me here. I think
sometimes he doesn't. But, Tom, if you were in my position, if you didn't
know who your parents were, if all your life you had been living on the
charity of others--good and kind as they are, wonderful even as Dan has
always been--you couldn't be happy. I'm not happy."

"But, Nance, what has come over you?"

"No--nothing in particular; I have often felt this way."

"But, dear, I couldn't let you go. I'd mind a lot, Nance."

She looked at him with a sudden smile of incredulity. "You, Tommy?"

"You can't go--you musn't go," Tom repeated, as he drew nearer to her.

Suddenly he reached out and seized her hands. "Don't you realize it?--I
love you, Nance; I've always loved you!" He drew her close to him. She
did not resist nor did she yield, but still with her eyes she questioned
him. "Kiss me, Nancy," he whispered. She let him press his lips to hers
but without responding to the pressure, as though she still were
wondering of the meaning of this sudden unforeseen passion. But at last,
caught up in its intensity, she gave him back his kisses. He took her
face then between his hands and looked into it with a gaze that in itself
was a caress. "Oh my sweetheart!" he said softly.

Slowly she disengaged herself. "Tom, Tom," she said, "this is
foolishness. We musn't do this."

"Why not?" demanded Pembroke. "I tell you I love you!"

"No--not that way, not that way. I didn't mean that. Why, you foolish
boy, haven't we kissed each other hundreds of times before?"

"No, Nancy, not like that--not like this," he added, as again he put his
arm around her and drew her face to his. And again she yielded. "Say
it--say it, Nance--you love me."

She drew back from him. "I think I must, Tom. I don't think I could let
you kiss me that way if I didn't. But now come ... Tom ... dear Tom ...
do come ... don't kiss me again."

"But say it," he insisted, "say you love me."

"Please help me over the stile."

He gave her his hand and she sprang lightly to the top of the steps. In a
second he was by her side, both of them balancing somewhat uncertainly on
the top of the stone wall. "I won't let you down till you say it."

"Please--".

"No--you love me?"

"Yes--there--I love you--now--".

"No, kiss me again."

"Tom--no." But the negative was weak and Pembroke took it so.

"Now," he said, as they began to cross the meadow, "we must tell Mrs.
Frost and Dan."

"Tell them what?"

"Why, that we are in love with each other, and that you are going to
marry me. What else?"

"No, no," exclaimed Nancy, "You must say nothing. I am not in love. I
don't mean to marry you."

"But why not? You are. You do."

"Are--do--?"

"In love--you do mean to marry me."

"No--Tom, listen--you know your father and mother would hate it. You have
at least two years before you can practice. We couldn't marry--we can't
marry. Oh, there are things I must do, before I can think of that."

"Not marry me? Good Lord, what does it mean when people are in love with
each other, what does it mean when a girl kisses a fellow like that?"

"I don't know! what it means--madness, I guess. Do you think I could
marry as I am, not knowing who I am?"

"Oh, what do I care who your parents were! We'll find out. I swear we
will. Good Lord, I love you, Nancy; I love you!"

"Please, please don't make me talk about it now."

"But soon--?"

"Yes, soon--only promise you'll say nothing to Dan or to Mother till we
have talked again. I must think; it is all so queer and unexpected; I
never dreamed that you cared for me except as a little girl."

"I didn't know I did. But come to think of it, Nance, it has been you as
much as Dan that has brought me to the Inn at the Red Oak. Why it was you
I wanted to walk and talk and play with."

"Please,--dear Tom--G--ive me time to think what it all means. Now be
careful, there's the farmer. You have a lot to do, and we have been
lingering too long. Mother wants us to go back by the dunes and enquire
for old Mrs. Meath; so we must hurry."

The sun had set before they started on the homeward journey in one of
the squire's sleighs. As they turned the bend at the beach and started
across the dune road close to the sea, a great yellow moon rose over
Strathsey Neck.

Tom had been so preoccupied with his own emotions and the unexpected and
absorbing relation in which he found himself with Nancy, that he had
altogether forgotten why he had asked her to go off with him that
afternoon. As they skimmed along over the snow-packed road across the
sands, Tom spied another sleigh on the Port road, the occupants of which
he recognized as Jesse and the Marquis. Suddenly the memory of the night
before flashed over him. He pointed with his whip in their direction.
"There's the old Marquis coming back from Monday Port," he said.

Nancy looked without comment, but Tom thought the colour deepened in
her cheeks.

"See here, Nance," he exclaimed impulsively; "has the Marquis anything to
do with the mood you were in this afternoon? Has he said anything to make
you discontented?"

He was sure that now she paled.

"What makes you ask?"

"Oh--a number of things. I've seen you with him more or less; felt he had
some influence over you."--Tom was blundering now and knew it.--

She looked at him coldly. "I have been with the Marquis very little save
when others have been about. He has no influence over me. I don't care to
discuss such queer ideas."

"Oh, all right ... I dare say I'm mistaken ... I only thought..."
He hesitated... "If you care for me, I don't mind what you think of
the Marquis."

"Remember, Tom--you promised to say nothing until I gave you leave.
You're not fair..."

"But you do love me?"

Nancy was silent.

"There is nothing between you and the old Frenchman--no mystery?"

There was no reply. Nancy sat with compressed lips and drawn brows,
gazing fixedly at the distant House on the Dunes at the end of their
road. For a long while they drove on in silence.

At the House on the Dunes they chatted for a while with old Mrs. Meath,
who lived there alone with a maid-of-all-work. She was a source of much
anxiety to Mrs. Frost, who sent several times each week to learn if all
was going well. But Mrs. Meath was a Quaker and apparently never gave a
thought to loneliness or fear.

"They will never guess," she said to Nancy and Tom as they sat in the
tiled kitchen talking with her, "what I am going to do."

"Not going to leave the House on the Dunes, Mrs. Meath?"

"Deary me! no; but I am going to take a boarder."

"Really?--you are setting up to rival the Inn, eh?" said Tom.

"No", Tommy, nothing of the sort. But I am offered good pay for my front
room, and as Jane Frost is always nagging me about living here alone, I
thought I'd take her."

"And who pray is your new boarder?" asked Nancy.

"That is the funny part of it," replied Mrs. Meath, "I know nothing but
her name--Mrs. Fountain. Everything has been arranged by a lawyer man
from Coventry, and she is coming in a few days. Tell thy mother, Nancy
dear, that she need worry about me no longer."

"I will, Mrs. Meath. I think it is a splendid idea, and I hope you will
like the lady. Mother will be so glad that you have some one with you."

Soon they were on their way across the dunes and marshes to Tinterton
road and home. Dan was preoccupied, not with the news that was so
exciting to Mrs. Meath, but with the recollection of his conversation
with Nancy as they had driven toward the house. Despite her implicit
denial he knew there was a secret between the Marquis de Boisdhyver and
herself. He could not imagine what it might be, and it was evident
that she did not mean to tell him at present. But his anxieties on this
or kindred subjects were not relieved by his companion during the
remainder of the drive. Moreover his attempts to speak again of his
newly discovered passion were received coldly--so coldly indeed that he
had no heart for pleading for such proofs as she had given him earlier
in the afternoon that she shared his emotion. So despite the splendid
moon, the bright cold night, the merry jangle of the sleigh bells, the
drive back was not the unmixed joy Tom had promised himself; and he
felt his role of a declared and practically-accepted lover anything but
a satisfactory one.

Finally they reached the Inn and entered the bar where they found the
Marquis sitting alone before a cheerful fire. All of Tom's suspicious
jealousies returned with fresh force, for Nancy rapidly crossed the room,
spoke a few words to the old gentleman in an inaudible tone of voice, and
passed quickly on to her own apartments.




PART II

THE TORN SCRAP OF PAPER



CHAPTER VI

THE HALF OF AN OLD PAPER


That evening Mrs. Frost made a particular request for music. Poor Dan,
impatient to be alone with Tom and show him the torn scrap of paper that
he had found that afternoon was forced to bring out his fiddle and
accompany the Marquis. Tom, for first part, was more concerned with his
own relations with Nancy than with the mysterious possibilities of the
previous night. The poignant notes of the violin set his pulses to
beating in tune with the throbbing of the music and transported him again
into the realms of youthful dreams. They were quaint plaintive songs of
old France that the Marquis chose to play that evening, folk tunes of the
Vendée, love songs of olden time.

From where he sat in the shadow Tom got a full view of Nancy seated on
the oaken setlle near the fire. Her brows were drawn a little in deep
thought, her lips for the most part compressed, though ever and anon
relaxing at some gentler thought. Her hands were clasped, her head was
bent a little, but her body was held straight and tense. Her eyes, dark
and lustrous in the light of the flaming logs, always fixed upon the
musician, not once wandering in his direction.

What was the influence, the fascination that strange old Frenchman seemed
to exert? It seemed to Tom impossible that there could be a secret which
she felt necessary to hide from them, her lifelong friends. But apart
from what he knew had taken place the night before as he looked back over
the past month, he was conscious that there had been a change in Nancy, a
change that mystified him. It was the danger in this change, he told
himself, that had awakened in him the knowledge of his love.

But then as he looked across at her so lovely, in the firelight, he felt
again the thrill as when first he had taken her hand that afternoon. In
that moment all the dreams, the vague longings of his boyhood had found
their reality.

Suddenly, while he was thinking thus, the Marquis laid his violin upon
his knees. "Ah, _ma jeunnesse_!" he exclaimed in a dramatic whisper, "_et
maintenant_--_et maintenant_!"

For a moment no one spoke or stirred. They looked at him curiously as
they always did when he brought his playing to an end in such fashion.
Then he rose. "_Bon soir, madame; bon soir, messieurs; bon soir,
mademoiselle_"

Tom saw his little faded blue eyes meet Nancy's with a look of swift
significance. Then he bowed with a flourish that included them all.

"A thousand thanks, Monsieur le Marquis," murmured Mrs. Frost, "how much
pleasure you give us!"

They all rose then, as the Marquis smiled his appreciation and withdrew.

"Give me your arm, Dan," the old lady said. "It must be past my bedtime.
Come, Nancy."

"Yes, mother." The girl rose wearily, stopping a moment at the
mantelpiece to snuff the candles there. Tom seized his opportunity, and
was by her side. She started, as she realized him near her.

"Nance, Nance, I must have a word with you," he exclaimed in a tense
whisper, "don't go!"

"Nance, come," called Mrs. Frost from the hall.

"Yes, Mother, I am coming ... I must go, Tom. Don't delay me. You know
how Mother is ..."

"What difference will it make if you wait a moment? Good Lord! Nance, I
have been trying all evening to get a word with you, and you have not so
much as given me a glance. Don't go--please don't go! Oh, Nancy dear,--I
love you so!"

He seized her hands and kissed them passionately. "Nance, Nance ...
please ..." His arms were about her.

"Tom, you make it so hard ... Remember, you promised me ... No word
of love until I can think, until I have time to know ... Please, Tom,
let me go."

"I can't let you go. Oh sweetheart dear."

"Tom, we musn't--Dan, Mother! ..."

Unheeding her protest, he put his arms around her. An instant he felt
her yield, then quickly thrusting him aside, she ran from the room,
leaving him standing alone there, trembling with excitement, chagrin,
happiness, alarm.

In a moment his friend returned and Tom pulled himself together. "Come
on," said Dan, "I have a lot to tell you."

"Did you find anything this afternoon?" exclaimed Pembroke.

"Sh! for heaven's sake be careful. Don't talk here. Let's go upstairs."

A few minutes later they were closeted in Dan's chamber. The curtains
were tightly drawn and a heavy quilt was hung over the door. Good Lord!
thought Tom, could it be possible that these precautions in part at least
were taken against Nancy. The world seemed to have turned upside down for
him in the last twenty-four hours.

"Aren't we going to keep watch to-night?" he asked.

"Yes, but later. They are just getting to bed--or pretending to. Look
here, this may throw light on the mystery. I found this paper in a secret
cubby-hole in the old cabinet in the Oak Parlour. Draw a chair up to the
table so that you can see."

"The cabinet," he continued, as he took the paper out of his strong-box
and began to unfold it, "was brought from some old manor house in
England. It has four little secret cubby-holes, opened by hidden springs,
that Mother says were probably used by the Roman Catholics to hide pages
of their mass-books during the days of persecution. She remembered
fortunately a little about them. They were all empty but one, and in that
I found this torn scrap of paper."

He handed the yellowed bit of writing to Tom, who flattened it out on the
table before him.

"Why it's written in French," Pembroke exclaimed, as he bent over to
examine it.

"Yes, I know it is," said Dan. "I can't make head or tail of it. Besides
it seems to be only a part of a note or letter. I could hardly wait to
give you a chance at it. You can make something of it, can't you?"

"I don't know--I guess I can. It's hard to read the handwriting. The
thing's torn in two--haven't you the rest of it?"

"No, I tell you; that's all I could find; that's all, I am sure, that can
be in the cabinet now. My theory is that the old marquis has somehow come
across the other half and is still looking for this. God only knows who
hid it there.

"How the deuce could the Marquis know about it. Ah! look--it's signed
somebody, something _de Boisdhyver_--'_ançois_--that's short for
François, I guess. Evidently 't wasn't the Marquis himself. Wonder what
it means?"

For goodness' sake, try to read it."

"Wait. Get that old French dictionary out of the bookcase downstairs,
will you? I'll see if I can translate."

Dan crept softly out, leaving Tom bent over the paper. Again he smoothed
it out carefully on the table, bringing the two candles nearer, and tried
to puzzle out the faint fine handwriting.

"I can make out some of it," he remarked to Dan, when his friend returned
with the dictionary. "Let me have that thing; there are a few words I
don't know at all, but I'll write out as good a translation as I can."

While Tom was busy with the dictionary, Dan placed writing materials to
his hand, and sat down to wait as patiently as he could. His curiosity
was intensified by Pembroke's occasional exclamations and the absorption
with which he bent over the task.

"There!" Tom exclaimed after half-an-hour's labour, "that's the
best I can do with it. You see the original note was evidently torn
into two or three strips and we have only got the righthand one, so we
don't get a single complete sentence--, but what we have is mighty
suggestive. Listen--This is what it says: Make great efforts ... gap ...
glorious, I am about to leave' ... gap ... 'to offer my' ... gap ...
'that I should not return' ... gap ... 'directions' ... gap ... 'this
paper which I tear' ... gap ... 'the explanation' ... something
missing ... 'to discover' ... that's the end of a sentence. The next one
begins, 'This treasure' ... than another gap ... 'jewels and money' ...
'secret chamber' ... 'one can enter' ... something gone here ... 'by the
_salon de chene_'--that's the Oak Parlour, I suppose ... something
missing again ... 'by a spring' ... 'hand of the lady in the picture' ...
'chimney on the north side of the' ... 'side a panel which reveals' ...
'one will find the directions' ... more missing ... 'of the treasure in a
golden chest' ... That's the end of it. And, as I said before it is
signed,--'ançois de Boisdhyver.' There, you can read it. That's the best
I can make of it."

Dan bent over his friend's translation. "Whoever wrote it was
about to leave here to offer something to somebody, and if he did
not return, apparently he is giving directions, in this paper, which
he tears in to two or three parts, how to discover--a treasure?--jewels
and money, I guess,--that he is about to hide or has hidden in a secret
chamber, which is entered in some way from the Oak Parlour--? ... pushes
a spring,--Something to do with the hand of the lady in the picture,
near the chimney on the north side of the room ... then a panel which
reveals ...where? ... the directions will be found, for getting the
treasure, in a golden chest in the secret chamber? How's that for a
version? I reckon the other half doesn't tell as much ...'ançois de
Boisdhyver!--That can't be the Marquis, for none of his names end
'ançois; do they? Let's see, what are they?--Marie, Anne, Timélon,
Armand ... Tom,"--and Dan faced his friend excitedly,--"that old devil is
after treasure! Who the deuce is 'ançois de Boisdhyver, and how did he
come to leave money in the Oak Parlour? Hanged if I believe there's any
secret chamber! By gad, man, if I didn't hurt when I pinch myself, I'd
think I was asleep and dreaming. What do you make of it?"

"Pretty much what you do. Somebody sometime,--a good many years ago,
concealed some valuables here in the Inn. It must be some one who is
connected with our marquis, for the last names are the same. These are
directions, or half the directions, for finding it. The Marquis knows
enough about it to have been hunting for this paper. Who the devil is
the Marquis?"

"The Lord knows. But how does Nance come in?"

"Blamed if I can see; wish I could! This accounts for the Marquis's
mysterious investigations, anyway. Probably he's no right to the paper.
Maybe he isn't a Boisdhyver at all. I'll be damned if I can understand
how he has got Nance to league with him."

"And now what the deuce are we going to do about it?" asked Dan.

"Hunt for the treasure ourselves, eh?"

"Well, why not? but to do that we've got to get rid of the Marquis. He'll
be suspicious if we begin to poke about the north wing. Hanged if I
wouldn't like to have it all out with him!"

"Yes, but we'd better think and talk it over before we decide to do
anything. We can watch them. We'll watch to-night any way, and plan
something definite to-morrow."

"I tell you one thing, Tom, I am going to make Mother tell me all she
knows about Nancy. Perhaps she is mixed up in some way with all this. But
it's time to keep watch now. We'll put out the candles and I'll watch for
the first two hours. If you go to sleep, I'll wake you up to take the
next turn. How about it?"

"Hang sleep!" Tom replied.

"All right, but we must blow out the light. Lucky it's clear. Let's
whisper after this."

Tom threw himself on the bed, while Dan sat near the window and kept his
eyes fixed on the door of the bowling-alley. They talked for some time in
low tones, but eventually Tom fell asleep. Dan waked him at twelve for
his vigil, and he in turn was wakened at two. During the third watch they
both succumbed to weariness.

Tow awoke with a start about four, and sprang to the window. The moon was
sinking low in the western sky, but its light still flooded the deserted
courtyard beneath. He heard the patter of a horse's hoofs on the road
beyond and the crunching of the snow beneath the runners of a sleigh.
Well, he thought, as he rubbed his eyes, it was too near morning for
anything to happen, so he turned in and was soon asleep, as though no
difficult problems were puzzling his mind and heart and no mysteries were
being enacted around him.



CHAPTER VII

A DISAPPEARANCE


When Dan came downstairs in the morning Mrs. Frost called him to the door
of her bedroom. "What on earth is the matter with Nancy?" she exclaimed;
"I have been waiting for her the past hour. No one has been near me since
Deborah came in to lay the fire. Call the girl Danny; I want to get up."

"All right, mother. She has probably overslept; she had a long walk
yesterday."

"But that is no excuse for sleeping till this time of day. Tell her
to hurry."

"It is only seven, mother."

"Yes, Danny, dear, but I mean to breakfast with you all this morning if I
ever succeed in getting dressed."

Dan crossed the hall and knocked at Nancy's door. There was no response.
He knocked again, then opened the door and looked within. Nancy was not
there, and her bed had not been slept in.

He went back to his mother. "Nancy is not in her room," he said. "She
has probably gone out for a walk. I'll go and look for her."

He went to the kitchens to enquire of the maids, but they had not seen
their young mistress since the night before.

"Spec she's taken dem dogs a walkin'," said black Deborah unconcernedly.
"Miss Nance she like de early morn' 'fore de sun come up."

Dan went out to the stables. The setters came rushing out, bounding and
barking joyously about him.

"Have you seen Miss Nancy this morning, Jess?" he asked.

"No, Mister Dan, ain't seen her this mornin'. Be n't she in the house?"

"She doesn't seem to be. Take a look down the road, and call after her,
will you? Down, Boy; down, Girl!" he cried to the dogs.

Dan began to be thoroughly alarmed. If Nancy had gone out, the dogs would
certainly have followed her. She must be within!

He went back into the house, and searched room after room, but no trace
of her was to be found. He returned at last to his mother's chamber.

"I can't find Nancy," he said. "She must have gone off somewhere."

"Gone off! why, she must have left very early then. I have been awake
these two hours--since daylight--; I would have heard every sound."

"Well, she isn't about now, Mother. She will be back by breakfast time, I
don't doubt. Just stay abed this morning, I will send her to you as soon
as she comes."

"I shall have to, I suppose. Really, Dan, it is extraordinary how
neglectful of me that child can sometimes be. She knew--"

"Mother, don't find fault with her. She is devoted to you, and you know
it."

"I daresay she is. Of course she is, and I am devoted to her. Where would
she be, I wonder, if it hadn't been for me? Good heavens! Dan, can
anything have happened to her?"

"No, no--of course not,--nothing."

"Search the house, boy; she may be lying some place in a faint. She isn't
strong--I have always been worried--"

"Don't get excited, Mother. We will wait until breakfast time. If she
doesn't turn up then, you may be sure I shall find her."

He looked at his watch. It was already nearly eight o'clock, so he
decided to say nothing to Pembroke until after breakfast. He found the
Marquis and Tom chatting before the fire in the bar.

"Shall we have breakfast?" said Dan. "Mother will not be in this
morning."

"Ah!" exclaimed the Marquis, as they took their seats at table, "that is
a disappointment. And shall we not wait for Mademoiselle Nancy?"

"My sister has stepped out, monsieur; she may be late. Shall I give you
some coffee?"

"If you please--. We have another of these so beautiful days, eh? This so
glorious weather, these moonlight nights, this snow--_C'est merveilleux_.
Last night I sat myself for a long time in my window. Ah _la nuit_--the
moon past its full, say you not?--the sea superbly dark, superbly blue,
the wonderful white country! As I sat there, messieurs, a sight too
beautiful greeted my eyes. A ship, with three great sails, appeared out
on the sea and sailed as a bird up the river to our little cove, _Voila,
mes amis_"--he waved his hand toward the eastern windows--"She is
anchored at our feet."

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