The door opened and Wells entered. He had brushed his hair and put on a white shirt under his worn uniform, but he looked drawn and ill and very old.
“If you please, my lady,” he said, “what about the American? Do we have him for meals all day?”
His voice quivered and Lady Mary looked at him. “What’s wrong with you, Wells? You look as though you’d — you’d seen something.”
Wells put his hand to his mouth to hide his trembling lips. “I heard Sir Richard talking to you, my lady. He’s upset with me, really — not with you — I know it. But indeed I can’t do everything he wants done. He needs better supporters than I can be at my age, my lady. I’m no longer a proper protector for him. …” Suddenly he began to mumble. “The King needs help. I can’t do it alone — I can’t — I can’t …”
“What king?” Lady Mary demanded.
Wells fumbled for his handkerchief and wiped his eyes before he answered. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“I asked what king,” Lady Mary repeated distinctly.
“I don’t know what you mean, my lady. I was talking of Sir Richard.”
Webster turned to Wells. “You mean you can’t run this place any longer alone, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Wells said. “Thank you, sir. But if I could just speak with you, my lady — alone, for a minute.”
Lady Mary sat with her hands folded in her lap and her head sunk on her breast. She looked up now and spoke with sharp irritation. “No, no, Wells. I don’t want to talk now. Of course we must have the American. We shall all sit down to luncheon together.”
“There are six Americans, my lady.”
“And three of us. That will be nine, Wells.”
She dismissed him with a nod and with another nod to Webster she rose and walked down the passage to Sir Richard’s room. He was not there but if he had been, she thought, she would have entered just the same. The time had come for her to discover for herself what had happened in his mind and memory. She walked across the empty room to the paneled wall and tried to open it. It could move, that she knew, although this only by hearsay. She pressed each panel, each point in the carving, each possible indentation, but it remained as it was.
“Come now,” she murmured. “You do open, you know — don’t pretend with me, please! I’ve lived here too long.”
Still it resisted and she was about to give up when suddenly at her touch, she did not know where, the wall slid back noiselessly — and she was face to face with Sir Richard. He stood there looking at her as though she were a stranger, an interloper. His face was proud and cold and he held himself tensely erect, his hands at his sides. She stared at him. The blood drained away from her head and heart and she felt faint. She tried to cry out and could not. With a great effort she summoned her strength.
“I am glad I have found you at last, Richard. I’ve been looking for you such a long time — all my life, I think!”
She spoke the words as though she had expected to find him there and she waited for him to reply. Instead he put out his hand and touched the panel. It slid between them without noise, swiftly and smoothly, and she was left standing alone.
For a moment she was shocked, then galvanized by anger. This was not to be endured! How dared he shut her out as though she were a stranger? What was wrong with him? She felt a horrible panic of fear. She pounded on the panel with her fists and screamed.
“Richard, let me in! Richard — Richard—”
There was no answer. She laid her ear to the panel. No sound — nothing! In the ivy outside the open window the birds fluttered their wings and flew away.
“I must find him,” she muttered, frantic, and tried again to find the knob in the carving, the secret spot, which would open the wall, but however she pressed and pushed and felt the paneled surface she could not find it. There was no other way in which to get behind the panel — or was there? She tried to remember, her eyes closed, her hands pressed to her temples. Long ago, when she came to the castle a bride, Richard had taken her one day to a tower room, the throne room, he had called it, because when he was a little boy he had played at being king with his father, his crippled father. But there had been no throne in that room — only a heavy old chair.
How had they got there that day, she and Richard? And why had she never gone there again? Ah, but she hadn’t wanted to! She had not forgotten, though she had never allowed herself to think of it, the change that had come over him, Richard suddenly brooding, resentful, sad. She saw his beautiful young face even now and heard his voice across the years.
“I’m glad you never saw my father. He was hideously wounded in the war. Lucky I was born before he left or I’d never been born at all!”
She had been too young, then, too much a child, to understand or to reply. She had stood staring at him and he had rushed on.
“He was proud of me — sickeningly proud of my — my looks — and everything. He kept wanting me to marry young — to have sons. I wouldn’t marry just to provide heirs, I told him — not until I met you. And now it’s too late — he’s dead and he’ll never see our children.”
She remembered how frightened she had been when he gave a great sob. She had never seen a man weep and she had put her arms about him and comforted him. “Richard, darling, we’ll have lots of beautiful children — I promise!”
She wept now, silently, forcing back her own sobs. She had not been able to keep the promise — there had been no children. It was intolerable, this pain of remembrance. She hastened blindly from the room, down the passage in what direction she did not think. She saw Kate in a doorway with a tray of dishes in her hands; at the sight of her startled face Lady Mary broke into a run. It was years since she had really run as fast as she could. Her heart beat against her ribs but she ran on and on by instinct, like a homing pigeon, down the stairs that led to the dungeon — and found herself stopped by the same great door, closed and blocking her way. It was the door behind which she had heard voices. She listened now, both hands clenched on her breast, and heard nothing. She beat on the door and shouted as loudly as she could.
“Richard — Richard!”
There was no answer. Why did she call Richard? The voices had nothing to do with him — or did they? Ah, the door was immovably closed! Her strength gave out and she leaned her arms against it and her head on her arms and felt that she would die of faintness. And then she felt strong arms about her and heard Kate’s voice.
“My lady — my lady, whatever! Lucky the doctor’s come at this very moment. It’s Dr. Broomhall, my lady, the young doctor — old Dr. Briggs said he had to go to London for the day when I called. I followed you as soon as I could set my tray down. You looked ghastly when you ran past me, not seeing anything. When the doctor stepped in the door and I told him—”
The doctor, close behind Kate, interrupted. “Really, Lady Mary, this is very shocking. I’m told you’re in bed and here I find you in this damp hole, running about—”
“Richard,” she gasped. “Find Sir Richard — look after him—”
“Yes my lady,” Kate said soothingly, “yes, indeed we will, but all the same you shouldn’t have—”
“She’s to go to her room at once,” the doctor ordered.
He seized one arm and Kate the other, and they marched Lady Mary between them, half carrying her.
“You’re so uneven,” Lady Mary murmured, dazed.
“Eh?” Dr. Broomhall was a young man, red-haired and lean and strong.
“You’re too tall,” Lady Mary said fretfully, “much too tall and Kate’s short — like — crutches that — don’t match.”
He laughed a loud healthy shout. “Six foot four — I agree that’s too tall. Allow me, Lady Mary.” And with one sweep of his arm he caught her up and carried her as lightly as though she were a child. She felt suddenly better.