Chapter V: "the Lass of Richmond Hill"

Two afternoons later, the three active members of the Antiquarian Club rushed up the stoop of the Charlton Street house in a breathless scurry. And Margaret awaited them in the parlor in a fever of no less eager excitement.

"Hurry, girls!" she cried when the first greetings were over. "I've just got heaps to read to you! And some of it'll make you 'sit up and take notice,' as Alexander says!"

"Who's Alexander?" queried Corinne, curiously.

"Oh, he's a boy-cousin who lives with us," Bess enlightened her. "He was Mother's sister's child, and his parents are both dead now, so Mother had him come here a year or two ago. He's twelve years old and a perfect nuisance! He hates girls, so he generally keeps out of our way. That's why you've never seen him. But, come on! I'm wild to hear what's coming next! Margaret wouldn't tell us a single thing she's found out."

"Wait a minute before we begin," spoke up Corinne, "and let's just run over what we've already discovered. It'll keep us from getting mixed up. A young girl of sixteen has run away from her home in Bermuda, and is in some place where she thinks her life is in danger. Before she ran away, she did something to assist in some plot against her country (which must be Bermuda), and probably that's one reason why she is in danger. Maybe something's been discovered about it. She's staying with a Madame M., and it seems to be a house of mystery.

"One thing I have pretty well guessed, and probably so have you all—that this must have happened a long time ago. Her language isn't very—well, modern—sounds to me like stories I've read about old England, and America too in former times. I think it's likely she's in one of those two countries when she writes—probably England, because she speaks of '_Madame M._' and '_Lady Blank_,' and those titles don't somehow go with America. Then there's something strange about a sapphire signet. But go on now, Margaret! Maybe you've discovered something new!"

Margaret smiled mysteriously. "Perhaps just a _few_ things!" she admitted. "Here's where we left off. I've copied it all from the beginning. You remember where she tells about explaining the signet later? Now I'll go on:

"There is something strange and evil about this house. I can trust
no one. Especially do I mistrust the steward. He hath a sleek smile
and ingratiating manners, but he is wicked to the heart of him.
He associates much with one Corbie, who keeps the tavern down the
road hard by the woods. Corbie has been to this house, and once was
closeted long with the steward. When he came forth to go, he gazed
hard at me as I stood on the lawn. It made me shudder for an hour
afterward."

"That's the first name she has mentioned—'Corbie,'" interrupted Corinne. "Let's remember it. Who knows but it may help us?"

"There's another coming right away," added Margaret, "though I don't know whether it will be of any help or not.

"But one thing has happened lately to cheer me. Two nights ago I
went to my room, which does not look toward the river, but toward
the back of the house. I was minded to retire early, having naught
to occupy me through the long evening. Madame M. retires at nine,
but I never see her after the evening meal. She is usually in
conference with the steward, who has chief charge of the affairs of
this great house. She appears to place much confidence in him. But
that is not to the point.

"I had opened my window and was leaning out a moment when I heard a
softly whistled tune, and knew that H. was there. For the tune he
ever whistles is 'The Lass of Richmond Hill,' which he declared,
when first he brought me here, was right appropriate to me now."

"I wonder why?" queried Jess.

"I can't imagine," answered Corinne; "'lass' she certainly is, but what has 'Richmond Hill' to do with it? What _is_ 'Richmond Hill,' and where?"

"Mother has a friend who lives in Richmond Hill, Long Island," ventured Bess.

"Oh, _that_ can't be it!" declared Corinne, scornfully. "That's only a little new suburb that's hardly been in existence thirty years! It has nothing whatever to do with this! And I wonder who 'H.' is, too. Well, go on, Margaret."

Margaret obediently continued:

"At hearing him, my heart did beat gladly, for he is the one person
I have seen who reminds me of home. I leaned far out and called
to him softly, and presently he threw into my window a letter
weighted with a stone. It said he and his uncle had not been back
to Bermuda, nor would they dare to go for many a long day. One of
their traitorous sailors had divulged the plot, and the authorities
were wild only to lay hands on them. This they had learned in
roundabout fashion. They had been cruising along the coast lately,
and had had not a few adventures. They were sailing at midnight
for parts unknown. He did but come up hastily to see how I fared,
before they left.

"In a moment I threw down an answering missive, telling of my
present plight, and begging that he and his uncle would take me
back to Bermuda should they ever be sailing there again. That was
all I had time for, since he knew he dared not linger. He went
away silently into the night. 'Twas brave of him to come, since he
knows it would be ill for him to be seen hereabout, now that so
much seems to have been discovered."

Margaret paused here and half whispered: "Hold your breath now, girls! We're coming to the _sapphire signet_!" Then she went on with the reading:

"I must now explain about the sapphire signet. Night after night I
lie awake and ask myself why I ever took it—why I was ever tempted
to add this mistake to the rest of my misdoings. At the time it
seemed no wrong,—nay, it seemed entirely _right_ that I should
take with me what Grandfather has so often said was mine, though
he deemed it safer not to allow me to have it in my keeping till I
should come of age.

"'Tis such a pretty bauble—this wonderful blue stone larger than
my thumb-nail, with our family crest graved on it and set all
round the edge with tiny, sparkling diamonds. Grandfather told me
that the sapphire was once in a great ring, and from generation to
generation had been handed down to the eldest son of the family.
He said, moreover, that it ever should have remained a ring; that
'twas a crime it should have been changed. But 'twas my mother's
whim that it should be taken from the ring, set round with
diamonds, and made into an ornament for her neck. He said that
once, when they were in London not long after their marriage, she
wheedled my father into having it changed, and came home to Bermuda
with the jewel hanging from a slender chain about her white throat.
And Grandfather was filled with wrath at her and never forgave her.
Had I been a boy, he says, he would have had the stone reset in a
ring. But since the only heir to it is a girl, he has allowed it to
remain thus, and once scornfully told me that 'twas 'as useless now
as I was,' and might as well so remain.

"On rare occasions, Grandfather has let me wear it—once to a grand
tea-drinking at St. George's, where 'twas much admired. But mainly
he has kept it in his great strong box. It seemed no harm that
day for me to take it. The box stood invitingly open. The jewel
was really mine, and I possessed no other ornament. Even then I
realized that I might never see my home or Grandfather again. So I
took it—Heaven forgive me!—thinking it no wrong. But I have come
to feel differently since. In these long, lonely months, when I
have had so much time to think and to regret, I can see how this
act of mine must appear to Grandfather and to all who know me.
Even though it was in effect my own, it was still in his keeping,
and I should never have taken it without his consent. I dare not
even wonder what he must think of me, and I live only for the
opportunity to return home and place the signet in his hands.

"From the very first I have never dared openly to wear the
beautiful thing; and since my conscience began to trouble me, I
have never wished to. Long since, I removed it from its velvet
riband and concealed it. Nor must I, even here, disclose where it
is hidden. To do so would be neither safe nor wise. Suffice it that
I will never more wear the bauble till I have restored it to its
rightful keeper, my grandfather."

Margaret paused again, and there was a blissful sigh from all her assembled listeners.

"Isn't it the most fascinating thing—this sapphire signet business?" exclaimed Corinne, at last. "I can just imagine how the poor girl felt. She hadn't meant any harm in taking it—it had seemed perfectly _right_. And then her conscience got to troubling her till she hadn't a peaceful minute! But where in the world could she have hidden it? Does it tell later on, Margaret?"

"Not that I've discovered as yet, but there are a lot of other interesting things—"

"Go on, go on then!" chorused the waiting three, impatient of anything that broke the thread of the story.

"Well, the next seems to be written some time later, but I can't tell how much. This is something like a diary, only she doesn't put down any dates. She just seems to leave spaces between the different entries. It's kind of confusing. Now she says:

"A strange thing happened last night. At midnight I awoke. I heard
confused sounds on the road without. Carts creaking by, men shouting
and calling, women crying, and children screaming as with fright.
The sounds continued till near morning. An endless procession of
carts and coaches. 'Twould seem as though the whole city were in
flight. 'Twas odd to hear so much racket in this quiet region.

"To-day the whole household is in agitation. Fear seems to have
seized on all. The servants are in a panic. Only the steward seems
undisturbed. Madame M. is calm in manner, but I can see that she is
much perturbed inwardly."

"What in the world could have been happening?" demanded Bess. "She speaks of the 'city.' I wonder what city, and what was the matter? Why should every one be leaving it?"

"I've been thinking all along that she was somewhere in England," suggested Corinne, "though I can't imagine what part. Anyway—"

"Wait!" cried Margaret. "Why don't you let me go on?"

"That's so!" agreed Corinne. "It's foolish not to see what's coming before we try to make sense of it. Go on!"

Margaret continued. "Next she says:

"Some of the servants left yesterday. I now know the cause. The
rebels are threatening to take possession of the city. Ships filled
with soldiers stand in the waters near by. 'Tis feared there will
be a great battle soon. Madame M. is very ill. She has taken to
her bed. I think great fear has made her so—and great anger. She
is being cared for by the housekeeper, Mistress Phœbe. I have come
to like Mistress Phœbe. She is the one soul who treats me with
kindness unfailing. She, too, hates the steward. She told me so.
She and the steward and one other servant are all that are left
here now. The rest have fled. Would that the steward had fled also!
He seems to have some urgent reason for remaining. He has had
another interview with Corbie, in this house."

"Wait a minute!" interrupted Corinne, once more. "I have an idea. I am going to put down on a paper every name she mentions, no matter how insignificant, and see if they will lead us to any sort of a clue. _Names_ are about the only clues for finding out things, when you come to think of it!" She hunted in her bag for a pencil and notebook. Then she continued:

"Now, there's 'Bermuda'—that was the first, and the only real definite thing we've discovered yet—and 'London.' Then there's 'Madame M.,' which doesn't help much. And 'Lady Blank' is no good at all, nor is 'H.' 'Corbie' may be useful, but I don't think Mistress Phœbe' will—and that's all, I guess."

"No, it isn't," contradicted Margaret. "You forgot the 'Lass of Richmond Hill'!"

"True enough! Of course that's only the name of a song, but I'll put it down. Who knows but what it _may_ be the most important of all! I have a book of old songs at home, and I have just a faint idea that there's one of that name in it. I'll hunt it up to-night. But as usual, it's late, and I must be hurrying along. Haven't you read about all you've puzzled out, Margaret?"

"I've done another entry," replied Margaret, slowly and mysteriously, "and perhaps you'd better hear it. It may be worth your while!"

"Oh, what is it?" cried Corinne, pausing in the act of adjusting her hat. "Quick!"

"Here it is:

"Madame M. sent for me to-day. 'Tis the first time since she took
to her bed. She did so to give me this strange warning. These be
her very words: 'It is rumored that this house may soon be taken
possession of by rebels. If so, I wish you to have no communication
with any of them, Mistress Alison."

There was an instant's silence. Then Corinne threw her hat on a chair and exclaimed:

"Hurrah! At _last_ we have this mysterious lassie's name! It's _Alison_! That's the biggest discovery yet. Is there any more?"

"Yes, one thing," answered Margaret, "the strangest of all. It's a later entry and is only three words long—the first word twice underlined:

"‗He‗ has come!"