The Sherwood Ring Read Online Free

wide-set gray eyes, like my father's and my own. But my father had never stood so erect, or carried himself with such overwhelming dignity. When Uncle Enos came forward and held out his hand to me, it was almost as if he were tossing a ruffle of lace back from his wrist.
    "My dear child," he said magnificently.
    He sounded so like a character in an eighteenth- century novel that I felt I really ought to sink down in a deep curtsey and ask him for his blessing. As it was, I merely found myself touching his hand for a brief instant and murmuring something about being glad to see him. Uncle Enos in return expressed the polite hope that I had not had too long or difficult a journey. "But I see," he added, "that you were traveling with friends?" — and his eyes went inquiringly to Pat standing near the door.
    Pat set down the overnight case and took a determined step forward.
    "My name is Thorne, sir," he said clearly, "and I have been very eager to meet you for a long time now."
    I had wondered what was going to happen when Pat and Uncle Enos finally came together, but not even in my wildest speculations had I hit upon the sort of thing that actually occurred. Uncle Enos stared at him for one stupefied instant, and then said in the most appalling voice:
    "You!"
    "Why, yes, I suppose so," said poor Pat, utterly taken aback. "You remember that I wrote you some time ago for information in connection with my study of guerrilla warfare in Orange County during the — "
    Uncle Enos merely drew himself up in front of his desk as if he were bodily trying to protect its contents from the contamination of Pat's glance.
    "I have nothing whatever to say to you, sir," he interrupted him in a voice of ice. "You will leave this house at once."
    And with that he actually stretched out his arm and pointed his finger at the door, exactly like the outraged father in an old steel engraving called "Her Tory Lover" that I remembered hanging on the wall of Mrs. Campbell's inn parlor.
    "Uncle Enos, please!" I clutched at his other arm desperately. "Please! You don't understand. This gentleman has been very kind to me. He — "
    "Be quiet, child!" Uncle Enos made a fierce gesture with his free hand. "Let me deal with this! I don't know how he contrived to make your acquaintance, but you are never to have anything more to do with him. Never, do you hear me?"
    "But why, Uncle Enos? Why? What is it? What is he supposed to have done?"
    "Yes, if you don't mind, sir, what am I supposed to have done?" Pat cut in. "Look, Mr. Grahame, I'm sure that there must be some mistake. If you'll only explain — "
    "I have no explanation to offer you, now or on any future occasion," announced Uncle Enos grandly. "I have told you to leave my house, and I have told my niece she is not to see you again. That is enough for you both. I refuse to discuss the subject any further." He flung back his head, standing very straight, one hand at his hip as if it were resting on the hilt of a sword. He looked more like an eighteenth-century gentleman than ever.
    But Pat was beginning to lose his own temper and look rather like an eighteenth-century gentleman himself — the haughty young officer in "Her Tory Lover," in fact. He did not rage or stamp or shout. He simply allowed his gaze to rest on Uncle Enos as if he were seeing him from somewhere a long way off and did not find him particularly attractive.
    "In that case, sir," he retorted, "I think there is nothing more I have to say to you, except perhaps — " he turned with his hand on the knob of the door and grinned at Uncle Enos impertinently, "that I have every intention of seeing your niece again, very soon, whether you like it or not." Then he was gone.
    As the door swung shut behind him, Uncle Enos suddenly began to shake. He caught rather fumblingly at the back of his desk chair and sank down into it, almost as though he could no longer stand.
    "What shall I do now?" he whispered. "What on earth shall I do?" He was speaking