CHAPTER XXII
EMBERON
“Welcome, thrice welcome to Emberon,” he greeted. “And you, my dear,” he continued as they walked in through big doors to a high old hall, “you, I’m sure, are Nancy Sherwood.” His voice was soft and low as he spoke to her. He placed his hand on her head. “A Blake through and through,” he went on, smiling down at her surprise at his instant recognition.
“The same clear eyes, determined little chin, and proud carriage. Your mother has it too, when she is well. And her father before her, Randolph Hugh Blake—he was a wee lad when he first visited his uncle here—he had those eyes. You are all cut from the same pattern as Hugh Blake, the well-beloved steward of Emberon for nigh on to sixty years.
“We are glad to see you, little mistress,” he said quaintly, as he rang a bell for a servant.
Nan looked up, startled, at the term “mistress.” Was it right to address her so? A wave of shyness came over her. She looked about at the ancient hall with its obsolete firearms hanging on the walls, its big soft rug, tapestries, and the armor of a knight long dead standing in the corner. So this was Emberon! This was the estate her mother had inherited! This was the place her mother and father had visited a year, two years before, while she had been in Pine Camp and then at Lakeview Hall. Nan drew a deep breath, trying hard to realize it all.
For a few moments, they all stood around telling the venerable old gentleman, James Blake, who was a distant relative of Mrs. Sherwood’s, of their journey. Then, as the servant he had summoned appeared, he spoke again to Nan with the utmost deference.
“Your apartments are ready upstairs,” he said. “Go quickly, for it is late and some in the village have prepared an entertainment for the lassies from America. It is quite necessary that you go down, for most of them down there are people who know the Blake story from beginning to end. Hugh Blake was an idol in these parts.
“He treated those who were under him with such kindness and thoughtfulness that they looked upon him almost as a father. He took care of them when they were sick, watched over them when they were in trouble, comforted them when their young folks went off to the cities or to America. He saw that none went hungry. He helped them whenever he could, and when he died, they mourned as though he was one of theirs. Now they are anxious to see his youngest descendant.