Free Death in the Castle by Pearl S. Buck

of—”
    Children! They had nothing but children swarming into the world for him to feed! The bitter injustice of it, that these British men could beget their British sons while he was childless—had always been childless, in reality, for how could a man in his position acknowledge a moment’s madness when he was a mere boy—sixteen, to be exact. He stopped the memory, but not before a face appeared in his mind, a pretty, face, a simple girlish face. He dismissed it instantly as he always did, angry that memory could be so relentless. His wife was his love, his only love, and yet when they argued as they had only the other morning, as to which was responsible for their childlessness, he saw that face, Elsie’s face, and he sent it away. No, he could never reveal his secret. He could never retort to his wife, “I know I could have begotten a son—” Nor had Elsie herself ever made a sign to anyone, even to him, that there was a secret, nor had Wells reminded him in all these years, though he must know—everything. Wells had been young then—older than himself by twenty years, at that. Wells had simply announced one day that he and Elsie had been married the day before.
    “At my request and for adequate compensation,” his father had said sternly and refusing further explanation, had sent Richard off to Oxford.
    “You have far too many children,” he told Banks now.
    The men burst into angry clamor. He lifted his hand to silence them and they stepped back.
    “We have decided nothing,” he said curtly.
    He stared at them an instant, recognizing them one by one. James Dunn, whom he had hunted ferrets with as a boy, old Bumsley who had to be watched against poaching, Lester and Hunt and Frame, three of his best stalwart workers. His voice softened somewhat as he went on. “There’s a great deal to be considered. We are mindful of you and your families. Lady Mary is as attached to the place as you could be. We know our position and you may be assured that we will look after your welfare. We are aware of your troubles. Banks, we know your roof wants thatching—”
    There was an outcry.
    “ ’Tain’t Banks alone, Sir Richard—”
    “We’ve not had a new thatch since my grandfather’s time.”
    “Thatch—who wants thatch nowadays? A good slate roof on every cottage, I say—”
    “And septic tanks—”
    The horse, startled at the noise, danced left and right and rose to its hind legs. Sir Richard reined it in sternly.
    “We are aware of all these matters. We have large plans for the future. You will know of them in due time.”
    The men fell back as they always fell back when he wore his kingly air.
    “Thank you. Sir Richard—we know your hardships, sir. Times is bad for us all. But with our families and all—the women complaining about the leaks when it rains—the children’s beds have to be moved—damp runnin’ down the walls.”
    The broken chorus went on again until he stopped it.
    “We know,” he repeated grimly.
    Banks put out his right hand.
    “No ’ard feelin’s!”
    Sir Richard put out his left hand. Upon the forefinger was his great seal ring. He did not wear it always, but sometimes, as today, when he rode over his lands, he put it on. The sight of it on his well-shaped hand was a secret comfort, an invitation to dream. Nothing, no hardship or confusion, could change the fact that he was born Sir Richard Sedgeley of Starborough Castle.
    Banks held the hand a moment. “A fine ring, Sir Richard!”
    “It was given to my ancestor, William Sedgeley, by the king, five hundred years ago, when Starborough Castle became ours. Castle and ring have belonged by right to every Sedgeley heir since that time.”
    There was a moment’s silence. He knew what they were thinking. To whom would the castle go, and the ring, when there was no heir? Banks bent his head as though he were about to kiss the ring, and then dropped Sir Richard’s hand. Did they know the secret? He’d wager they did. They