The Master of Phoenix Hall

by Jennifer Wilde

  Billy brought us all the news from the village. He told us about the fight that had broken out on the square when some of the men working at Phoenix Hall came to town and tried to crash a dance the girls of Lockwood were giving. It had resulted in a brawl, and Billy had had a part in it, blacking several eyes and breaking one man’s nose. Roderick Mellory had witnessed it all, sitting in his carriage and laughing. He had spurred his men on, Billy said irately, and had made no effort to help when some of the older men had tried to break the fight up. Billy also told us all the latest rumors about the highwaymen. Several professional men from London had come to Lockwood to ask questions and interview anyone who might possibly know anything about the holdups. They were sure that the bandits were stationed in or around Lockwood.

  On Friday Nan and Billy went berry-picking. They came home with a huge bucket filled with juicy red dew berries, and Nan baked a cobbler. I noticed that her cheeks were rather flushed, and there was a secretive look about her eyes. She smiled coyly at Billy as he straddled his wooden chair. Billy’s hair was mussed, and he had a sheepish look in his eyes. Nan was finding her own kind of happiness, and I was happy for her. I thought about Greg Ingram and wondered if I, too, would ever have that look of bliss.

  I could tell that Greg Ingram was pleased when he saw me that Sunday. I was wearing an old dress of lilac colored silk, but Nan had adorned it with some fine black lace, and I thought it elegant and fashionable. My bonnet was purple velvet, with a broad black ribbon, and I carried a black string bag and a pair of black lace gloves. He stood for a moment just looking at me, his eyes reflecting his pleasure, and I was glad that I had taken such pains with my appearance. I told myself that this would be my first public appearance in Lockwood and that that was the reason I dressed with such care, but in my heart I knew that it was because I had wanted to see this look in his eyes.

  “You look very nice, Miss Todd,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I replied, highly complimented.

  It was a long drive to the church, but it seemed all too short. He talked about his experiences at the schoolhouse and all the pranks that the boys pulled. I loved the sound of his voice, so rich and well modulated. It was like a kind of music. Ever so often he would turn to me with a smile. He was evidently enjoying himself, and I wondered if he had driven many young women to church in his smart carriage.

  The countryside was lovely with the first touches of spring. Bright hard little jade green buds were on some of the trees and the grass was turning a rich emerald shade, scattered with white and yellow wildflowers. We passed Phoenix Hall, and I was surprised to see that the workmen were busy at their repairs even on Sunday. I made no comment about it, but it struck me as strange. Roderick Mellory seemed to flaunt all the conventions.

  Greg helped me out of the carriage in front of the church. We went into the church slowly, his arm linked in mine. I saw heads turn as we came in, but the people did not stare openly. Greg nodded to many of them. I kept my eyes downcast, slightly intimidated by all the strangers. For the most part they were simple people, strong, silent men with lined, weathered faces that showed years of hard labor, women with eyes that had seen many privations. They were soberly dressed in brown and black, and I felt rather out of place in my lilac silk.

  The church was very plain, almost stark with whitewashed walls and a hard wood floor. The pews were of unfinished wood, rubbed smooth by hundreds of bodies, and there were no flowers about the plain wooden pulpit. The only touch of color was a small window of green and blue glass immediately behind the pulpit. It caused the whole front area to become illuminated with blue and green as the sun struck it. I sat quietly beside Greg, fingering the well worn hymnal and waiting for services to begin.

  There was a slight stir in the back of the building. I heard something peculiar, as though wood were knocking on wood, but I didn’t want to turn around. Then I saw the striking couple come down the aisle. The girl was very thin, dressed all in pink, her hair pale, almost silver. She held the arm of the tall, sensitive looking boy with brown hair. He was leaning heavily on her and on an elaborate cane for support. The cane knocked noisily as they proceeded on down the aisle and moved into the front pew.

  I had no doubt that this was Laurel Mellory and her brother Paul. At least they respected the Lord’s Day, I thought. I could not keep my eyes off them, and I continued to study them throughout the long, dull sermon delivered in a monotone by a somber, stern-faced preacher. There was no feeling of uplifting such as I had experienced every Sunday in my church in London. It was tedious and uninspiring until the congregation began to sing, and then I was moved almost to tears. These voices were not trained, nor were they particularly good, but they were rich with a sincerity that made them beautiful. Greg’s voice was powerful, and he sang loudly, with conviction. My own voice seemed weak and timid.

  After the services were over, we stood on the front steps and Greg introduced me to many of the people of Lockwood. They all seemed to be very fond of him, and he talked amiably about their interests, asking a woman about a sick child, speaking to a farmer about plowing. He was clearly quite popular, a polished, educated man who had established an immediate contact with the uncultivated villagers. I stood to one side as he carried on a conversation with the minister. I was a figure of interest to all the people, not only because I was Lucille’s niece, but also because I had been on the coach when it was held up.

  A group of men were talking loudly about the robbery. I heard them speaking of search parties and inquiries by the constable. The money had been intended as a government loan to the people of Lockwood. With it they would buy seed and farming tools and livestock. That it was coming on a passenger coach had supposedly been a secret, and there was much speculation as to how the highwaymen had known about this. Feeling was high, and for good reason. The men of Lockwood felt that one of their own had betrayed them by giving out the secret, or worse—one of them was the bandit.

  I kept watching the door, hoping to see the Mellorys again.

  I was soon rewarded. They came out in a few moments, the boy leaning on his sister. Laurel Mellory was pale, with shadows enveloping her dark blue eyes as though the lids had been stained with a light blue dye; her face had a sad, haunted look. She wasn’t a pretty woman, but there was a delicate, fragile quality about her that was striking.

  Paul Mellory had a sensitive face—marred only by the bitter curl of his mouth. His dark brown eyes, shadowy with thought, were clearly not the eyes of a happy man. He was handsome, with the broad shoulders and straight back of a soldier. It must be a terrible thing for one so young and so full of life to have to walk with a cane, supported by his sister, I thought. Yet, he carried himself with pride, even arrogance, and I wondered if he resembled his older brother. He turned his head sharply and caught me looking at him. For a moment our eyes met and held, and then he looked away, the curl of his lips even more pronounced.

  What lost, miserable people, I thought, living in the luxurious vastness of the great house and yet each trapped in a small world of private torment. Laurel Mellory had been a failure in London. She was an old maid already, I thought, tall, thin, doing good works, lost to the world of romance. How many dreams must she have given up, how many bright plans must have vanished when she came back to the isolated manison to live with a dying mother and two brothers. Paul Mellory was even more tragic. He could never live a man’s life. His world must always be a narrow one. Books and music could never take the place of all the things that could never be his.

  A large black carriage drove up and a servant got out to help them inside. As the carriage drove away I could see Laurel’s pale, silvery blonde head against the cushion, and I could see Paul Mellory’s eyes. He was staring at me with something like hatred, and I felt very weak inside. He must think that I was looking at him because of his leg. He must think that I was rude. If only I could have spoken to him.

  The graveyard where my aunt was buried was in back of the church. Greg took
me there, his fingers wrapped tightly about my elbow as we walked around the building. A high rock fence enclosed the yard, and a huge, ancient oak tree with spreading limbs grew in one corner. The limbs spread over most of the yard, making it dark and shadowy. Tall grass grew between the graves, and the markers for the most part were very old, cracked and yellowed with age. It was damp and chilly, and I stood close beside Greg as he pointed out the grave of my aunt.

  “I wish I had known her well,” I said.

  “She would have liked you,” Greg replied.

  “Do you think so?”

  “How could she have helped it. You are everything that a young woman should be.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I think I am a qualified judge.”

  I looked into his eyes, wondering what he meant. I was not sure how I should take his remarks.

  “You were a success with the villagers,” he continued. “They do not show approval openly, but it’s there if you know where to look. I could tell how pleased they were with you.”

  “I felt out of place,” I said.

  “You will, for a while. And then you will feel that you belong. It is a wonderful feeling.”

  “Do you belong, Greg?” I asked.

  “To Lockwood? I suppose I do. I’ve been accepted. I have a role to fill, and I have a place, but no, I don’t really belong here. I belong somewhere else.”

  I thought his voice had a curious tone.

  “Where do you belong?” I asked.

  He smiled, and it was a strange smile. “I wish I knew,” he said. “Someday, perhaps, I’ll find out …”

  We left the graveyard and Greg took me to the schoolhouse to show me where he worked. It was closed up and locked for the weekend, all the boys sent home, but Greg had a key to the main door. He took me down a long hall and into the main classroom. I had an eerie feeling as I stood there looking at the twenty small wooden desks, each with its own ink pot. I recalled my own school days, and I thought there was something sad about this room. It smelled of chalk dust and ink, and it seemed to be still warm with the heat of young bodies. There was a bookcase crammed with old text books and stacks of paper, and a wooden podium faced the desks. The blackboard had Latin names written on it in large blocked letters.

  “Here is where I try to pound knowledge into young skulls,” Greg said, picking up the long wooden pointer and touching the blackboard with its tip. “Pretty impressive, aren’t I?”

  “Do you like teaching?” I inquired.

  “It will do until—until something better comes along,” he replied, smiling. “I like the boys. I enjoy working with them. They’re healthy young animals and must be treated as such. I enjoy taking them on swimming jaunts and teaching them cricket. I get along nicely with them most of the time.”

  “But you’re not happy?”

  “Not happy? Not unhappy. Maybe I want bigger things. Lockwood is the world to those people you saw at the church. It isn’t the world to me.” He smiled again, shaking his head at me. “But I don’t intend to bore you with the long list of my ambitions. I’ll save that for some more appropriate time.”

  On the ride back to Dower House, he talked lightly and pleasantly as though to make up for the moment of seriousness at the schoolhouse. He had given me a moment of insight into his character, and I saw many things about Greg Ingram that I had not seen before. He was restless, and while contented to make the best of things for the time being, he was not satisfied with his lot as a country school teacher. He was certainly qualified for something much better, and I wondered how he had come to this unlikely place. Perhaps there was a story behind it that I would learn after I got to know him better.

  We passed Phoenix Hall. Through the network of green leaves half-concealing it from the road, it looked like a child’s toy left on the lawn, so small was it from this distance. The sunlight struck the old brown gables and turrets with yellow lights. Men were still working on the wooden platform, handing long pieces of lumber back and forth, and a stone mason was repairing brick work at one end. Although he had not commented on it before, Greg frowned now, creasing his brows deeply.

  “Someday Rod will go too far,” he commented, more to himself than to me.

  “You know Roderick Mellory?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I go to Phoenix Hall quite often. Paul is my friend, and we study together some. We both have an interest in English history, and we both love music. He is quite an accomplished pianist. You saw him at church? What a tragedy.”

  “He seemed bitter.”

  “Wouldn’t that be natural? He’s moody, sometimes sullen, but that is only a front. In reality he’s extremely sensitive, introspective. I am very fond of him.”

  “Is he like his brother?”

  “Like Rod? Not at all. Roderick Mellory is the devil incarnate,” he said, his voice harsh. “He has one ambition, to make Phoenix Hall what it was in the past—one of the greatest estates in the country—and he will stop at nothing to see that that ambiion is fulfilled.”

  “He wants Dower House back,” I told Greg.

  “He has wanted it for a long time. You know about the law suit?”

  “Yes.”

  “That didn’t work. When your uncle died he offered your aunt much money if she would sell the place back to him. She laughed at him. It was her home, and Roderick Mellory had no rights to it.”

  “Why does he want it so badly?”

  “I suppose he hates the thought of strangers living on the estate, people he has no control over. It affects his sense of power. Everyone must bow to the authority of Roderick Mellory, and when he cannot make someone bow to this authority, it infuriates him. Lucille would not bow. Her obstinacy made him all the more determined. Has he approached you about selling?”

  “Only through my lawyer,” I said.

  “He will, rest assured of that.”

  “I am afraid Roderick Mellory will find someone else who will not bow,” I replied.

  We drove the rest of the way to Dower House in silence. Greg left me at the door, and I stood there a long time, thinking of all he had said. Peter came up to keep me company, and I stroked his head. I had learned a lot today. My curiosity about the Mellorys was all the more intense after seeing the boy and girl at church. I wondered if Roderick Mellory would really come to see me about selling the house. I did not know, but I knew that the Master of Phoenix Hall would be mistaken if he thought he could use his evil influence over me.

  V

  APRIL WAS ALMOST GONE. There was to be a traditional May Day fete in Lockwood on the first day of May, and Greg had asked me to go with him. He said it was a lusty, robust celebration, complete with beribboned May Poles, booths, contests, gypsy fortune-tellers, all the clash and color of country folks at play. I was looking forward to it with a great deal of anticipation. Greg had come to see me at Dower House several times, once bringing a volume of Tennyson’s poetry and reading the lovely lines aloud to me. Although I was coming to know him well, that sense of his dissatisfaction I had seen the first Sunday had not appeared again. I found him pleasant, witty and gallantly attentive. We had established a friendship which might develop into something deeper later on.

  It was a few days before May that I decided to take a long walk in the woods. The wild flowers had sprung up in profusion, and they were lovely. I brought my flower basket and scissors along, planning to bring back enough flowers to fill all the vases at the house. The morning was beautiful, the air clear and cool, the sky bright white with only a touch of blue, as though a single drop of ink had been dropped into water. It had rained at dawn, and everything was fresh from the spring shower. I was full of energy, ready to explore all the land around Dower House.

  I had never felt so young and alive. I had changed so much. My whole body felt different, as though I had been given new blood. The easy pace of country life, the fresh air, the freedom from all the stresses and worries of London life had done their part to make me a new woman. I even
dressed differently, having discarded the sober gray and brown dresses for new light colored ones Nan had made for me. I wore my hair differently, too, letting it flow in long silver brown tresses to my shoulders. My eyes sparkled, my skin glowed, I hardly recognized the girl who looked back at me in the mirror every morning. I wondered just how much the arrival of Greg Ingram into my life had done to bring about many of these changes.

  I walked over the new grass, beneath the trees. The trunks of the oaks were hard brown bark, peeling in places, and the pines and elms were studded with large drops of dark amber resin, the new sap virtually oozing out of the trees. I ran down a slope of jade green grass and almost fell in a clump of buttercups. I wore a dress of light blue with dark blue ribbons, and a dark blue ribbon dangled from the brim of my huge white straw sunbonnet. I felt like a colt let out to pasture.

  I rested at the spring, sitting on the bank beneath the heavy shade of the trees whose limbs met over the water, making a dark green canopy, alive with birds. The leaves rustled, and a few rays of sunlight filtered through to sparkle on the flowing water. I sat still and it was not long before a fawn came to drink. He moved silently, and he paused at the edge of the water to look around with brown velvet eyes. I saw his delicate limbs and his spotted fur. I moved, and he looked up at me, poised for flight, then continued to drink.

  My basket was half full of flowers as I penetrated deeper into the woods. It was dark and damp and full of the wonderful aromas of spring. I had no destination in mind, at least not consciously, yet when I got to the clearing at the edge of the woods and stared at Phoenix Hall, it seemed that I had intended to come here all along. I was directly behind the clumsily constructed shacks of the workmen, a dozen or so wooden huts thrown up any which way. Piles of lumber and stacks of brick littered the area, and there were bags of mortar, coils of rope, kegs of nails. I saw trash and debris and thought the place was rather like a small slum area in back of the mansion. I knew from Billy that the repairs would be completed soon and that the men would all go back to Devon soon after the first of May.