The Master of Phoenix Hall

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Such a gown!” Nan cried. “Whoever is it from—”

  “Hush, Nan,” I said sharply.

  “You have a secret admirer. Someone very wealthy—” her eyes grew wide as she realized who must have sent the dress. “Mr. Mellory! He’s the one who sent it. Oh, Miss Angel—”

  “I must send the dress back,” I said.

  “Miss Angel, you can’t do that. Such a lovely thing—”

  I realized that she was right. I could not send the dress back to Roderick Mellory. That would give him too much satisfaction. He would be all too delighted to know that he had hit his mark. I would not let him know that. I began to lay the dress back in the box, folding the lace carefully and spreading the tissue paper over it. Roderick Mellory would never know my reactions to the dress. Quite simply, I would do nothing. I would not send the dress back, nor would I send a card to thank him. Silence was the only weapon I had against the man.

  The next night Nan and I sat up very late in the parlor. Tomorrow was May Day, and both of us were going to the May Fete. Greg had informed me that he was going to have to take all the boys from school to the affair, and I would be an additional chaperone. Nan was going with Billy Johnson, and both of us were sewing on the dresses we would wear for the occasion.

  One lamp burned on the low parlor table, and our chairs were drawn up on either side of it. We sat in a pool of warm yellow light, all our sewing things in our laps. It was a comfortable feeling to be surrounded by the silence and serenity of the house. The walls of the parlor were covered with old ivory paper with tendrils of dark green leaves, and the carpet was dark green, faded. The furniture was golden oak, simple and serviceable, and the lamp light shone dimly on the rows of books with their brown and gold leather bindings, I felt at ease, relaxed, having put aside my feelings about Roderick Mellory and now only looking forward to the pleasures of tomorrow and Greg Ingram’s company.

  Peter lay at my feet, curled up and drowsy, his sleek silver gray head resting on his front paws. Nan’s canary sat on his perch, silently pecking at his seed. Nan was sewing bright pink ruffles on the white and green striped dress she would wear to dazzle Billy Johnson and, no doubt, all the other local lads. It was very late and I was sleepy. I wanted to finish putting the stitches in my dress, however, and I sang a little song under my breath in order to keep awake.

  Peter leaped up with a start, bristling. Nan dropped the ruffles, her mouth opening in surprise. For a moment we said nothing, both of us so startled by the dog’s sudden action. Then we heard something outside the window, something moving. It sounded as though someone was in the garden directly in front of the parlor window. I turned off the lamp. I heard Nan give a little gasp as darkness engulfed the room.

  “What—what is it, Miss Angel?” she whispered hoarsely. “I don’t know, Nan. If anyone is there, I don’t want them looking in on us. Do—do you hear footsteps in the garden? Perhaps Peter had a bad dream—” I paused, listening. There was movement outside. I could not be sure what it was. Perhaps a cat, perhaps the wind blowing one of the tree limbs against the side of the house.

  I stepped across the dark room to the window, pushing back the curtain and peering outside. It was a beautiful night, the moon riding on a bank of dark black clouds. It went behind the clouds temporarily, and the garden became a patchwork of velvety black shadows, relieved by tiny pools of silver. The shadows moved, but it was windy and the tree limbs groaned and waved, throwing dark arms of shadow over the garden. I was not greatly alarmed. There could easily be a logical explanation for the noise, and Peter could have been dreaming.

  “Is anyone out there?” Nan whispered.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But that noise.”

  “It must have been the wind, Nan.”

  “Oh.”

  Peter threw his head back and began to howl. Nan clutched her hands together dramatically. I squinted my eyes, peering out at the maze of shadows, seeing the flagstone path shining in silver glow, surrounded by the dark tree trunks, all in shadow. I saw the dark form of the wheelbarrow I had left in the garden and beside it the lumpy half full bag of manure Billy had brought me to fertilize the flowerbeds with.

  Then I saw the dark form standing beside the oak tree. It was unmistakably human. I felt a cold chill creep over my body. Nan came up behind me, and she, too, peered out over my shoulder. We watched the man standing there, half leaning against the trunk of the tree. We could see that he was not very tall and had the stocky build of many of the local men. He held a large, flat object in his hand, but it was so dark that we could not tell what it was.

  “Miss Angel—”

  “Keep still, Nan. The doors and windows are all locked. He can’t get in.”

  “What is he doing out there?”

  “We’ll soon find out.”

  He moved away from the tree. There was a loud whirring noise of something flying through the air. I pulled Nan away from the window just as it shattered with a splintering explosion of sound. Pieces of glass fell to the floor and something large rolled across the carpet. We heard noisy footsteps as the man ran away. Nan was near hysterics and I gripped her hand tightly. The sound of footsteps died away. It was silent but for Peter’s whimpering. He pawed at my feet.

  I turned on the lamp. There was a large rock in the middle of the floor, a piece of paper tied to it clumsily with some string. I picked up the rock and opened the note with trembling fingers. It was scrawled in large, half-formed letters, as though written by a child or someone who was not accustomed to pencil and paper. The message, however, was clear: LEAVE DOWER HOUSE AT ONCE. LEAVE BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE. I gave the note to Nan, and she drew in her breath, staring at me with large, frightened eyes.

  “It’s a prank, Nan,” I said, “merely a silly prank.”

  “But—who sent it?”

  I knew very well who had sent it. Roderick Mellory had tried to buy Dower House, and he had failed. He had talked with me, and he had seen that he could not persuade me to sell. He had failed there, too. I remembered the words that seemed to have contained a half-veiled threat when he mentioned my being alone at Dower House. Now I knew that the threat had been real. He could not buy Dower House and he could not persuade me to give it up, so now he was going to try and frighten me away. I smiled bitterly, my cheeks flushed with anger. Dower House belonged to me. It was mine and I loved it. Roderick Mellory was not going to frighten me into leaving it. He would fail in that as well. I was as stubborn as he was, and I did not frighten easily.

  VI

  THE AIR RANG with shouts of laughter and all the bright noise and confusion of a whole countryside at holiday. This was the one day when all chores were forgotten, when frets and worries were put aside. The green lawns on the outskirts of Lockwood were crowded with people of all ages, all of them intent on having a lighthearted, lusty time. Inhibitions were lost, and a permissive attitude guided everyone. Although not nearly so debauched as in the old days, these celebrations derived from the ancient Celtic Priapean ceremonies and the gaily adorned Maypoles still carried that significance. Maids with rosy cheeks were pursued by lads with sun-browned faces, while indulged parents looked on with good-natured smiles.

  “They’ll all be stone sober and taciturn again tomorrow,” Greg said as we walked down the slope towards the river, “but today anything goes in Lockwood.”

  “It seems so contradictory,” I remarked.

  “They must let loose once in a while,” he replied. “May Day gives everyone a chance to release pent up energies once a year: It gets very robust later on, particularly after the wine takes effect. You’ll see fights and brawls; they’re as much a part of May Day as the wrestling matches among the boys and girls, and everyone enjoys them.”

  He grinned. “Are you shocked, Angela?”

  “Not particularly,” I said.

  “Queen Victoria wouldn’t approve, but these Cornwall folks have a way of life all their own. Nothing straitlaced on May Day.”

>   “So it would seem,” I retorted.

  There was a crowd of people down by the river, many of the men with goat skins swollen with wine. Accompanied by gales of laughter, they tipped their heads back and squirted the wine into their open mouths. Women in bright skirts and shawls watched over the children who eagerly waited to ride in the canoes that bobbed on the surface of the water. There was a group of young boys, all dressed identically in brown pants and little brown jackets, large black silk bows tied at their necks. They were accompanied by a sober-faced, middle-aged man who looked about disapprovingly. This was Greg’s associate at the school, Mr. Stephenson, and he seemed to be having a difficult time restraining the boys.

  “I must take them for a canoe ride,” Greg said. “I promised. Will you come along?”

  I shook my head. “You go on, Greg. I’ll wander around and amuse myself. You’ll find me near the carousel.”

  “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  I watched as Greg helped herd the boys into three canoes. They were bubbling with excitement and making so much racket that Mr. Stephenson’s voice, giving stern directions, was lost in the confusion. One canoe almost tipped over. I was happy to see how delighted the boys were to be with Greg. He joked with them, and they seemed to find him a jolly companion.

  I strolled on up to the main area. There were countless booths, all of them offering various wares. One could buy hot bread, pies, sausages, ribbons, lace, fine carved wood. There were pens of squealing pigs and coops of chickens. A lonely old woman in black sat before gilt cages of green and yellow parakeets. A man with a flushed face sold smoked fish yelling of their excellent quality to all who passed by his stall. There was a faded orange and pink striped tent where an old gypsy woman in blue scarves and tarnished gold beads was telling fortunes. Three tired, forlorn looking donkeys were tied outside the tent, their backs laden with carpets and old pots and pans. Nan had rushed directly to this tent, a protesting Billy Johnson dragging along with her.

  People yelled greetings, small children darted underfoot, delighting in their day of freedom. But the young men and women of Lockwood dominated the scene. The strong country lads in their best homespun shirts stood together in loud groups, slapping one another on the back and laughing as they eyed the girls, healthy, husky creatures who reminded me of a group of overgrown schoolboys. They seemed to be bursting with energy, eager for the Maypole dance when the girls would choose their partners. By some mutual agreement the boys and girls stayed apart now, sizing each other up and waiting for the dance, when pandemonium would break out. The girls laughed coyly and flitted past the males, swishing their skirts and tossing flaxen blonde curls. They were as eager as the men, longing to feel those strong arms about their waists and to cavort off to secluded spots. The air was electric with all these ready-to-burst emotions.

  I purchased a glass of lemonade and found a seat beneath an oak tree. The limbs spread layers of thick purple shade over the grass, the boughs hanging low. It was cool here, and not nearly so noisy as it was a little distance away from the main activity. I could sit here and wait for Greg and watch the bright interplay of color without being a part of it. I watched the carousel as it whirled around, the painted horses bobbing up and down with flushed children holding the reins. Two large Maypoles stood on a brightly green lawn, their long colored ribbons entwined with flowers. Each girl would take a ribbon and dance as the boys darted, in and out, the girls wrapping their ribbon around the boy they favored. A huge wooden dance floor was set up nearby. Colored lanterns would be put up at dusk and musicians would play as the couples danced.

  I was tired already. We had been here since noon and I had helped Greg with the boys. They were like a pack of noisy puppies, delightful to be with for a while but draining energy. Greg had bought them lollipops and lemonade, much to the disapproval of Mr. Stephenson, and we had taken them to inspect all the booths. I was glad that I could beg off the canoe ride and sit here alone for a little while. I had tried to do as the villagers and put aside all cares, but I could not shake off the intense anger and alarm I had felt upon reading the note, knowing as I did that Roderick Mellory had sent it. Nor could I forget the insult of the dress. Both things bothered me still, and I was irritated with myself for letting them put me in such a state.

  “Miss Todd, isn’t it?”

  I must have been lost in thought, for I had not heard anyone approaching the tree. Paul Mellory had come up from behind, wheeling his chair silently. He sat there gazing at me with melancholy brown eyes, a lock of brown hair fallen across his forehead. There was a green and blue plaid rug over his knees and a slender book of poetry in his lap. I did not know how long he might have been there contemplating me as I thought about his brother.

  “You—you startled me,” I said.

  “I have that ability,” he said bitterly. “Startling people, you know.” He looked down at his concealed legs, his thin lips grimacing. He was a handsome boy, perhaps a year or two older than I, but the bitter lines and the shadowy eyes were those of one much older.

  “It is Miss Angela Todd, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “I saw you at church Sunday. You saw me, too.”

  I blushed. I could feel the color staining my cheeks.

  “I did not intend to stare,” I said, remembering the hate-filled look he had given me as the Mellorys’ carriage drove away.

  “I am quite accustomed to having people stare,” he said, “which is one of the primary reasons I seldom go out. I’m here today only to indulge my sister. She thinks I should get out more, meet more people. Ordinarily, she is a very sensible young woman.”

  He spoke in a hard, sharp voice, enunciating each word as though it were hated. All the while he talked his dark brown eyes examined me as though I were an unusual specimen, a butterfly that he had impaled on a board.

  “The fresh air will do me good, she says,” Paul Mellory said. “I suppose it can’t hurt me.”

  “Is your sister here?”

  “Yes, Laurel wanted to come. She wants to buy some lace and some material—probably some bracelets and beads and ribbons, too. But she has so little opportunity to indulge in such foolish, feminine things.”

  “You consider such things foolish?” I asked.

  “I consider most of life foolish.”

  “Then I pity you,” I replied.

  “I am accustomed to pity, too.”

  “You’re not a very pleasant person, Mr. Mellory.”

  “Should I be”—he pointed to his legs—“with this?”

  “I’m sure you find it convenient.”

  “Convenient, Miss Todd?”

  “It gives you something to hide behind. Because you are crippled, you can sneer at people, and life, and justify yourself in doing so. It gives you an excuse for being so unpleasant.”

  “You’re quite the little thinker,” he said.

  “No, I just see what’s before my eyes.”

  He smiled bitterly, but the look in his dark brown eyes changed. There had been active dislike before, but now there was something almost like admiration. At least there was an active interest, whereas there had been only disdain previously. Perhaps in insulting the man I had touched some hidden spring, had drawn him out of his obsessive self-pity. The smile flickered on his lips and died.

  “You don’t find life intolerable?” he asked.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because it is.”

  “Not from where I stand, Mr. Mellory.”

  “I suppose you’re one of those active little do-gooders, like my sister, full of sunshine and always ready to find the bright side of things.”

  “That sounds loathsome,” I said, “and not like me at all. I am afraid I am primarily interested in Miss Angela Todd, although I find the rest of the world interesting, too.”

  He spread his hands out, encompassing the fair grounds and all the people thronging about it. “Look
at this,” he said, “you don’t find it a disgusting spectacle? Sober, hard working people throwing away money they don’t have, acting like children. And later on it becomes even worse. It’s like a primeval mating ceremony, those Maypoles, those young people dancing in the most scandalous manner.…” He fell into silence, contemplating this as though it was hard to conceive.

  I said nothing. I sensed the reason why Paul Mellory felt harshly about the May Day Fete. He could never dance and be caught up in a flower-garlanded ribbon, could never fling his arms about a slender waist and carry a young girl off to a secluded spot. He resented that others could do what he couldn’t. He moved suddenly and the book fell out of his lap. I picked it up. It was a copy of the Sonnets of Milton. I handed the book to him.

  “I find it hard to believe that you can be so bitter about life, Mr. Mellory, and still appreciate the poems of John Milton.”

  He stuck the book under his rug, as though he was ashamed of it. He glared at me with defiant eyes.

  “Poetry is something different,” he snapped.

  “Poetry is the breath of life.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I am not illiterate, Mr. Mellory.”

  “You like poetry?” he asked, as though it were inconceivable.

  “Very much. And music too. When I lived in London I went to all of the concerts I could afford, and to the theater.”

  “You are an unusual young woman, Miss Todd. Very unusual. I must confess I was curious about you. I saw you sitting under this tree and I came over solely to find out what kind of woman you were, what kind of woman it took to defy my brother.”

  “I take it he is not used to being defied?”

  “Not at all. When he offered such a nice sum to your lawyer, he was certain Dower House would be in the family again. He had no idea that he would be turned down. It bewildered him.”

  “Why does he want Dower House so desperately?” I asked.

  “It’s a fixed idea with him. Phoenix Hall must be maintained in the grand style of the past, and that cannot be done with a stranger living on the premises. Not many men have a purpose in life. Rod does, and he has devoted most of his adult life to it. It almost killed him to see Phoenix Hall slipping: money going out, none coming in, plaster falling in the halls, bricks crumbling, varnish peeling. My father was a wonderful man, but he was a poor manager. He was lax, and he was too kindhearted.”