Lord of the Far Island

by Victoria Holt

  They'll come for me in the morning, I told myself.

  The great feather bed in the cozy room was warm, but I could not sleep very well and when I did doze it was inevitable that I should have the dream. This time it was vague and shadowy. Again I stood in the room which I just recognized by the red curtains, but as the objects, with which I had become familiar over the years—the rocking chair, the picture, the brick fireplace, the gate-legged table and the rest—began to take shape, I awoke.

  My feelings as I did so were not so much of apprehension, which was the usual reaction, as of excitement and a great desire to discover, as though I were at last on the verge of learning the meaning behind the mists of my dream. For a few seconds after waking I could not remember where I was and I got out of bed to stand at the window and gaze out to sea in the direction where I knew the Island to be. I realized that my dream had reflected my feelings to some extent, for I was indeed about to embark on a voyage of discovery.

  In the early morning the wind had risen again and the waves were now pounding on the shore. I was dismayed. Yesterday's white horses had not returned to their stables; in fact, more had come out to join them.

  I went down to breakfast. Mrs. Pengelly shook her head dolefully. "There be quite a sea on," she said. "There'll be no boat this morning."

  I ate her freshly baked bread hot from the oven so that the butter melted into it as I spread it, and drank hot coffee from a brown earthenware mug. The day stretched before me, and I said I would stroll out to look at the town.

  There was not a great deal of the town when one left the main street, just a few shops and houses and very little more. I noticed people looked at me curiously and supposed they were unused to visitors.

  The post office was the general store and I decided that I would go in and buy some stamps, for I had promised to let Esmeralda know at the earliest possible moment how I had fared on my journey.

  When I arrived on the Island I would write to her at length, giving her all those details which I knew she would relish, but that would be later and she would be longing to know something at once.

  The postmistress and her husband, who was serving at another counter, looked up when I walked in. I smiled and said good morning, to which they replied cautiously. While she was getting the stamps the postmistress, recognizing me as a stranger, asked if I was visiting here.

  "Yes," I replied, "although not on the mainland. I'm waiting for the sea to grow calm enough."

  "So you be going to the Islands then?"

  "Yes. My family have asked me to stay with them."

  "And you've never been there before!"

  "Actually I was born on the Far Island but I haven't been back since I was three."

  "You can't be. . ."

  "I'm Ellen Kellaway."

  She stared at me in astonishment. "Well now," she said at length. "That be something!"

  "You apparently know my family."

  "Everyone do know the Kellaways. There's been Kellaways on the Far Island for hundreds of years, 'tis said."

  "Mr. Jago Kellaway has invited me to stay. You know him, of course."

  "Well, he be the Lord of the Island, as they do say."

  I was aware that everyone in the shop was interested in me and it suddenly occurred to me that I had been talking too much and in a somewhat naive fashion, so I hastily paid for the stamps and went back to the inn, where I ate a cold luncheon of ham, cheese and fruit.

  The long afternoon had begun and the sea had not changed for the better. The clouds were as lowering as they had been the day before and the waves, edged with white froth which the wind sent high into the air, were thundering on the sands.

  I could not stay in, so I decided to walk again. I turned from the main street and went on towards the harbor. One or two little boats were tied up there. I read their names. Our Sally. Jennie. Gay Lass. Bold Adventurer. They danced on the water washing the quayside. I passed lobster pots, and a fisherman who was mending his nets looked at me curiously as I passed. I called a greeting. He mumbled a reply, and went on mending his nets. There was a big shed smelling of fish and in it was a great weighing machine. The fish market, I imagined, but silent and empty today. None of the little boats could go out. The gulls shrieked protestingly, it seemed, because of the lack of tidbits to which they would be accustomed when the catch came in.

  I left the coast and took a winding path through some woods thinking of all that I was trying to forget. I found it so hard to shut out of my mind for any length of time the memory of Philip's face creased in laughter, gently mocking, but always ready to protect me; and as frequently I saw Rollo's accusing eyes. It was deeply wounding to know that he suspected me of having driven Philip to his death.

  "Oh Philip," I said aloud, "I will never believe you did that. It is quite impossible; I know it is. But what happened?"

  And there I was as close to the tragedy as I had been on the morning Rollo had come to tell me it had happened.

  Because my thoughts had been far away in the past I had not noticed how deep into the woods I had penetrated and it occurred to me that I ought to retrace my steps and return to the inn, but I was in no great hurry to do this, as there was a lonely evening ahead of me.

  I must not get lost, however, so I did turn and, as I thought, went back the way I had come, expecting I should shortly arrive at the spot where the trees grew less closely together and glimpse the sea again. But I did not and very soon I had lost all sense of direction and realized with dismay that I was lost.

  I assured myself that I must eventually come out to the sea, but after I had walked for half an hour I was still in the woods. At last I came to a gate and hopefully opened it and passed through. Here the trees grew less thick and I thought that if I went on I might come to a house and ask the way.

  As I entered a clearing I heard the sound of horse's hoofs and a rider came into sight. It was a man on a gray horse and he hurriedly pulled up at the sight of me.

  "Can you help me?" I asked. "I'm lost."

  "You are in fact trespassing," he replied. "These woods are private because of the pheasants."

  "Oh dear, I am sorry. I was really trying to find my way out of them."

  "Where do you want to go?" he asked.

  "I'm staying at the Polcrag Inn."

  "You have come a long way."

  "Longer than I realized, I'm afraid."

  "The easiest way now is past the house. Actually that is even more private, but it's a shortcut."

  "Do you think the owner would mind?"

  "I'm sure he wouldn't," he said with a smile. "As a matter of fact, I don't and it's my house. I'm Michael Hydrock."

  "Then these are your woods. I must apologize."

  "Oh, strangers often stray in. It's so easy to slip into the private section. We should have more notices put up."

  "If you will kindly show me the way I should be grateful."

  "I will with pleasure."

  I took a step forward and as I did so tripped over an old beech trunk and fell sprawling onto the grass.

  He immediately sprang from his horse and helped me up. I noticed what a pleasant face he had, it was comforting to see that he looked really concerned.

  "Are you hurt?" he asked.

  "I don't think so." I stood up. Then I touched my ankle.

  "You can stand on it, I see. Can you walk?"

  "Yes. I think so."

  "It might be painful later. You certainly can't walk all the way back. I tell you what we'll do. We're close to the house. We'll go in and see how badly hurt you are and I could send you to the inn in a carriage."

  "This is too kind."

  "Not at all. I'll help you onto my horse and I can walk it back," he said.

  "That's quite unnecessary. I'm sure I can hobble."

  "You might do some harm if you did," he insisted quietly.

  "But I'm being such a nuisance. First I trespass and then you have to give up your horse for me."

  "It's
the least I can do," said the man.'

  He helped me onto his horse and, walking beside it, led it forward.

  There is one thing I shall never forget—my first glimpse of Hydrock Manor House. We had come out of the wood and there before us it stood—this gray stone dwelling with its embattled gatehouse and the pointed arch at the entrance, the spandrels of the doorway decorated with Gothic patterns. On the smoothest and greenest of lawns I believed I had ever seen strutted a gorgeous peacock, brilliant and disdainful, followed admiringly by his comparatively drab little mate.

  I experienced a deep sense of peace such as I had never known before. Places had always affected me deeply. For no reason I felt suddenly happy to be there in spite of the fact that I had hurt my ankle and was dependent on the kindness of a stranger.

  There was a gravel path cutting across the lawn to the archway and we went along this and through the arch into a courtyard. Here, too, the sense of deep peace prevailed. Little tufts of grass grew between the cobbles, onto which latticed windows looked out.

  The man called "Tom!" and helped me from his horse. Tom, obviously a groom, came hurrying out; he gave me a look as if surprised and took the horses.

  "Come this way," said my host, and led me through a door.

  We were in a hall—not large but beautifully proportioned, with a hammer-beam-type roof. The floor was paved in a mosaic design and there was a dais at one end and a minstrel gallery at the other.

  "I think," said Michael Hydrock, "that I'd better call my old housekeeper. She would know whether the ankle is badly hurt or not She's something of an authority on such matters. But first, do sit down."

  He pulled a bell rope and I heard a bell clanging through the house as I sat down gratefully on one of the wooden chairs, which must have dated back to the sixteenth century, and looked up at the fine tapestry on the walls.

  He followed my gaze. "It represents the events in the life of Bishop Trelawny, who is highly thought of here," he told me. "There you see him on his way to the Tower of London. And there you see the people of Cornwall marching. You probably know the old song. Most people do:

  "And shall they scorn Tre Pol and Pen And shall Trelawny die . . ."

  I finished:

  "Then twenty thousand Cornishmen Will know the reason why."

  "Ah," he said, "I see you do know it."

  "Very well. I was wondering how many stitches have gone into all that fine work. It is very beautiful."

  A manservant appeared. "Tell Mrs. Hocking to come here, please," said Michael Hydrock, and when the man had gone he explained: "Mrs. Hocking is my housekeeper. She has been with us all my life."

  Before I had time to reply Mrs. Hocking had joined us. She was in her late sixties, I imagined, and there was about her the air of the servant who has been with the family for so many years that she regards herself as a privileged person.

  Michael Hydrock explained to her what had happened and she knelt down and gently prodded my ankle. "Does that hurt?" she asked.

  "A little."

  "Stand up," she commanded. I did so. "Now step on it... put your whole weight on it." I did that too. "All right?" she asked, and I said I thought it was.

  " 'Tis only a slight sprain," she announced. "I'd rest it today. Like as not it will be all right by tomorrow."

  "I'll take you back to the inn in the carriage," said Michael Hydrock.

  "Oh, surely I can walk," I protested.

  Mrs. Hocking shook her head. " 'Twould be putting too much weight on it today."

  "I don't know how to thank you both," I said.

  "We're only too pleased to help, Miss... er ..."

  "Kellaway," I said. "I'm Ellen Kellaway."

  The silence was immediate. Then Michael Hydrock said: "You must be related to the Kellaways of the Island."

  "Yes. I'm on my way to them. I'm only staying at the Polcrag Inn until the weather permits me to cross."

  Mrs. Hocking had pressed her lips together and I fancied that the fact that I was Ellen Kellaway had not exactly endeared me to her. I wondered why.

  Michael Hydrock said: "I daresay you would like some tea. Mrs. Hocking, will you have it sent, please. We'll have it in the winter parlor. It won't be far for you to walk, Miss Kellaway."

  I said halfheartedly: "I shall be giving you so much trouble . . ." and waited for him to protest that this was not so and was in fact a pleasure, which of course he did with a certain Old World charm.

  Mrs. Hocking went away and he said: "Do you feel you can walk a little way?"

  "Easily. In fact, I think I'm really here under false pretenses. My ankle scarcely hurts at all."

  He took my arm and led me across the hall. We mounted a stone staircase which led to a room which was clearly the dining room. Here again there were beautiful tapestries on the walls and I noticed the big latticed windows at one end of the room through which I could see another courtyard. About six steps led from this room into the winter parlor, where I presumed the family took their meals when they were not a large company. In the center of the room was an oval gate-legged table on turned baluster legs and about it tapestry-covered chairs. It was an intimate room with one small window.

  "Do be seated," said Michael Hydrock. "How does the ankle feel after that little walk?"

  "I can hardly feel it, I'm sure it's nothing very much."

  I said I thought the house was delightful, which clearly pleased him. "I think so too," he said, "but it is my home and has been that of my family for about four hundred years."

  "It must be wonderful," I said, "to feel one belongs to such a place."

  "One accepts it as a matter of course, I'm afraid. I was born here and I suppose I shall die here. And so have the men of our family for generations. The women usually marry and go off somewhere else. But every stone of this place is familiar to me. It's small as these manor houses go, but to me it's just as it should be. You're not a countrywoman, Miss Kellaway?"

  "No, not really. Although we did spend several months of the summer in the country, I have always considered London to have been my home."

  The tea was brought by a young girl. Mrs. Hocking accompanied her.

  The tray with its Georgian silver teapot and kettle on a spirit lamp was set on the table, and there were little sugar cakes on a silver salver.

  "Shall I pour?" asked Mrs. Hocking, and I was aware of the look of cold disapproval she directed towards me.

  "Perhaps Miss Kellaway would like to," suggested Michael, and I immediately said I would.

  I was glad when the old woman had gone, taking the young serving girl with her, and as I poured out the tea I felt that I was having a delightful adventure. There was something very relaxing about this room which made me feel completely at ease and I was liking my rescuer more every moment. He was serious—perhaps I was comparing him with Philip—yet warm and friendly; and suddenly I was talking—perhaps too freely—of my life in London and before I realized it I was explaining that I had been on the point of marriage and that my fiance had died.

  "What a terrible tragedy!" said Michael Hydrock.

  I wondered whether he had heard the story. Heaven knew, it had been publicized enough. I realized that Michael Hydrock was the sort of man whose good manners would insist on his betraying no curiosity about such a delicate matter, at the same time not allowing him to mention the fact that he knew the story already, in case it should distress me.

  "So," I went on, "when my relations wrote to me and asked me to come and visit them, I came. It's to be an indefinite visit. I thought that to be in fresh surroundings would help me to plan what I was going to do."

  "It was wise," said Michael.

  "As a matter of fact I didn't know I had this family until a few weeks ago." I told him about life with Cousin Agatha and Esmeralda. Looking back I found it all seemed rather humorous, as so many things do which are rather grim to live through.

  "Yes, I'm longing to meet my relations," I added. "They seem to be very well known here
abouts."

  "Everyone in the neighborhood knows Jago Kellaway."

  "What sort of a man is he?"

  Michael Hydrock smiled. "It's hard to describe him because there can't be another person in the world like him."

  "I suppose I must wait until I see him. Do you often go to the Island and do they come here?"

  "I do know some members of the household," said Michael gravely.

  I could see there was a hint in his manner which meant that he hoped I would not carry that inquiry further.

  He told me about the countryside then, of the places to visit and the customs of the people. On feast days and holidays there was usually a wrestling match and the prize would be a fine hat made and presented by the town hatter or a buff waistcoat supplied by the tailor. There would be running matches and prizes for cooking for the women, for which they could win a holland shift or some such garment. There were dancing, throwing the hammer and indulging in all kinds of sport.

  In May there was the furry dance—a welcome to the summer—which the gentry danced at midday—the children at ten-thirty and the servants later in the day; then there were the hurling matches, which were almost as popular as the wrestling. But Midsummer was the greatest feast of all. "It is the worship of the sun," said Michael Hydrock. "It has come down to us from pre-Christian days. You should see the people dancing round the fires. It's supposed to be a precaution against witchcraft. In the old pagan days they used to throw a living thing into the fire as a talisman against the evil eye. In some places now they throw in floral hoops and herbs, flowers of all kinds. Some of the old superstitions still prevail.

  And of course there are the midnight bonfires. You should see them springing up all over the moors."

  It was all very interesting but finally it occurred to me that I was staying too long. So I thanked him for the hospitality and said I must be on my way. It had been such an enjoyable afternoon and I was glad I had been lost in the wood.