I waited two days before I tried to see Rolf. I could not imagine what I should say to him if we came face to face. I had always felt there was a special understanding between us—but that was over now. I blamed him more than I did people like Mrs. Penlock. They were ignorant. He was not. He was clever; he had incited the people to behave as they did. Why? Perhaps he wanted to experiment. He wanted to see how close people of today were to their ancestors. He wanted to discover how far a modern mob would go in its savagery. I had always understood his desire for learning; but this was sheer callousness.
I could never forget it and whenever I saw him I would remember him in the midst of that crowd … urging them on.
But I had to talk to him. I rode without Jacco to Dorey Manor.
How grand it was becoming! It lacked the antiquity of Cador but it had stood there for three hundred years—just a Manor House, but the woods were now extensive and my father had said they must have almost as many pheasants as we had at Cador.
But I was not interested in these matters at the moment.
I rode into the stables and left my horse with the groom as I always did. Then I went to the house. I pulled the bell at the side of the iron-studded door and a maid appeared.
“Oh good afternoon, Miss Annora. I’ll tell the master you are here.”
I went into the hall with its linen-fold panelling so beautifully restored. Shortly afterwards I was mounting the wooden staircase decorated with Tudor roses of which Rolf was so proud. I was ushered into the drawing room and Mr. Hanson came forward to greet me.
“My dear Annora, this is a pleasure. Have you come to have a cup of tea with me?”
“That would be nice, thank you.”
He turned to the maid who had brought me up. “We’ll have some tea please, Annie,” he said. Then: “There, my dear. Sit down. When are your parents coming home?”
“Very soon now.”
“It was very sad about your grandpapa. But it was expected. I daresay you’re missing them. I shall want to be asked over to hear how things are in that corner of England—and I don’t doubt your parents stayed in London for a while, so they should be well informed of the latest news.”
“Yes, they would of course have a little time there.”
“You’re wondering where Rolf is. I guessed you came to see him, eh?”
“Oh, Mr. Hanson …”
“Don’t apologise. I understand. I know you like to talk to Rolf … and so does your brother. He’s well, I hope.”
I said Jacco was very well.
“A sad thing about that old woman.”
“Oh yes … on Midsummer’s Eve. Is … Rolf out?”
“That is what I’m getting to. He’s away, my dear. He’ll be away at least another week.”
“He went away then?”
“Yes. Staying with a friend who’s going to the University with him. They’re going to study something … ancient documents or something. You know the sort of thing.”
“Oh … I see.”
I felt bewildered and while Mr. Hanson went on talking about something—I forget what, for I was not paying much attention—the tea came in.
I had to spend nearly an hour with him, and all the time I was thinking of Rolf. He must be ashamed of the part he had played on that terrible night and like everyone else connected with it was trying to pretend it had never happened.
We gave ourselves wholeheartedly to the task of keeping Digory hidden. Jacco did not mention the figure in the robe whom we had seen that night. Some of them did wear fancy dress on the night of the bonfire, bringing out old smocks and hats which their grandfathers had worn. I remembered that the robe had been mentioned in his presence, but Jacco was the type to forget things like that, particularly if he was interested in something else at the time. I was glad he did not refer to it and I was certainly not going to bring the matter up.
Then my parents came home.
I had never seen my mother so sad. She had loved her father dearly.
We had to choose the right moment to speak to our parents and the opportunity did not come until after dinner.
I thought the meal would never end. There was a great deal of talk about Eversleigh and the family there. They had wanted to bring my grandmother back with them but she had said that she felt too distraught for travel just yet. We must all be together soon.
“So we shall be going to Eversleigh,” I said.
“It’s such a long journey for her to come here,” my mother pointed out. “Perhaps we could meet in London. It would do your grandmother good to get away for a while, I am sure.”
We kept talking about Grandfather Dickon and what a wonderful man he had been and how strange it would be without him.
My father said: “That was a terrible thing about the fire.”
“That poor woman,” said my mother.
“And the boy too,” added my father.
There was silence. Jacco looked at me warningly. There were servants about, he implied. As if I would have forgotten the need for secrecy even now.
As we rose from the table, I said: “We want to speak to you … Jacco and I.”
“Somewhere quiet,” said Jacco.
“Am I included?” asked our mother.
“Of course,” replied Jacco.
“Something troubling you?” My father spoke anxiously. “Come into my study at once.”
So we told them how we had gone out, how the cat had been thrown into the fire and how the mob had gone into the woods. I did not mention Rolf.
“Oh, my God,” said my mother. “They are savages.”
“Go on,” said my father.
“When they threw her into the river,” said Jacco, “the boy ran out.”
“No one saw him but us,” I added.
“He was hiding close to us,” went on Jacco. “They threw the torches at the roof and she … walked into the fire. I took him up on my horse and I brought him away. We escaped.”
“Good boy. You did well. What happened to him?”
“We kept him in the Dogs’ Home. He’s been there all this time.”
“I took him food from the pantry,” I added.
My father put an arm round us both and there were tears in my mother’s eyes as she looked at us.
“I’m proud of you,” said my father. “Proud of you both. We’ll bring the boy out now.”
I looked at him fearfully. “You’ve no idea what the people can be like. Nobody could know who hadn’t seen them. They’re not like the people we know generally … They were mad … wicked … cruel. They might harm Digory.”
“They will not,” said my father. “They will know they have to answer to me.”
“What will happen to Digory?” I asked.
“He’ll work for us. He will be under our roof … under my care.”
An immense relief swept over me.
I knew that my father would know what to do.
We went at once to the Dogs’ Home. When Digory saw my father he made as though to run but Jacco caught him and said: “It’s all right. He’s one of us.”
I saw my father’s lips turn up at the corners at that and he said in a wonderfully gentle voice: “He’s right, my boy. Everything will be all right now. You’re going to live here … work for me, and I look after people who do that.”
Digory was silent. He had changed a little from that boy whom we had at first brought here, but the hunted look remained in his eyes. He was suspicious of everyone except Jacco and me. I knew that he had gone into the woods at night and seen that burned-out cottage. I could well imagine his emotions at the sight. If I had grown up in that terrible night, so had he.
He had lost that impish bravado, that desire to show he was as good as—no, better than—the rest of us. There was in a way a sort of resignation, an acceptance of the tragedy of life; but I knew, too, that there was a burning resentment.
My father said: “First we’ll find a bed for you.”
“They’ll take m
e … like they did me granny. They threw her in the river. They tried to drown her. Then they burned her all up.”
“They will not dare,” said my father. “I shall make them understand that. Come to the house with me now.”
He was still reluctant, but Jacco took him by the arm and he trusted Jacco. I felt my spirits lift because of the trust he had in us.
We walked to the house and my father told Jacco to take Digory into the small room which led from the hall and to come out when he called to them.
Then he rang one of the bells and in a short time Isaacs appeared.
“Isaacs,” he said, “I want all the servants assembled in the hall.”
“Now, Sir Jake?”
“Immediately.”
“Very good, sir.”
I could almost feel the tremor which passed through the house. I was aware of running footsteps, whispering voices. In a very short time they were all present, forming two lines with Mrs. Penlock at the head of one and Isaacs at the other.
My father addressed them very seriously: “A wicked and most shameful event took place during my absence. Senseless savages murdered a defenseless old woman. Oh, I know that you are telling yourselves that the fire in the woods was an accident, but in your hearts you know it was not so. It is hard to believe that anyone today, people we meet in our everyday life, who before this had seemed ordinary decent folk, could be guilty of such a crime. I am not asking you to come forward and confess your guilt—if any of you are guilty you will know that and have to live with your consciences—but let me tell you this: there will be no more savagery on these lands, for the simple reason that anyone who is caught performing these evil deeds will no longer be on this land. On Midsummer’s Eve an old woman was sent to her death. She had a grandson living with her. Providentially that boy was saved from a mob of hooligans. He has been deprived of his home and his guardian and he is now under my care. He will work here; he will live among us. He has suffered a great deal and we shall remember that. If I hear of any persecution of this boy, it will be worse for those who are guilty of it. Jacco, come out now.”
Jacco came out, Digory with him.
There was a gasp through the hall, and I had never heard such silence.
My father laid a hand on Digory’s shoulder.
He went on. “This boy, Digory, is now a member of my household. I hope that is clear to you all.” He turned to John Ferry, the head groom. “Ferry,” he said. “You’ve got a spare room over the stables. The boy can use that until we decide what he is going to do here.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ferry.
“Take him now. He’ll no doubt need to learn a lot if he is going to work with the horses.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jacco said: “You can go with Ferry. He’ll do as my father says.”
Digory still did not speak. How different he was from that truculent boy I had met in the woods.
John Ferry said: “Come on, me lad.”
He grasped Digory by the shoulder and they went to the door, Digory still walking as though in a trance.
My father said: “Oh … Ferry?”
Ferry paused and turned. “Yes, sir?”
“Remember what I said.”
“Yes, sir. I will, sir.”
At a sign from my father the servants were dismissed.
“You two come into the drawing room and talk to your mother and me,” he said to us. “There’s a great deal I want to ask.”
So we went and we sat up late telling them all that had happened on that terrible night.
I felt happier than I had since it happened. It was wonderful to know that my father was there to take care of everything.
In the days that followed I thought that was the perfect solution in view of everything that had happened. Digory had a home; he was assured of good meals every day, and he had my father’s protection.
But, of course, there are no perfect solutions. Digory had lost his grandmother and he had taken a great pride in her and the fact that she was not only the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, but she was also a footling—she had been born feet first and that meant she had special powers. Moreover she claimed to be of a Pellar family—one of those whose ancestor had helped a stranded mermaid back to the sea and for such services had been blessed with special powers. A fearful disillusion had come to Digory and added to his misery, for her powers had proved useless against the mob, and she had been unable to take her revenge on them. His pride was shattered and his freedom lost.
He loved horses and would rather work with them than with anything else; but he was no longer free. He was at the beck and call of John Ferry, and although there was no persecution—for that had been most forcefully forbidden by my father—at the same time there was no friendliness either.
He was a wild spirit and if his granny was a Pellar, so was he.
He was morose and said little to the other stable boys; he did what he had to do grudgingly and his love was for the horses and never spilled over to his fellow human beings. Perhaps for Jacco and me he had a certain feeling. He did not forget that we had probably saved his life on that memorable night. Apart from us he appeared to have no friendly feeling for any others.
He was different; he was apart.
Moreover his presence was resented, although none dared show it. But resentment was there all the same. Nobody could really forget that he was the Witch’s Varmint.
Jacco and I had made him our protégé. We were fond of him because we believed we had saved his life, and every time I saw him I experienced a glow of satisfaction and pride because of this. And I was sure that Jacco felt the same. There is nothing which endears such a person to one so much as the knowledge that one has done that person a great service—and what greater service could there be than to save a life?
He never sought company. I fancied he lived in a little world of his own where he, the Pellar boy, was all-powerful. He had a deep-rooted pride in himself; he did not need other people—unlike the rest of us, who seemed to depend so much on one another.
He liked the Dogs’ Home. There was a little window in it. He broke it and climbed through. He made it his little sanctum, the place where he could be quite alone. When Jacco discovered the broken window he had it repaired and gave the key of the place to Digory. I think that key became his dearest possession.
He might have felt some gratitude towards Jacco and me but he had been too deeply wounded to trust anyone completely; he avoided us, and I believed that was because he hated to feel indebted to anyone; for just as we had that glow of satisfaction for having saved his life, his pride was hurt because he had been so dependent upon us.
Every day I waited for the return of Rolf. I longed for it and dreaded it. I wondered what I would say to him. I would demand to know how he could have behaved in such a way. Already I had begun to think that all that had happened on that memorable night was because of him. He was a natural leader and he had taken charge. He had goaded them on because he wanted to see if people of our century reacted in the same way as they had in an earlier one. At times I could not believe it of him and then I reminded myself that I had seen it happen.
He did not come back. Mr. Hanson came to dinner. He said Rolf was going straight to the University without coming home first. He doubted he would see him for some time.
Rolf had always had his absences. Mr. Hanson talked of his son as though he were a law unto himself. He spoke with such pride and affection. I wondered what he would think if he knew.
I was glad in a way that I did not have to see him. While I did not, I could pretend to myself that there was some explanation.
It was a sad summer. My mother tried hard to hide her unhappiness and she did to a certain extent outwardly; but I could sense how deeply she mourned her father.
The memory of what had happened on Midsummer’s Eve hung over us all. I did encounter some of the people who, I was sure, had been present in the woods and I could not believe that they were the
same who had taken part in that fearful atrocity. They had become as strangers to me … just as, I told myself, Rolf had.
Change had come from all sides and my life would never be the same again.
My father’s presence helped a lot. I went riding with him and he talked about what was going on in London.
“One day you’ll have to go up to London and have a season, Annora,” he said.
“Must I?”
“I suppose so. You have to see something of the world. You’ll have to find a husband. You’re not likely to have much choice here.”
“That’s a long time away.”
“Yes. But time passes quickly. Your Aunt Amaryllis will soon be busy with Helena.”
“Oh, Helena is a lot older than I.”
“Is it six years? It seems a good deal now but when you get older it will seem nearer.”
“I’d rather stay here.”
“See how you feel later on. Life here might seem a little restricting to a lively girl.”
“You like it here.”
“Don’t forget I’ve settled down. It’s a good place to settle down in. When you are young you want to go out into the world. It makes you appreciate this more.”
“What a life you’ve had.”
“Not many men in my position can boast of having been a prisoner of Mother England.” I saw the faraway look in his eyes which came when he referred to those years in Australia. “I’ll tell you what,” he went on. “One day you, your mother, Jacco and I will pay a visit to Australia. I have some land out there. Would you like to see where your father toiled in the years of his captivity?”
“We’d all go! Oh, that would be fun.”
“One day we will.”
We were riding when this conversation took place and then suddenly we turned a bend and Cador came into view. It always amazed me when seen from a distance for it was then that one appreciated its grandeur.
“It is magnificent,” I said.
“I’m glad you like it.”
“It looks so grand … so bold. As though it’s saying, ‘Come and take me if you can.’”
“That was what it was meant to say in the days of the marauding barons.”
“Nobody ever succeeded in taking it.”
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