Midsummer's Eve

The Witch in the Woods

I WAS NOT QUITE nine years old on that Midsummer’s Eve, but I shall never forget it because, after what happened on that memorable night, I ceased to be the innocent girl I had been up to that time.

My comfortable home, my easy life and my adored parents had given me no indication that such things could be. We lived amicably in what was more like a castle than a house. It had been the family home of the Cadorsons for generations. Cador meant “warrior” in the Cornish language, so our earliest ancestor must have been a great fighter. I could well believe that. The house stood on a cliff, so that from the windows we could look out on the sea. Built of grey stone, it looked forbidding. It was like a fortress. It probably had been at one time. There were two turrets and a path along the battlements from one to the other. It was known simply as Cador. My father was proud of it—my mother, too, although I sometimes thought she was a little nostalgic for her home on the other side of England—the south east corner. We were in the south west so when we visited my grandparents, or they came to us, it meant travelling the breadth of England.

When I was younger the grandparents used to come to us fairly often. Now we had to go to them for they were getting old, particularly Grandpapa Dickon.

Cador was situated about a quarter of a mile from the little town of West Poldorey, which was divided from East Poldorey by the river which cut through the wooded hills to flow into the sea. The two towns were connected by a bridge which had stood up to the weather for five hundred years and looked as if it would last as many more. Old men liked to congregate there and lean over the stone parapets contemplating life and the river. A great number of those men were fishermen and there were always boats lying in the little harbour.

I loved to be there when the fishing boats came in and to watch all the activity on the quay, which was always accompanied by the cry of the seagulls as they flew low watching for any of the fish which would be thrown back into the river.

The Cadors had for generations been lords of the manor whose unspoken duty it was to make sure of the prosperity of the two towns and the outlying neighbourhood. Consequently my brother and I were always treated with respect by the townsfolk. It was a very happy, cosy existence until I was brought face to face with another aspect of life on that Midsummer’s Eve.

There was a family house in London, too. We used to meet there for it was not so very far for the grandparents to come—though it was a long journey for us. I loved travelling. As we went along through the narrow winding lanes my father often told us stories about highwaymen who held up coaches and demanded money. My mother would cry: “Stop it, Jake. You’re frightening the children.” That was true; but like most children we enjoyed being frightened while we felt perfectly safe in the company of our parents.

I loved them both dearly. I was sure they were the best parents in the world; but I did have a special feeling for my father and I think he had for me. Jacco was my mother’s favourite—not so much because he was a boy but because she knew I was my father’s, and she felt it necessary to adjust the balance.

My father was one of the two most exciting men I knew. The other was Rolf Hanson. My father was very tall and dark; he had very bright sparkling eyes which gave the impression that he was amused by life, although he could be serious sometimes. He had had an adventurous life and often talked about it. He had lived with the gypsies at one time; he had killed a man and been sent to Australia as a punishment and stayed there for nine years. My mother was beautiful with dark eyes and hair. It was small wonder that I was dark-haired; but I had inherited Grandmother Lottie’s blue eyes which, as my mother said, turned up now and then in her family. I was on good terms with my brother Jacco though we had our differences now and then. Jacco was named after our father so he was Jake really. When he had been a baby he was known as Little Jake but it became confusing to have two Jakes in the family so he was called Jacco and that name stayed with him.

It was wonderful to live near the sea. On hot days Jacco and I would take off our shoes and stockings and paddle in the cove just below Cador. Sometimes we would get one of the fishermen to take us out and we went sailing out of the harbour and along the coast towards Plymouth Sound. Sometimes we caught shrimps and baby crabs and we hunted for semi-precious stones like topaz and amethyst along the shore. We often saw the poor people down on the beach collecting limpets which they used for some sort of dish, and perhaps buying the last of the fish which the fishermen had brought in and which had failed to find buyers among the more monied folk. I liked to go down with Isaacs our butler and listen to him bargaining for fish. He was a very stately gentleman and even Jacco was a little in awe of him. When Isaacs took the fish back to the house Mrs. Penlock, the cook, would examine it carefully and if it were not to her liking she would show her disapproval in her usual forceful manner. She was a very garrulous woman. Many times I heard her complain: “Is this the best you could do, Mr. Isaacs? My patience me, what am I expected to do with this? Couldn’t you find me some nice plaice or some sizable John Dorys?” Mr. Isaacs always had the power to subdue any of his staff. He would sternly retort, “It is God who decides what goes into the sea and what comes out of it, Mrs. Penlock.” That would silence her. She was very superstitious and afraid to question the matter when put like that.

It was at the quayside that I first noticed Digory. Lean, lively, his skin tanned to a deep brown by the weather, his black hair a mass of curls, his small dark eyes alert and cunning, his trousers ragged and his feet bare, he darted among the tubs and creels with the slippery ease of an eel and the cunning of a monkey.

He had sidled up to a tub of pilchards while fisherman Jack Gort was arguing with Isaacs about the price of hake and had his back to us. I gasped, for Digory had thrust his hand into the tub and picked up a handful of fish which, with a skill which must have come from long training, he slipped into a bag.

I opened my mouth to call Jack Gort’s attention to the theft but Digory was looking straight at me. He put his finger to his mouth as though commanding silence; and oddly enough I was silent. Then, almost mockingly, he took another handful of fish which went into the bag, conveniently there for this purpose. He grinned at me before he darted away from the quayside.

I was too astounded to speak, and when Jack Gort had finished his conference with Isaacs, I said nothing. I watched anxiously while Jack surveyed the tub but apparently he did not notice that some of his stock had vanished, for he said nothing.

I believe Digory thought that because I had witnessed his villainy and not reported it, I had more or less connived at it; and that gave us a special understanding.

Shortly afterwards when I was walking in the woods, I saw him again. He was lying on the bank throwing stones into the river.

“Hi there,” he said as I drew level with him.

I was about to walk haughtily past. That was not the way in which humble people spoke to our family and I thought he could not know who I was.

He seemed to read my thoughts for he said again: “Hi there, Cadorson girl.”

“So … you know me?”

“’Course I know ’ee. Everyone knows Cadorsons. Didn’t I see ’ee down at the fish market?”

“I saw you steal fish,” I said.

“Did ’ee and all.”

“Stealing is wrong. You’ll get punished for it.”

“I don’t,” he said. “I be smart.”

“Then wait till you get to Heaven. It’s all recorded.”

“I be too smart for ’em,” he repeated.

“Not for the angels.”

He looked surprised. He picked up a stone and threw it into the river.

“Bet ’ee can’t throw as far.”

For answer I showed him that I could, whereupon he picked up another stone and in a few seconds we were standing side by side throwing stones into the water.

He turned to me suddenly and said: “’Tweren’t stealing. All fish in the sea belongs to everybody. ’Tis anybody’s for the taking.”

“Then why don’t you go and fish for it like Jack Gort?”

“Why should I when he does it for me?”

“I think you’re a very wicked boy.”

He grinned at me. “Cos why?” he asked.

“Because you stole Jack Gort’s fish.”

“Telling on me?” he asked.

I hesitated and he came closer to me. “Don’t ’ee dare,” he said.

“What if I did?”

“Do you know my granny?”

I shook my head.

“She’d cast a spell on ’ee. Then you’d wither right away and die.”

“Who says so?”

He came closer to me, narrowed his eyes and said in a whisper: “Cos she’s a …”

“A what?”

He shook his head. “Not telling. You be careful or it’ll be the worse for ’ee, Cadorson girl.”

With that he leaped into the air, and catching a branch of a tree, he swung on it for a few seconds, looking more than ever like a clever monkey. Then he dropped to the ground and ran off.

I felt the impulse to run after him and it was irresistible. We came to the cottage which was almost hidden by the thick shrubs which grew all round it. I was not far behind him. I watched him run through the jungle of shrubs to the small dwelling with its cob walls and thatched roof. The door was open and a black cat sat on the doorstep.

The boy turned to look back. He stood in the doorway and I knew he was daring me to follow him. I hesitated. Then he grimaced and disappeared into the cottage.

The cat remained on the doorstep watching me and its green eyes seemed malevolent.

I turned and ran home as fast as I could.

I knew he was, in Mrs. Penlock’s words, “That varmint of Mother Ginny’s.” And I trembled with fear and amazement that I had stood on the threshold of Mother Ginny’s evil abode and had really been on the point of going in.

I thought about the boy a great deal and I began to learn something about him, although Mother Ginny and her Varmint were evidently not a subject to be discussed in front of the young. Often when I entered the kitchen the conversation stopped. It was usually about girls having babies when they shouldn’t or some misdemeanour which had been committed—and now, of course, Mother Ginny.

I knew that she lived in her lonely cottage in the woods with her cat and she had been quite alone until the coming of the Varmint, which had been only some months before. “That,” said Mrs. Penlock to the company seated at the table, which included most of the staff, for they were having their midmorning refreshment—hot sweet tea and oat biscuits, “was something to set the cat among the pigeons. Who would have thought of Mother Ginny having a family! You’d have thought she’d been begot by the Devil. That Varmint is said to be her grandson so she must have had a husband or at least a son or daughter. And now she has this boy … Digory.”

He had come to her by stealth, I discovered. One day he hadn’t been there and the next he was. The story went that he had been brought to his grandmother because he was now an orphan.

It was apparently not long before he had made his presence known. Even before I discovered him at the fish market people were aware of him—and watchful. “Such another as his Granny,” they said.

Now more than ever I wanted to hear about Mother Ginny and the place where she and her grandson lived.

I learned by degrees. It was a pity the servants knew that Mother Ginny was not a subject my parents would wish to be discussed before me. They were therefore wary; but Mother Ginny and her grandson were irresistible topics of conversation, and I had a habit of making myself unobtrusive. I would sit curled up in a corner of the kitchen—even sometimes pretending to be asleep—while I listened to the chatter; and if I could remain really quiet and manage to fade into the kitchen landscape I could glean a good deal.

Mrs. Penlock was a great talker. She ruled the kitchen with rigid conventionality; she knew the procedure for every occasion—her rights and everyone else’s rights; she was a great upholder of rights; she was determined that these should not be diminished or exceeded; and woe betide anyone who tried to prevent her from receiving her due.

She knew the habits of all the maids and I was sure they would find it very difficult to hide any transgression from her. She reckoned that she knew her place and she expected everyone else to know his or hers.

“Mother Ginny,” I heard her say, “oh, I wouldn’t like to get round the wrong side of that one. It would be more than your life was worth … and I mean that. You girls can laugh but witches is witches and no matter if they do give you something to get you out of your little bits of trouble … you’d be fools to get caught up with the likes of them. I’ve heard talk of folks as got real pisky-mazed cos they would wander in them woods after dark and go near Mother Ginny’s place. Wander round and round they do, not knowing where they be to and the piskies all out there … though you couldn’t see ’em … laughing at ’em … And not to be right again till that Mother Ginny have took off the spell. It ain’t no laughing matter, young ’Tilda. You go wandering out in them woods with Stableman John and you’ll see what happens to ’ee. Then you’ll be to Mother Ginny to see if she can give you something to help ’ee out. Wouldn’t catch me being caught with the likes of Mother Ginny … no matter what.”

So Mother Ginny was a witch. I gathered little bits of information about her. Her clients usually went to consult her after dark because what they wanted to ask her about was a secret between her and themselves. When the servants passed her cottage they would cross their fingers; and some of them carried garlic with them because that was said to have special powers against evil. Few would venture past the cottage after dark. And that boy Digory actually lived there!

He and Mother Ginny had become of great interest to me.

When I wanted to learn something I asked my father. He and I often went riding together. He was proud of my skill on a horse and I was constantly trying to impress him with my excellence. The manner in which he always treated me as an adult endeared him to me, for he always listened to what I had to say and gave me a sensible answer.

It was autumn, I remember, and the leaves were just beginning to turn bronze. Many of them had already fallen and made a rich carpet beneath us. There was a dampness in the air, and mist, although it was midmorning, touched the trees with a greyish blue which made them look very mysterious.

We came to the beaten track which led to Mother Ginny’s cottage and I said: “Papa, why are people afraid of Mother Ginny?”

He answered at once: “Because she is different from themselves. Many people would like us all to be made in the same mould. They fear what they do not understand.”

“Why don’t they understand Mother Ginny?”

“Because she dabbles in mysteries.”

“Do you know what they are?”

He shook his head.

“Are you afraid of her?”

He burst out laughing. “I am not one of those people who wish everyone to conform. I think variety makes life more interesting. Besides, I’m rather odd myself. Do you know anyone else who is like me?”

“No,” I said. “I certainly do not. There is only one of you. But that is different from being Mother Ginny.”

“Why?”

“Because you are rich and important.”

“Oh, there you have hit the nail right on the head. I can afford to be eccentric. I can do the strangest things and people dare not question.”

“They would be afraid to.”

“Because their well-being depends on me to some extent. That is why they respect me. They do not depend on Mother Ginny in that way but they think she has powers which come from the unknown and they are afraid of her.”

“It is a good thing to have people afraid of you.”

“If you are strong, perhaps. But the poor and the humble … they must beware.”

I continued to think of Mother Ginny. I was fascinated by everything connected with her—and that included Digory. I used to lie in wait for him and talk to him. We would sit on the banks of the river throwing stones into the water—a favourite occupation of his—listening to the plop as they dropped and seeing who could throw the farthest.

He asked me questions about the Big House, “That Cador” he called it. I described it in detail: the hall with its refectory table set with pewter plates and goblets; the coat of arms on the wall among the weaponry; helmets and halberds; the Elizabethan pole-arm, swords and shields; the drawing room with its tapestries depicting the Wars of the Roses; the fine linen-fold panelling; the punch room where the men took their punch and port wine; the chairs with their backs exquisitely embroidered in Queen Anne’s tatting; the room where King Charles had slept when he was fleeing from the Roundheads—a very special room this, which must never be altered. I told him how I used to climb onto the bed in which the King had lain listening for the approach of his enemies and wondering how long it would be before they hunted him out.

Digory would listen intently. He used to call out: “Go on. Go on. Tell me some more.”

And I would romance a little, making up stories of how the great Cador—the Warrior—had saved the King from capture; but reverence for the history learned from my governess, Miss Caster, made me add hastily: “But he was caught in the end.”

I told him about the solarium, the old kitchens and the chapel with its stone floor and squint through which the lepers used to look because, on account of their disease, they were not allowed to come in where ordinary folks were.

He was fascinated by the squint. I told him that there were two other peepholes in the house. These we called peeps. One of them looked down on the hall so that people could see who their visitors were without being seen themselves. This was in the solarium; the other was in another room. This looked down on the chapel. It was in an alcove where ladies could sit and enjoy the service from above on those occasions when there were guests in the house with whom it would be unseemly for them to mix.

In exchange he told me a little about his home which he was at pains to make me believe was more impressive than my own. In a way it was because it was so strangely mysterious. Cador was a magnificent house but there were many such houses in England; and according to Digory there were no cottages in the world like Mother Ginny’s.

Digory had a natural eloquence which even a lack of conventional education could not stem. He made me see the room which was like a cavern from another world. Jars and bottles stood on the shelves—all containing some mysterious brew. Drying herbs hung on the rafters; a fire always burned in the grate and it was like no other fire; the flames were blue and red and pictures formed in them. Battles were fought; the Devil himself appeared once with red eyes and a red coat and black horns in his head. By the fire sat the cat which was no ordinary cat; she had red eyes and when the firelight shone on them they were the colour of the Devil’s eyes, which showed she was one of his creatures. There was a black cauldron on the fire, always bubbling, and in the steam which rose from it spirits danced. Sometimes Digory could see the face of some inhabitant of the neighbourhood; and that meant something important. He was always discovering something fresh. There were two rooms in the cottage—one leading from the other. The one at the back was where he and his grandmother slept—she on the truckle bed with a red cover, and the black cat always slept at the foot of her bed. Digory’s place was on the talfat—a board placed immediately below the ceiling which I was able to visualize because I had seen it in some of the labourers’ cottages. There was a stone-paved yard at the back and in this was an outhouse in which Mother Ginny stored her concoctions—a source of income to her and which could cure anything from a cold in the head to a stone in the kidney. She was very clever; she could get babies for people who wanted them and get rid of them for people who didn’t want them. She was as clever as God.

“She couldn’t be a god,” I told him. “She would have to be a goddess. Of course she is rather ugly for one of them, but I suppose some of them might have been ugly. There were the Gorgons and Medusa. Fancy having snakes for hair. Can your grandmother make her hair into snakes?”

“Of course,” said Digory.

I was very over-awed and longed to see inside Mother Ginny’s cottage though I feared to.

The harvest had been bad that year. I heard my father talking very seriously to my mother about it. He said the farmers would be tightening their belts. Last year’s had not been too bad; but this one was really alarming.

Jacco and I used to ride round the estate with him quite frequently. He wanted us to show an interest in it.

“The most important thing for a landowner is to be proud of his estate,” he told us. “He has to care for it as he would for a person.”

He always listened with sympathy to what the tenants had to say. It was said that having had to “rough it” himself, he had a special understanding of their troubles, unlike some squires who had been accustomed to soft living all their lives. My father was much loved for this quality as well as respected.

Following on the bad summer came the hard winter. I awoke most mornings to see a frosty pattern on the windows; there was tobogganing down the hill and skating on the river. The gales were so strong that the fishermen could not go out. During most mornings people went down to the beach to collect driftwood. Fires were needed all through the day and night to keep the house reasonably warm.

We were all longing for the spring.

And what a pleasure it was when it came—at last to see the buds appearing on the trees and in due course to hear the first cuckoo. I remember a spring morning when I went riding with my father. It was a holiday so I was free from my desk and my father had suggested I go with him on his rounds.

We called at the Tregorrans’ farm and sat talking in the kitchen where Mrs. Tregorran brought forth a batch of currant buns from the oven and my father and I tasted one each and drank a glass of the Tregorran cider.

Mr. Tregorran was a somewhat morose man; his wife was melancholy too. So gloom pervaded the house. Mr. Tregorran talked with habitual pessimism of the effect the weather had had on crops and livestock. His mare Jemima was in foal. He hoped luck would not run against him and that she would bring forth a healthy animal, though he doubted this, due to the conditions of the last months.

“Poor Tregorran,” said my father as we rode away. “But he really enjoys bad luck so perhaps we should not pity him too much. Never look on the black side, Annora, or you can be sure fate will find a way of turning that side towards you. Now let’s call on the Cherrys and get the other side of the picture right away. I always like to do those two together.”

Mrs. Cherry, the mother of six, was once again pregnant. It was a perpetual state with her. As soon as she was delivered of one child, another was on the way. But in spite of her constant disability, Mrs. Cherry was perpetually cheerful; she had a loud booming laugh which seemed to accompany all her remarks—funny or not. Her body, made larger by her state, continually shook with merriment, for no one appreciated her mirth as wholeheartedly as she did herself. George Cherry, her husband, was a little man, not much above his wife’s shoulder, and he seemed to get smaller as her bulk increased. He walked in his wife’s shadow and his almost sycophantic titter never failed to follow her hearty laughter.

Soon after that visit two disasters struck the place.

Mrs. Cherry had milked the cows. “I always believe in keeping going till me times comes,” was a favourite saying of hers. “Never was one to believe in lying up too early like some.” So she kept to those farm duties which she could perform and halfway across the yard from the cowsheds she saw a riderless horse galloping past the house.

She went to the gate and out to the path. By that time the horse had turned back and was coming towards her. She saw it was the Tregorran mare which was in foal. She shouted, but she was too late to get out of its path and as it galloped past her she was knocked back into the hedge.

Her shouts had brought out the workmen.

She was, we were told, “in a state.” And that night her child was born dead.

Meanwhile Tregorran’s mare, attempting to leap over a fence, had broken a leg so it had to be destroyed.

The neighbourhood discussed the matter at length.

I went with my mother to call on Mrs. Cherry when she had recovered a little. It was about a week after the incident. Her fat face had lost most of its colour, leaving behind a network of tiny veins. She shook like a jelly when she talked; and for once did not seem to find life such a joke.

My mother sat by her bed and tried to cheer her.

“You’ll soon be well, Mrs. Cherry, and there’ll be another on the way.”

Mrs. Cherry shook her head. “I’d be that feared,” she said. “With the likes of some about us who knows what’ll happen next.”

My mother looked surprised.

“You see, me lady,” said Mrs. Cherry conspiratorially, “I knows just how it happened.”

“Yes, we all do,” replied my mother. “Tregorran’s mare went mad. They say it sometimes happens. Unfortunately there was the foal. Poor Tregorran.”

“’Tweren’t nothing to do with the horse, me lady. It was her. You know who.”

“No,” said my mother. “I don’t know who.”

“I was standing at the gate when she passed me. She said to me, ‘Your time won’t be long now.’ Well, I never did like to as much as speak to her, but I was civil-like and I said yes it was close now. Then she said to me, ‘I’ll give ’ee a little drink made of herbs and all that’s good from the earth. You’ll find it’ll give you an easy time, missus, and it’ll cost you so little you won’t notice it.’ I turned away. I wouldn’t take nothing from her. That was when it happened. She went off muttering, but not before she’d given me a look. Oh, it was a special sort of look, it were. I didn’t know then that it was for my baby.”

“You really don’t think Mother Ginny ill-wished you?”

“That I do and all, my lady. And not only me. I heard she had a bit of a back-and-forther with Jim Tregorran.”

“Oh no,” said my mother.

“’Tis so, me lady. I know she have cured some warts and such like but when there’s trouble around ’ee don’t have to look too far to see where it do come from.”

My mother was very disturbed.

As we walked home she said: “I hope they are not going to work up a case against Mother Ginny just because Tregorran’s mare ran amok and Mrs. Cherry stood in her path.”

My father was coming out of the house and with him was Mr. Hanson, our lawyer, and his son Rolf. I was delighted as I always was when Rolf came. I loved Rolf. He was so clever and he had a special way with me. I believe he liked me as much as I liked him. He never let me know that he considered me too young to be noticed. He was eight years older than I but was never superior about it as Jacco was, and Jacco was only two years older than I.

Rolf was very tall and towered over his father, who was rather portly. Rolf was not often in Poldorey because he was completing his education and was away for long periods. I thought he was very handsome, but I heard my mother say that although he was not good-looking he had an air of distinction. He was certainly good-looking in my eyes, but then everything about Rolf was perfect as far as I was concerned. His father was always telling us how clever he was and so, even on those occasions when he did not accompany his father, he was often discussed.

Rolf had travelled a good deal. He had done what they used to call the Grand Tour and he could talk fascinatingly about places like Rome, Paris, Venice and Florence. He loved art treasures and the costumes of long ago. He was always collecting something and he was passionately interested in the past.

I used to listen to him enraptured but I was not sure whether it was what he was telling me or just that I simply loved to be with Rolf.

When I was very young I told my mother that when I was grown up I should marry either Rolf or my father.

She had said very seriously: “I should settle for Rolf if I were you. There is a law against marrying fathers and in any case he already has a wife. But I’m sure he’ll be flattered by the suggestion. I’ll tell him.”

And after that I would think that I would without question marry Rolf.

As soon as he saw me he came to me and took both my hands. He always did that. Then he would stretch back, still holding them and looking at me to see how much I had grown since our last meeting. His smile was so warm and loving.

I cried: “Oh Rolf, it’s lovely to see you.” I added hastily: “And you too, Mr. Hanson.”

Mr. Hanson smiled benignly. Any appreciation for Rolf delighted him.

“How long are you here for?” I asked.

“Only a week or so,” Rolf told me.

I pouted. “You should come more often.”

“I’d like to. But I have to work, you know. But I’ll be back in June for a few weeks … round about Midsummer.”

“Would you believe it,” said Mr. Hanson admiringly, “he’s interested in land now. He’ll be trying to pick your brains, Sir Jake.”

“He’s welcome,” said my father. “How’s the Manor coming along?”

“Not bad … not bad at all.”

“Well, are you coming in?” said my mother. “You’ll stay to luncheon. Now, no excuses. We expect you to.” My mother smiled at me. “Don’t we, Annora?”

My attachment to Rolf always amused them.

“You must stay,” I said, looking at Rolf.

“That,” said Rolf, “is a royal command, and one which I personally am delighted to obey.”

My mother was still bursting with indignation about Mrs. Cherry’s remarks and mentioned what she had said.

“I hear,” said Mr. Hanson, “that Tregorran is talking freely about the woman’s ill-wishing his horse.”

“Superstitious nonsense,” said my father. “It will pass.”

“Let’s hope so,” added Rolf. “When things like this happen people work themselves up into a superstitious fever of excitement. Civilization drops from them. They blame the forces of evil for their misfortunes.”

“If Tregorran had looked after his mare properly she would not have been able to get out,” said my father. “And Mrs. Cherry should know by now that it is unwise to stand in the path of a bolting horse.”

“Exactly,” agreed Rolf. “They know they are in the wrong but knowing makes them all the more determined to blame someone else. And in this case it is the supernatural in the form of Mother Ginny.”

“I know,” said my mother, “but it does make me uneasy.”

“It’ll pass,” put in my father. “Witch hunting went out of fashion years ago. What about luncheon?”

Over the meal the subject of Mother Ginny came up again. Rolf was very knowledgeable on the subject.

“There was a period during the seventeenth century,” he told us, “when the fear of witchcraft was rife throughout the country. The diabolical witch finders sprang up everywhere … men whose task it was to go hunting for witches.”

“Horrible!” cried my mother. “Thank Heaven that is done with.”

“People haven’t changed much,” Rolf reminded her. “There is a trait in some human beings which leads to an obsession with persecution. Culture … civilized behaviour is with some just a veneer. It cracks very easily.”

“I am glad people are a little more enlightened now,” said my mother.

“A belief in witchcraft is hard to eradicate,” said Rolf. “It can be revived with an old crone like Mother Ginny living in that place in the woods.” He looked at his father. “I remember one of the Midsummer’s Eve bonfires a few years ago when they were leaping over the flame because they thought that gave them a protection against witches.”

“Yes, that’s so,” added my father. “I stopped it after someone nearly got burned to death.”

“It makes gruesome reading—what went on in the past,” said Rolf.

“He’s been interested in these old customs for a long time,” his father told us. “But I think more so since last year. Tell them about last year, Rolf?”

“I was at Stonehenge,” Rolf explained. “A fellow from my college lives nearby. I went with him. There was quite a ceremony. It was impressive and really eerie. I learned quite a lot about what they surmised was the secret of the stones. But of course it is all wrapped up in mystery. That is what makes it all the more fascinating.”

“He even had some sort of robe to wear,” said his father.

“Yes,” agreed Rolf. “A long greyish habit. I look a little like one of the Inquisitors in it. It is rather like a monk’s robe but the hood almost completely hides the face.”

I was listening enraptured as I always did to Rolf.

“I should love to see it,” I said.

“Well, come over tomorrow.”

“What about you, Jacco?” asked my mother. “You’ll want to see it too.”

Jacco said yes he would but he was going out with John Gort tomorrow. They were going for pilchards. John Gort said there was a glut and they’d fill the nets in a few hours.

“Well some other time for you, Jacco,” said Rolf.

“But I’ll come tomorrow,” I cried. “I can’t wait to see it.”

“I’ll look for you in the afternoon,” Rolf told me.

“You ought to come over, Sir Jake,” said Mr. Hanson. “I want you to see the new copse we’re planting.”

“So you are acquiring more and more land,” said my father. “I can see you will soon be rivalling Cador.”

“We have a long way to go before we do that,” said Rolf regretfully. “In any case we could never rival Cador. Cador is unique. Ours is just an Elizabethan Manor House.”

“It’s delightful,” my mother assured him. “It’s cosier than Cador.”

“They are not to be compared,” said Rolf with a smile. “Still we are very satisfied with our little place.”

“Oh it’s not so little,” said his father.

“How are you getting on with your pheasants?” asked mine.

“Very well. Luke Tregern is proving a good man.”

“You’re lucky to have found him.”

“Yes,” agreed the lawyer. “That was a stroke of luck. He has come from the Lizard way … looking for work. Rolf’s got an eye for people and he felt he was the right sort. Good-looking, well-spoken and above all keen to make good. He comes up with ideas for the land. You must remember, Sir Jake, we are novices at the game.”

“You’re doing very well all the same,” said my father.

Rolf was smiling at me.

“Tomorrow then?” he said.

The Hansons’ place was called Dorey Manor and was on the edge of the wood which bordered the river. They had bought it some ten years before when it had been in a state of dilapidation. The lawyer and his wife—Mrs. Hanson had been alive then—had set about restoring it in a leisurely way; it was when Rolf began to take an interest that developments proceeded at a rapid pace. Now they were constantly acquiring more land.

My father used to say jokingly: “Rolf Hanson wants to outdo Cador. He’s an ambitious young man and he’s attempting the impossible.”

“He is making the Manor and its lands into a sizable property,” added my mother.

There was not doubt that Rolf was proud of Dorey Manor. He was so interested in everything, and being with him made one interested too. I always felt more alive with Rolf than with anyone else.

He was waiting for me in the stables. He lifted me down from my horse, holding me for a few moments and looking up at me, smiling.

“You’re growing,” he said. “Every time I see you you are bigger than you were last time.”

“Do you think I am going to be a giantess?”

“Just a fine upstanding girl. Come on. I’m going to show you the copse first.”

“I long to see the robe.”

“I know. But waiting will make it more interesting. So … the copse first.”

Luke Tregern was working there.

“This is Luke Tregern,” Rolf said to me. “Luke, this is our neighbour, Miss Annora Cadorson.”

Luke Tregern bowed his head in greeting. He was tall, olive-skinned, dark-haired and handsome.

“Good day, Miss Cadorson,” he said.

“Good day,” I replied.

His dark eyes were fixed intently on me.

“There’s a healthy look about these trees, sir,” he said. “They’re taking well.”

“So I thought,” replied Rolf. “We’re just going to wander round and take a look.”

Rolf seemed to know a great deal about trees as he did about everything else.

He said: “I’m teasing you with all this talk of trees. You are longing to see the robe. What a patient girl you are.”

“No I’m not. I just like to be here with you. I really am enjoying the copse.”

He took my arm and we went towards the house. “I’ll tell you something,” he said. “You are the nicest little girl I ever knew.”

I was in a daze of happiness.

The house was small compared with Cador. It was built in the Tudor style—black-beamed with white plaster panels in between and each storey projecting beyond the one below. It was picturesque and charming with an old-fashioned garden where honeysuckle decorated the arches and the display of Tudor roses was magnificent especially when they were all in bloom, which they were almost till December.

“Come on in,” said Rolf.

We went into his library—a long room with linen-fold panelling and a moulded ceiling. The room was lined with books. I glanced at the subjects: law, archaeology; ancient religions, customs, witchcraft.

“Oh Rolf,” I cried, “how clever you are!”

He laughed and suddenly took my chin in his hands and looked into my face.

“Don’t have too high an opinion of me, Annora,” he said. “That could be very unwise.”

“Why should it be?”

“I might not be able to live up to it.”

“But of course you would,” I declared vehemently. “Tell me about that strange ceremony.”

“I’ve only just skimmed the surface of all these mysteries. I’m just interested in a dilettante way.”

I refused to believe he did not know a great deal. “Do let me see the robe,” I cried.

“Here it is.” He opened a drawer and took it out.

“Put it on,” I commanded.

He did. A shiver ran through me as he stood there. I could only describe his appearance as sinister. It was like a monk’s robe—greyish white. The hood was big. It came right over his head and he peered out through the narrow opening in the front. It was only when the hood fell back that his face could be seen.

“There is something frightening about it,” I said.

He pulled back the hood so that it fell right back, and I laughed with relief.

“That’s better. You look like yourself now. In that … with your face hidden you are like a different person.”

“Imagine the effect with several of us dressed like this. Midnight … and those historic stones all around us. Then you get the real atmosphere.”

I said: “It reminds me of the Inquisitors who tortured those they called heretics. Miss Caster and I have been ‘doing’ the Spanish Inquisition. It’s really frightening.”

“I think that is the object. These are not quite so bad as those with pointed tops with slits for eyes. They are really quite spine-chilling. I shall show you some pictures of them.”

“May I try it on?”

“It’s far too big for you. It is made for a tall man.”

“Nevertheless I want to.”

I put it on. It trailed to the floor. Rolf laughed at me.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” he said. “You’ve robbed it of its sinister quality. Annora, you’ll have to grow up.” He looked at me with a tender exasperation. “You’re taking such a long time to do it.”

“I’m taking just the same time as everyone else.”

He put his hands on my shoulders. “It seems a long time,” he said.

He took the robe from me and put it back in the drawer.

“Tell me about Stonehenge,” I said.

I sat at the table with him and he brought books from the shelves to show me. He talked glowingly about the gigantic stones in the midst of the barrows of the Bronze Age. I found it fascinating and it was wonderful to sit beside Rolf at the table while he talked.

That was a very happy afternoon.

There was a great deal of talk about the tragedies. The servants discussed them constantly. When I met Digory in the woods he seemed extremely proud.

“Did your granny kill Jemima and Mrs. Cherry’s baby?” I asked him.

He just pursed his lips and looked secretive.

“She can do anything,” he boasted.

“My father says people shouldn’t say such things.”

He just swung himself up onto a tree and sat there laughing at me. He put his two forefingers to the side of his head, pretending he had horns.

I could not stop thinking of poor Mrs. Cherry and the mare which had to be shot. I ran home as quickly as I could.

Talk went on about Mother Ginny and then it ceased to be the main topic of conversation and I forgot about it.

One morning when I went down to breakfast I knew something had happened. My parents were in deep conversation.

“I must go at once,” my mother was saying. “You do see that, Jake.”

“Yes, yes,” said my father.

“Even now I may not be in time. I know it’s hard for you to get away just now.”

“You don’t think I’d let you go alone.”

“I didn’t think so. But I ought to leave today.”

“Why not?”

“Oh Jake … thank you.”

I cried: “What’s happening? What are you talking about?”

“It’s your Grandfather Dickon,” my mother explained. “He’s very ill. They think …”

“You mean … he’s dying …”

My mother turned away. I knew she had been especially fond of her father, as I was of mine.

My father took my arm. “He’s very old, you know,” he said. “It had to come. The miracle is that he has lived so long. Your mother and I will be leaving today.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No. You and Jacco will stay behind. We have to get there without delay.”

“Well, we won’t delay you.”

“No,” he said firmly. “Your mother and I are going alone. We shall be back before you’ve had time to realize we have gone.”

I tried to persuade them to take me with them, but they were quite firm. They were going alone and later that day they left.

A few days after they had gone, the rain started—just a gentle shower at first and then it went on and on.

“Seems like there’s no stopping it,” said Mrs. Penlock. “It be like a curse on us, that it do. My kitchen garden be that sodden everything in it will be well nigh drowned.”

There were floods in the fields; the rain found the weak spots in cottage roofs. Every day there was some fresh tale of woe.

Then the rumours started.

“You know who be doing this, don’t ’ee, my dear.” A whispered word. A look. “It be her no less.”

Jenny Bordon’s warts which had been cured by Mother Ginny a year before came back. The Jennings’ baby caught the whooping cough and it spread like wildfire. Tom Cooper, doing a bit of thatching, fell off a ladder and broke his leg.

Something was wrong in the neighbourhood and the general idea was growing that we did not have to look far to discover the source of these misfortunes.

In the inns where the men sat over their pints of ale, among the women at their cottage doors or in their kitchens, the main topic of conversation was Mother Ginny.

Digory did not help matters. When Jenny Bordon—suffering from her new crop of warts—called after him “Witch’s Varmint,” he just stuck out his tongue and put his forefingers to his head in a gesture of which I knew he was very fond and declared he would put a spell on her.

“You can’t,” she called back. “You’re only the Varmint.”

“My Granny can,” was his retort.

Yes, agreed the people, so she could; and so she had. She had put an evil curse on them all.

I was aware of mounting tension. I spoke to Jacco about it but he was too full of his own affairs to give much thought to what I was saying. On the other hand I was beginning to experience a certain alarm because of all I overheard. One of the men said: “Something’s got to be done.”

I tried to discuss it with Miss Caster but she was uncommunicative, though even she must have been aware of the rising animosity against Mother Ginny. She did not believe in spells. She was far too educated for that, and she certainly thought the Wars of the Roses were more important than bad weather and the mishaps which had befallen the neighbourhood.

“They are getting so angry about it, Miss Caster,” I insisted. “They talk of nothing else.”

“These people have nothing better to think about. We have. Let us get back to the Temple gardens where the red and white roses were growing.”

“I wish my father were here. He would talk to them. I do wonder what is happening at Eversleigh. I wish they had taken me with them. I can’t understand why they wouldn’t.”

“Your parents know what is best,” was Miss Caster’s comment.

The weeks passed and there was no news from my parents. Grandfather was taking a long time to die. He must be very ill or they would come home.

June had arrived. The rain stopped and summer burst upon us. At first it was warmly welcomed but as we woke up each morning to a brilliant sun which showed itself all day, and the temperature soared into the eighties, there were more complaints from the farmers.

My father used to say: “Farmers are never content. Give them sun and they want rain, and when the rain comes they complain of the floods. You can’t please a farmer weatherwise.” So it was only natural that now they complained.

I enjoyed the heat. I liked to lie in the garden in a shady spot listening to the grasshoppers and the bees. That seemed to me utter contentment. Moreover Miss Caster was a little lethargic and never wanted to prolong lessons—a habit she had in cooler weather. I think Jacco rejoiced in the same state of affairs at the vicarage where Mr. Belling, the curate, attended to his scholastic education.

We rode together—galloping along the beach. We went out onto the moors where we would tether our horses and lie in the long grass looking down on the tin mine which was a source of income to so many people thereabouts. Our community consisted mostly of miners or fishermen and those farmers on the Cador estate.

So one long summer day passed into another and the sun seemed to shine more brightly every day.

People grew irritable.

“Get out of my kitchen, Miss Annora,” said Mrs. Penlock. “You be forever under my feet, that you do.” And I was never given a cake or a scone fresh from the oven as I’d been accustomed to. It was too hot for baking in any case.

I hated to be banished from the kitchen because there was more talk than ever at this time about Mother Ginny.

We were approaching Midsummer’s Eve. This was always a special occasion. Rolf, who had been away, returned from visiting one of his college friends in Bodmin who shared his interest in antiquity. He talked to me enthusiastically about some stones they had discovered on Bodmin Moor. I mentioned to him that there was a growing feeling in the community against Mother Ginny.

“It’s natural,” he said. “The Cornish are very superstitious. They cling to old customs more than is done in other parts of the country. It is probably the Celtic streak. The Celts are certainly different from the Anglo Saxons who inhabit the main part of our island.”

“I suppose I’m only part Celtic through my father.”

“And I pure Anglo Saxon if you can call such a mixture pure.”

I knew, of course, that Rolf’s parents had come to Cornwall when he was five years old. He had been born in the Midlands. But he knew a great deal more about the Cornish than they seemed to themselves; and perhaps he was able to study them more dispassionately because he was not really one of them.

There were fascinating talks about old customs. He told me how most cottagers even now crossed the firehook and prong on their hearths when they went out, which was supposed to keep evil spirits away during their absence, and how the miners left what they called a didjan—a piece of their lunch—for the knackers in the mines. The knackers were supposed to be the spirits of those who had crucified Christ. “Though how there could have been enough people at the Crucifixion to populate all the mines of Cornwall, I can’t imagine,” said Rolf. There were the black dogs and white hares which were supposed to appear at the mineheads when there was to be a disaster. No fisherman would mention a rabbit or hare when at sea; and if they saw a parson on their way to the boats they would turn back and not go to sea that day. If they had to mention church they could call it the Cleeta, which meant a bell house—to say the word “church” being unlucky.

“How do these things come about?” I asked.

“I suppose something unfortunate happens after they have seen dogs or hares or have met a parson when they were setting out for the boats. Then it becomes a superstition.”

“How very foolish.”

“People often are foolish,” he told me with a smile. “Of course there are a good many customs they practise which go back to pre-Christian days. Midsummer’s Eve activities for instance.”

“I know. Mrs. Penlock would say, ‘’Tas always been done and reckon it always will be.’”

I loved to listen when he talked of these Cornish customs.

For as long as I could remember we had always been taken by our parents to see the bonfire on the moors. My father would drive us out, and Jacco and I, with our parents, would watch the fires spring up, for if it was a clear night we could see them for miles along the coast.

For days before, the preparations would be made. Barrels were tarred and thrown onto the pile of wood and shavings, and a thrill of anticipation ran through the neighbourhood. There would be dancing, singing and general rejoicing.

Rolf had told me that it was said to be St. John’s Festival but it really had its origins in the old pagan days; and people practised the rites without knowing what the original intentions had been.

Dancing round the fire, he said, was a precaution against witchcraft; and it was something to do with fertility rites which people often practised in the old days. To leap through the fire and get one’s clothes singed meant that one was immune from the evil eye for a whole year, when, I presumed, the act must be performed again. There had been accidents and there had been one girl who had been badly burned. That was said to be a triumph for witchcraft; and it was after that when my father had said there was to be no more leaping over the flames.

It had always been a great treat for Jacco and me to stay up late and set out for the moors with our parents, my father driving the two big greys. I still remember the thrill when the torch was flung into the piled-up wood and the cry of triumph which went up as the flames burst forth.

We used to watch people dancing round the fire. No one attempted to leap over while we were there. I sometimes wondered whether they did when my father was no longer watching.

About half an hour after midnight we would drive home.

“I hope they’ll be home for Midsummer’s Eve,” I said to Jacco.

We had ridden out to the moors and were lying in the rough grass sheltered by a boulder.

He put on his bravado look. “If not we’ll go by ourselves. We can ride out.”

“What! At midnight!”

“Afraid?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why not?”

I realized that he had just thought of that and no doubt said it hastily; now his jaw was set and that indicated determination.

“We’re not supposed to,” I reminded him.

“Who said so?”

“Mama … Papa …”

“They’re not here to say. We haven’t been told not to.”

“No. Because nobody thought of it.”

“If you’re afraid to come I’ll go by myself.”

“If you go I’m going with you.”

He plucked a blade of grass and started to chew on it. I could see he was already making plans for Midsummer’s Eve.

Thinking of it brought Mother Ginny to mind. I said: “Jacco, do you believe Mother Ginny is a real witch?”

“I expect so.”

“Do you think she is ill-wishing people here?”

“She could be.”

“There was the mare and Mrs. Cherry’s baby and everything going wrong. I’d like to know.”

He agreed that he would too.

“They are all getting scared,” he said. “I heard Bob Gill telling young Jack Barker not to forget to leave a didjan for the knackers before he went down the mine. It’s Jack’s first week there and he looked really scared.”

“Rolf says they’re scared because theirs is a dangerous job. Like the fishermen. They never know when something awful will happen underground or when the sea will turn rough.”

Jacco was silent, still brooding on our coming adventure. “We’ll have to be careful,” he said. “You don’t want Miss Caster to interfere.”

I nodded. Then I said: “It’s time for tea.”

“Let’s go.”

We mounted our horses and left the moor behind us. As we came down to the harbour we were immediately aware that there was more than the usual activity.

People all seemed to be talking at once.

“What’s happened?” called Jacco.

I was always interested in the manner in which the people treated Jacco. He was only a boy—two years older than I was in fact—but he was the heir of Cador and would be the squire one day. They wavered between contempt for his youth and respect for the power which would one day be his.

Some of them looked away but Jeff Mills said to him: “There be trouble with one of the boats, Master Jacco.”

“What trouble?”

“Her started letting in water seemingly. They had to rescue her crew.”

“Are they all safe?”

“Aye. But boat be lost. This will be real bad luck for the Poldeans.”

“My father will be home soon.”

“Oh aye. Reckon he’ll see to it. That’s what I do tell Jim Poldean.”

Jacco turned to me. “Come on. There’s nothing we can do.”

“It’s odd,” I said. “We were talking about the dangers of the sea only a little while ago.”

“Just think. They’ve lost their boat. That’s their living.”

“But our father will help them to get a new one,” I said complacently. I was very proud of him and especially at times like this when I saw how much people relied on him.

We were late for tea which did not please Miss Caster or Mrs. Penlock.

“These lardy cakes should be eaten hot from the oven,” said Mrs. Penlock.

I explained that we were late because when we had come to the quay there were crowds there.

“That were a terrible thing for the Poldeans,” said Mrs. Penlock.

I looked at Jacco as though to say, Trust her to know all about it.

“And,” she went on, “we do know how it come about.”

“There must have been something wrong with the boat,” said Jacco. “The sea’s like a lake today.”

“Boat been tampered with most like.”

“How could that be?”

“Don’t ’ee ask me. There be ways and means. There be people who has powers … and not living very far from here neither. I could tell you something.”

“Oh yes, Mrs. Penlock, what?” I asked.

“Well … I did hear that when Jim Poldean was setting out, who should have been there watching him but Mother Ginny. She did shout something to him … something about Parson having caught a hare in the church.”

“Well,” I asked, “what of that?”

“My patience me! Don’t ’ee know nothing, Miss Annora? ’Tis terrible unlucky to talk of parsons, churches and wild animals to a man just putting out to sea. It’s something that never be done … if it can be helped.”

“But why?”

“There b’aint no whys and wherefores. ’Tis just so. If you have to mention the church, any fool knows ’tis to be called the Cleeta.”

I remembered something Rolf had told me about this not so long ago.

“It be clear as daylight,” went on Mrs. Penlock. “And this has to be stopped … stopped I say before we are all took sick or murdered in our beds.”

Jacco and I gave ourselves up to the succulent joy of lardy cakes, which no one could make quite like Mrs. Penlock.

“They’re gorgeous,” said Jacco.

“Should have been eaten ten minutes ago,” grumbled Mrs. Penlock, not ill-pleased.

Later that day there was a letter from my mother.

Grandfather Dickon had died. They were staying at Eversleigh for a week or so to comfort my grandmother and then they would return home. They were trying to persuade her to come back with them, but she did not seem to want to leave Eversleigh. Helena and Peterkin were there with Amaryllis—and of course Claudine and David. We should all be going for a visit soon.

Jacco and I were sad thinking of our grandfather. We had not seen a great deal of him, but when we had he had made a deep impression on us. He had been a very powerful figure and my mother had told us many stories about him. In her eyes he was a giant among men; he had rescued Grandmother Lottie from the mob during the French Revolution. We had all thought him superhuman and it was a shock to learn that he was not immortal after all.

They would not be home for Midsummer’s Eve. I guessed that Jacco was not altogether displeased by this as he was longing to put his plan into action.

The proposed adventure was absorbing his thoughts. I had to admit that I was looking forward to it, too.

On the night before Midsummer’s Eve, I was awakened suddenly in alarm.

Someone was in my room. I sat up.

“Sh!” said Jacco.

“Jacco, what are you doing here?”

He came to the side of my bed and whispered: “Something’s going on.”

“Where?”

He glanced towards Miss Caster’s room, which was next to mine, and put his fingers to his lips.

“I’m going to see. Want to come?”

“Where?” I repeated.

“Out. Listen. Can you hear?”

I strained my ears. Faintly, from some way off, I heard the sound of voices.

“If you want to come, get dressed. Riding things. We’re taking the horses. If you don’t, keep quiet. I’m going.”

“Of course I’m coming.”

“Come to the stables,” he said, “and whatever you do, don’t make a noise.”

He crept out, and trembling with excitement, I dressed. I had a premonition that something terrible was about to happen … but something which I must not miss.

He was waiting impatiently at the stables.

“Thought you were never coming.”

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know quite. Somewhere in the woods.”

I saddled my chestnut mare and we rode out.

I could see that Jacco was enjoying this. I followed him. We came to the river and went into the woods.

I said: “It’s near Mother Ginny’s cottage. Do you think … ?”

“It’s been blowing up for weeks,” he said. “Poldean’s boat has brought it to a head.”

We were making our way through the trees to the clearing. The woods had always been mysterious to me. It was only recently that I had been allowed to enter them alone. There had always been fears of our falling into the river, which was fairly wide at this spot where it was about to enter the sea.

I said: “What’s the time?”

“Just on midnight.”

I could now see the light of torches among the trees.

Jacco said: “Be careful. They mustn’t see us.”

We were close to the clearing now and the trees were thinning out. I could see a crowd of people; they were all dancing round a cart and in this cart was a figure. No, it couldn’t be! Mother Ginny!

I gasped.

“It’s not real,” whispered Jacco. “It’s a thing made to look like her.”

There were people I knew there but they looked different in the light of the torches.

“We’ve come just at the right moment,” said Jacco.

“What are they going to do?”

“Watch.”

They had lighted a bonfire in the middle of the clearing and were dancing round it. Then someone took the effigy from the cart and fixed it on the end of a pole.

I gasped in amazement as they dipped the pole into the flames. A cry went up. The figure was lifted high. Its clothes were alight. They chanted; they danced; they screamed. They seemed to be in a frenzy.

I felt sick. I did not want to see any more.

I turned to Jacco and said: “I want to go.”

“Oh, all right,” he replied, pretending to placate me, but I knew that he, too, was sickened by what he had seen.

We rode back cautiously, taking our horses to the stables and then creeping into the house.

Neither of us spoke.

I lay sleepless through the night.

Midsummer’s Eve! There had always been an aura of excitement on this day. Even the young children were allowed to sit up and were taken to the moors to see the lighting of the bonfires.

“’Tis something as has been done in these parts since the beginning of time,” said Mrs. Penlock, “and I see no reason why we should ever stop what’s been done by them as has gone before.”

Nobody else saw any reason why either. The usual excitement was there but something more besides. There was a feverish expectation in the kitchen and it mounted throughout the day. I could hardly wait for the evening to come and on the other hand I was filled with an inexplicable apprehension.

I was up early and went down to the harbour. I saw Betty Poldean there. There was a wild light in her eyes.

“Good day to ’ee, Miss Annora,” she said.

“Good day, Betty,” I replied. I hesitated. I wanted to say something about her father’s boat but I did not know how to. Instead I tried to comfort her with a reference to my parents’ return, which would be soon now. “My father will want to know all that has been happening while he has been away,” I added significantly.

“Oh … aye,” she said; but I could see her thoughts were on the coming night. She did not look so far ahead as my parents’ return.

Children were collecting wood and furse to take to the moors for the bonfire. But there would be plenty going on down here on the quay. Some of the fishermen were setting up tarred barrels on poles and they would be lighted and make an impressive sight all along the harbour. Children were being taken out for trips on the water.

“Hey there, Miss Annora,” called Thomas Lewis, “what about taking a pennorth of sea?”

It was an invitation to take a little trip with him. I declined with thanks and said I was going to see how the piles were building up on the moor.

I rode home thoughtfully. Miss Caster had not said anything about the evening and I was anxious that she should not. I was determined to go with Jacco to the moor that night and I did not want to disobey her unless it was absolutely necessary.

I was thankful for the heat, which she did not like at all; she was always ready, during these exhausting days, to retire to her bedroom at an early hour.

Jacco said we would meet just after eleven o’clock at the stables. There would be no one about, as almost everyone else—if they weren’t in bed—would be down at the harbour or on the moor.

I was there on time. The heat during the day had been great and the night was warm still. The sky was clear and there seemed to be more stars than usual for there was only a faint light from the waning moon’s slim crescent.

By the time we reached the moor it was a few minutes after midnight and the bonfires were already being lighted. I could see others springing up in the distance. It was a thrilling sight. Several of the people were there wearing costumes of an early age … clothes which they must have found in trunks and attics. Some of the farmers had old straw hats and smocks and leggings which must have belonged to their grandfathers. It was difficult to recognize some of them in the dim light. They seemed like different people. I saw Jack Gort with some sort of helmet on his head. He was tall and did not look so much like the man from whom we bought our fish on the quay as some marauding Viking. Several of the young men carried torches which they swung round their heads in a circular movement to indicate the movement of the sun in the heavens. The moors looked different; people looked different; the night had imbued them with a certain mysterious quality.

I saw several of the servants from Cador with Isaacs.

“Keep well back,” warned Jacco.

I obeyed, realizing that we must not be seen for if we were, we should probably be sent back.

I thought, as I watched that scene, that this was how it must have been centuries ago. The people who had danced round the bonfire must have looked a little different, but the ceremony was the same. They said nowadays that the purpose was to bring a blessing on the crops; in the old days it had been—so Rolf had told us—what was called a fertility rite which concerned all living things, including people, and when they had worked themselves up into a frenzy with their dancing, they crept off together to make love.

One of the women started chanting and the others joined in. It was a song which had come down through the ages. I could not understand the words, for they were in the Cornish language.

Then I saw a tall figure who stood out among all the others. He looked like a monk in the grey robe which enveloped him.

I knew that robe. Rolf! I thought.

People clustered round him. It was as though they were making him master of the ceremonies.

Up to that time it had been like many another Midsummer’s Eve which I had watched from my parents’ carriage—the only difference being that on this night Jacco and I were here alone and in secret. But I was sure that if my parents had thought of it they would have ordered one of the grooms to bring us here to see the bonfire.

And then suddenly it ceased to be like any other Midsummer’s Eve.

The robed figure moved apart from the crowd; he approached the bonfire, and clutching his robe about him, he leaped high in the air … right over the bonfire. There was a deep silence as the flames appeared to lick his robe. Then he was clear on the other side.

A shout went up: “Bravo! Bravo!”

“’Ee be free of the witches for a year,” cried someone.

“The fire didn’t touch ’un.”

“He did jump right clear.”

I saw one of the barmaids from the Fisherman’s Rest run up to the fire. She threw up her arms and attempted to leap over it.

I heard her scream as she fell into the flames.

Jack Gort was close by; he immediately dragged her out; her dress was on fire. I watched in shocked silence while they beat out the flames.

“How … crazy!” said Jacco.

“Papa forbade them to do it,” I said.

People crowded round the barmaid, who was lying on the grass.

“I wonder if she’s badly hurt,” I whispered.

“They’ll blame the witches,” said Jacco.

“But she did it herself.”

“That man started it. It wasn’t so risky for him. If that thing he is wearing had caught fire he could easily have thrown it off.”

The barmaid was now standing up and I was relieved to see that she was not badly hurt. I felt I wanted to go. I could not understand why Rolf—who knew my father had forbidden it—should have leaped over the fire. I did not want him to see us here.

“Better take her back to the Rest,” someone said. “Here … you, Jim. You take her. You and she is said to be sweethearts.”

“I think we ought to go,” I said quietly to Jacco. “There won’t be much dancing and singing.”

“Wait a bit.”

I saw the man they had called Jim put the barmaid on his horse. They moved away. Jack Gort had rescued her in time and she was more shocked than anything.

Someone started to sing but the others did not take it up. The mood had changed and I thought that would be the end of the revelries on that Midsummer’s Eve.

Then I saw a crowd gathering round a boy who held something in his hands. It was wriggling and mewing piteously. A cat! I thought, and instinct told me to whom that cat belonged. It was Mother Ginny’s. I knew the boy slightly. I had seen him on the quay looking for a chance to earn a few pence doing odd jobs for the fishermen.

He shouted: “Here’s a way to fight against them witches. They ain’t going to get the better of the likes of we.”

He held up the cat by the scruff of its neck.

“Mother Ginny’s Devil’s mate. Satan’s gift to the wicked old witch.”

The cat moved and must have scratched him for with a yell of pain he threw the animal straight into the flames.

I felt sick. I knew that Jacco was equally affected. We loved our animals, both of us; our dogs were our friends and the kitchen cat, which Mrs. Penlock declared was the best mouser in Cornwall, was a special favourite.

Jacco had his hand on my rein, for I had started forward.

“No,” he hissed. “You can’t.”

Then I heard the scream of an animal in pain and there was silence.

The boy was crying out, excusing himself: “Look what ’un done to me.” He held up his bleeding hand. “’Tis the only way to save ourselves. It ’as to be done … a living thing they allus say. Well, that’s it … the witch’s cat. That’ll be one of ’em out of the way.”

The moment of horror had passed. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. They were forming a group round one figure. I saw the grey robe in the midst of them. He was talking to them but I could not hear what he was saying.

Suddenly they all started to move. Some of them had carts, others horses. Jacco said to me: “Come on. We’re going. We’re going now … this minute.”

As I followed him I kept hearing the cry of the cat and I just wanted to go back to the safety of my room. I could not stop thinking about Rolf there with them, Rolf … our friend … the one of whom I had made a hero … and he was there in the midst of them—a sort of leader.

Jacco was not making for home.

“Jacco,” I said. “What …? Where …?”

“We’re going to the woods. That’s where they’re going.”

“Why?”

“That’s what we’ve got to find out. At least I’ve got to. You can go home.”

“I’m coming too.”

As we came into the woods I could hear voices in the distance. I wanted to go back, to creep into bed. I had a horrible fear that tonight was going to be like no other night I had ever known. I kept saying to myself: If my father were here this would never happen.

But it was happening. And I had to see it.

“Be careful,” said Jacco. “They mustn’t know we’re here. They’d send us home if they did.”

We knew the woods well and we went a roundabout way, for both Jacco and I knew their destination. They were already at the clearing in the woods and their torches gave an unearthly light to the scene.

The first thing I noticed was the grey robe. He was there. He was leading them … inciting them. I could not believe that this was the Rolf I had always known. He had always been so kind, so understanding about everything. He could not be so cruel. I knew that he loved the old customs. He liked to experiment. I could imagine that he would wonder how easily people would revert to less civilized days.

I saw the cottage through a gleam of light. They were close now, waving their torches. They were all shouting and I could not hear what was said except that it was something about the witch.

Then someone called: “Come out, witch. Show yourself. Don’t ’ee be afraid. We won’t ’urt ’ee … leastways no more than ’ee have hurt us.”

I gasped. She had come out of the cottage. She must have been in bed for she was in a nightgown, her grey hair streaming about her shoulders. Their torches lit up her face and I saw the fear there.

I felt physically sick and would have turned away but Jacco was close to me and I could not move. His horrified eyes were fixed on the scene.

“What do you want with me?” she screamed.

“You’m going to see, missus. What’ll us do with her?”

Someone spoke. They were all listening. Could it be Rolf telling them what to do? I wondered.

“That’ll do …” shouted someone. “What they’ve allus done. Duck her in the water. If she drowns she’s innocent. If she floats it’s with the help of the Devil and proves she’s one of his.”

“Where did the Devil kiss ’ee, Mother Ginny?”

There was a burst of coarse laughter.

“Oh no,” I murmured. “She’s only an old woman.”

Jacco nodded, his eyes staring at that terrifying scene.

They had attached a rope about her waist. She was screaming and fighting them. One of the men gave her a blow which knocked her to the ground.

“Jacco,” I cried, “they’ll kill her. We’ve got to stop them. Papa would.”

Jacco rode forward. “Stop it,” he cried. “Stop it.”

No one took any notice of him. They were all intent on getting Mother Ginny to the river. She called curses on them as they dragged her along the ground.

I was sobbing. “We must do something. What would our father do?”

But we lacked his strength and authority. We were only children and whatever we did would be of no avail. There was murder in the air. I had seen something in those people that night which I never would have believed could be there. For the first time I had witnessed the fury of a mob. These people who went about their ordinary daily rounds had undergone a remarkable change. There was a side to their nature which I had never known existed. They were cruel. They delighted in inflicting pain. They wanted revenge, an eye for an eye. Tregorran’s mare; the Cherry baby; the rain; the heat; the Poldeans’ boat. They wanted revenge and they were going to have it. And Rolf was there … leading them on … making them aware of how witches were treated long ago. Rolf … whom I had so much admired; who had been a hero to me, whom I had loved. That was the most startling and disturbing revelation of all. They were uneducated people … ready to be led … but he … I felt I knew what was in his mind. He was obsessed by the old ways, old customs. He wanted to see if people would react today as they had long ago. But this was a human life … I felt I could never trust anyone again.

I wanted to go to him, to tell him I was here, to beg him to stop this. But he was their leader. I could never forget that. Jacco and I were, after all, only two children. We could not stop them even though Jacco was my father’s son.

I wanted to shut it all out of my mind, forget what I had seen, go right away. I did not want to know what was happening by the river. I feared something even more terrible was going to happen. But even if I did run home, I should never forget.

I could hear the shouts by the river.

“She won’t sink,” said Jacco.

“No, the river’s not deep enough.”

“Not by the banks. If they throw her into the middle … They say witches don’t sink. The Devil saves them.”

“But either way …”

“She’ll be saved,” insisted Jacco.

Then the boy came out of the cottage. He sped across the clearing. He was very close to us. I held my breath. I thought: What will they do to him?

I was aware of him; he was crouching among the trees quite near us.

The shouts sounded farther away; then they were near again. They were coming back. They were dragging Mother Ginny along. Her clothes were sodden and mud-stained; her hair hung grey and slimy about her face, which was deathly pale. I thought she was already dead.

I heard myself praying to God to do something … to send these people away … to let Mother Ginny go back to her truckle bed.

The people were shouting like a drunken mob. They were drunk in a way—not with strong drink but with mob frenzy.

She lay on the grass and they were all round her. I could not see her now.

Then someone cried: “The Devil saves his own.”

“Not for long,” said someone else.

Then suddenly, with a shout, someone threw a torch at the thatched roof. It ignited immediately. The thatch was alight. Someone threw another torch and the cottage was a blazing mass.

The mob stood back to admire its handiwork. I could see Mother Ginny now. She had risen to her feet and stood staring at the cottage. There was silence as she tottered towards it. She went along the path to the door and walked into the flames.

There was a silence which seemed to go on for a long time. I think they were all waiting for her to come out. But she did not.

Someone shouted: “That’s her and her cat gone. What of the boy … the Witch’s Varmint?”

There was silence again. My heart was beating rapidly. I heard a sound very close to us. Jacco moved his horse slightly. I heard him whisper: “Jump up behind me.”

Then I saw Digory and I felt a wave of relief sweep over me.

“Come on,” said Jacco. “Quick.”

We moved silently through the woods.

“Where?” I asked.

“I’m thinking,” said Jacco.

I glanced at Digory, who was clinging to Jacco; his face was white and all the bravado had gone out of him. I felt very tender towards him at that moment.

We were free of the woods and Jacco began to canter.

“Do you think they will follow us?” I called.

“Might do. If they knew where we were.”

I could see the grey towers of Cador. We went up the incline and Jacco stopped suddenly.

“I know,” he said. “The Dogs’ Home.”

“Oh yes,” I cried. “That’ll do.”

The Dogs’ Home was an old shed a little way from the stables. Jacco used it for anything he needed for his pets. Our father had said that if he had them he must be able to look after them; they were his responsibility. He had a key and no one else had one.

“It’s the safest place,” he said.

We went on to the shed. Then Jacco dismounted, pulling Digory with him. The boy seemed in a state of shock and hardly to be aware of either of us.

Jacco always carried the key of the shed with him. Now he opened it and we went inside. There were dogs’ baskets and sacks of peas with which Jacco fed his peacocks. It smelt like a granary.

“You’ll be all right here,” he said. “No one would dare come here. We’ll get you blankets and food, so you needn’t worry.”

Digory still did not speak.

“Now,” said Jacco, “we’re going to see you’re all right. Annora, you get some blankets for him. You’ll have to be quiet. First let’s stable the horses.”

We left Digory in the shed, locking him in. He was still stunned. I wondered how much he had seen of the terrible thing which had happened to his grandmother.

As we left the stables, Jacco said: “We’ll keep him there until our father comes home. He’ll know what to do.”

I felt an immense relief. Yes, our father would know what to do.

“None of this would have happened if he had been here,” I said. “Mother Ginny is dead. She couldn’t have survived in that fire. She walked right into it.”

“She killed herself.”

“No,” I said, “They killed her.” And to myself I murmured: And Rolf was one of those who killed her. How could he? And yet I had seen him. Rolf. My Rolf. I would never have believed it possible if I had not witnessed it with my own eyes.

I was glad of something to do. It stopped my thinking of that terrible scene. But I knew I should go on thinking of it … always.

The task before me was not easy. I had to tread very carefully for fear of arousing attention. I did not know who was in the house. How many of them, I wondered, were still in the woods? But they would soon be coming back. They had done their wicked deed. Surely they would want to get as far away from it as possible.

I went into the linen room and took some blankets and a pillow. I went to the Dogs’ Home where Jacco was impatiently waiting for me. He seized them and made a bed of some straw. Digory stood there—his thoughts, I knew, far away at that terrible scene—and when we told him to lie down, he obeyed us as though in a trance.

Jacco knelt beside him. He was gentle. This was a new side to my brother and I loved him the more for it.

“You’ll be all right now,” he said. “They won’t come here. We’ll keep you here till our father comes home. He’ll know what to do.”

Jacco stood up and looked at me. “First thing in the morning we’ll bring him some food. Have to be careful with old Penlock.”

I nodded.

“Here’s the key,” went on Jacco, turning to Digory and putting it into his hand. “Lock yourself in when we’ve gone. Don’t open the door to anyone except us. Understand?”

Digory moved his head slightly.

I wanted to weep seeing him thus, denuded of that reckless bravado which had been such a part of him. I was discovering something about Digory, about Jacco, and so much more about the baser instincts of people whom I had always before thought commonplace. But what I had learned tonight of that other one whom I had idolized—that was what hurt and bewildered me most.

We went into the house cautiously. I crept up to my room, undressed and got into bed.

I lay looking through the window at that slim slice of moon and I could not shut out of my mind the sound of voices, the weird light of torches, and all that had happened on that terrible night.

I had roughly been jerked out of my childhood and I should never be the same again.

I did fall into an uneasy doze just as it was getting light, but my sleep was haunted by nightmares. I woke up sweating with horror. Will it always be like this? I wondered. I can never forget. I should be haunted forever by the memory of Mother Ginny walking into the flames. But most of all by a figure in a greyish robe leading the mob.

As soon as I awoke I remembered the boy. The terrible adventure was not over. I tried to imagine what his feelings would be on this morning. His whole life had changed. He had lost his home and his grandmother, who was the only family he had. What else had he? Only us. How I wished my father were home. I kept telling myself that if he had been, this would never have happened. He would have stopped it before it went so far. He alone could have put an end to those proceedings.

As soon as I went downstairs I found Jacco waiting impatiently.

“We’ve got to get some food for him,” he said.

“I don’t suppose he feels much like eating. I don’t.”

“He’ll have to eat. See what you can get. You go to the kitchens more than I do, so it will be best for you to get it. You’ll have to be careful.”

“I know,” I said. “Leave it to me.”

There was a subdued atmosphere throughout the house. How many servants had been in the woods last night? I wondered. Some of them might well have remained on the moor or perhaps they did not get farther than the quay.

We had to make a pretence of eating breakfast although it was an effort to do so for both of us.

Afterwards I made my way to the kitchen. I was aware of an unusual silence.

Mrs. Penlock was seated at the big kitchen table with Isaacs and some of the others.

This was clearly not the moment to go to the pantry. I should have to bide my time.

“Good morning,” I said, trying to appear as usual.

“Morning, Miss Annora.”

“Is—is anything wrong?”

There was a brief silence, then Mrs. Penlock said: “There was a fire last night, Mother Ginny’s house was burned to a cinder … and her in it.”

I looked steadily at them. “How … how did it happen?”

After some hesitation Isaacs said: “Who’s to know how fires start? They do and that’s about it.”

They looked down at their plates. I thought: I am sure some of them must have been there. Murderers! I wanted to shout at them. That was who killed Mother Ginny.

But I must be careful. I had to think of Digory.

I must get away or I should betray something; and yet on the other hand I had to show curiosity. Hadn’t I been told a hundred times that I had my nose into everything? “Curiosity killed the cat,” Mrs. Penlock had told me on more than one occasion.

“There … must have been a cause.”

“It’s easy done,” said Mrs. Penlock. “Her always had a fire going. Sparks fall out and a place like that—it gone in next to no time.”

“Is she dead? Are you sure?”

“Reckon,” said Mrs. Penlock.

“And,” I went on, “the boy …”

“There ain’t no sign of him. He must have gone too.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Well, her being a witch, you’d have thought the Devil would have come to her aid.”

“And he didn’t?”

“Seems not.”

I hated them all in that moment. How dared they sit there lying to me. They knew, all of them, how she had died.

I wanted to shout at them, telling them that I knew, that I had been there and seen it all. Then I remembered the frenzy of the mob last night and I thought of the boy who had been saved. If they turned on him they might devise some terrible end for him as they had for his grandmother.

I said: “It is … terrible.” And I ran out of the kitchen.

Jacco was waiting for me.

“Well?”

“They are all there. I couldn’t get anything. They are pretending it was an accident. They said sparks must have fallen on the roof and set it on fire.”

“Well, what do you expect?”

“It’s lies … all lies. They did it. They killed her.”

“We’ve got to save the boy. So what about the food?”

“I’ll have to seize the opportunity.”

He nodded.

“Let’s go to the Dogs’ Home to see how he is,” he said.

I was glad that it was sheltered from the house, for the shrubs round it were considerably overgrown.

Jacco rapped on the door. “Let us in,” he called.

We heard the key in the lock and there stood Digory. He still had the dazed look on his face.

As we went in Jacco said: “We’re going to bring you food. All you have to do is stay here. You’ll be all right. In a few days my father will be home.”

Digory said: “There’s nothing … nowhere. It’s all burned down … and me granny …”

I went to him and put my arms round him.

“We’re going to look after you,” I assured him. “My father will know what to do.”

He just stood there like a statue that has no life.

“Come on,” said Jacco. “You’ll want to eat something. You’ll feel better then.”

Later that morning I was able to get into the pantry. I took milk, bread and a piece of cold boiled bacon.

Jacco said: “That’ll do for a start.”

And we took it to the Dogs’ Home.

Digory was still in a daze but we made him eat a little.

Jacco and I went into the woods on the afternoon of Midsummer’s Day. The smell of burned wood and thatch hung about the place. It was a pitiful sight to see that burned-out shell of what had once been a home. The grass was scorched and there was something eerie about the scene. I felt that forever after it would be a haunted spot … haunted not by the so-called witch but by the evil of those who had killed her.

There was a subdued air in the town. The hot sun beat down on the fourteenth-century bridge which crossed the river near the quay and where the boats were moored. There had never been another Midsummer’s Day like this.

One of the fishermen sat on an upturned boat mending his nets.

“Good day,” we said.

“Good day, Mr. Jacco, Miss Annora.”

He was intent on his nets. Everyone seemed less loquacious than usual.

Jacco said: “So there was a fire last night?”

“Oh, aye. So ’tis said.”

I thought: Where were you last night, Tom Fellows? Were you one of those who tormented that old woman? You were there perhaps, waving your torch, setting that home on fire. It may not have been your torch which lit the fire, but you are all guilty, all the same … every one of you who let it happen.

“Mother Ginny’s cottage was burned down,” said Jacco.

“Oh, aye, so ’tis said.”

“And she was in it.”

“So they’m telling me.”

“It’s a terrible thing,” I said.

“’Tis so, Miss Annora.”

“And,” demanded Jacco, “what of the boy Digory?”

“Don’t ’ee ask me, Mr. Jacco. I know naught.”

I thought: That is what they will all say. They know naught. They are all ashamed. They are all going to pretend they were not there.

We moved on. We spoke to some of the others and it was the same with them all. They had all heard of it and it was a terrible thing to have happened—even to a witch, some added.

I said angrily to Jacco: “They are all going to plead innocence.”

“The guilty always do.”

“There were a lot of them in the woods last night.”

“They will all say they were on the moor or the quay or in their beds.”

To all of them we mentioned Digory. Nobody called him the Varmint now. They believed he had been in the cottage and died with his grandmother. That certain respect which was due to the dead was accorded him.

“He’ll be safe in the Dogs’ Home,” I said. “They think he’s dead.”

“We’ll keep him there.”

“Till our father comes home,” I added.

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 me … 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.”

“No. There were skirmishes. Gallons of boiling oil must have been poured from those battlements. You can see the marks of the battering rams on the gate. But you’re right. No one succeeded. It would take more than brute force to get a footing in Cador.”

“Then it is safe.”

“Yes. Only cunning could find a way in.”

“You’re proud of it, Papa.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

As we rode home he went on talking about the house, how one of the towers had been damaged during the Civil War when the King had sheltered there, for no Cadorson could ever be anything but a staunch royalist. Cadorsons had stood firmly beside Edward IV during the Wars of the Roses and had played a big part in that conflict.

“Much of the history of England is written on this house, Annora. It’s something to be proud of.”

Mr. Hanson came to dine with us frequently. Rolf did not return. There was always a great deal of talk over the dinner table and at this time there was trouble in various places. We were a backwater and sometimes seemed apart from the rest of the country, but as my father said, what happened in London would affect us all eventually.

Jacco and I had taken the meal with our parents ever since we were out of the nursery. My mother said she had dined with her parents at an early age and she thought it was good for us to listen to adult conversation. We were delighted with the arrangement and I was sure she was right and we did profit from these occasions.

Having stayed in the Capital, my father had returned with a greater awareness of what was going on. A year or so ago the old King had died. He had been ailing for a long time and was almost senile. He had been dominated by his brother, the Duke of Cumberland, who was rather a sinister character and had been suspected of trying to murder the little Princess Victoria who was living with her forceful mother at Kensington Palace.

All these scandals and intrigues fascinated me. I daresay a great deal of it was exaggerated but it did give me an interest in what was going on in the country.

As soon as the old King died, Cumberland was dismissed by the new monarch, William IV, who had married the Princess Adelaide and they were shortly to be crowned.

“Perhaps we will go to London for the coronation,” said my father.

“There’s a lot of trouble up there, I believe,” said Lawyer Hanson.

“Oh yes,” replied my father. “It’s due to this Reform Bill. And not only that. There is unrest everywhere among the working classes. They are determined to revolt and form unions against the employers. My wife’s relation, Peter Lansdon, is right at the centre of it.”

“Oh, that Peter Lansdon,” said the lawyer. “If he goes on as he is now he could be Prime Minister in due course.”

“Peter is a very ambitious man and seems to succeed in everything he touches.”

There had always been a lot of talk about Peter Lansdon. The family connection was rather complicated, which was mainly due to the fact that Grandfather Dickon had married Grandmother Lottie late in life when he already had two sons by a previous marriage. My mother’s half-brother, David, was the father of Amaryllis, so my mother was almost the same age as she was and they had been brought up together more like sisters than niece and aunt. It was always difficult to explain these relationships to people.

It was Amaryllis who had married Peter Lansdon, and their children were Peterkin and Helena, who were sort of second cousins to me.

However, Peter Lansdon was a very colourful character. He was an enormously successful businessman. He exported rum and bananas, I think from Jamaica, where he had spent his childhood. Having succeeded magnificently in business, he had turned his attention to politics and, as was to be expected, he rapidly began to make himself heard.

My mother had a great aversion to him. She never spoke of this but I could see how she felt whenever his name was mentioned; then a certain stony expression would creep across her face and she would become very silent.

The rest of the family admired him; and Jacco and I thought it exciting to have a relation whose name appeared in the papers now and then and of whom it was said that he might one day hold the highest post in the Government.

“Peter thinks there will have to be reform,” my father was saying. “Not only with franchise but with the workers. He thinks it would be better to placate them now than to have them forming societies which will attempt to force employers to do what they want.”

The lawyer nodded gravely. “All very well,” he said, “but the more these people get, the more they will want.”

“They haven’t very much at the moment,” my father reminded him.

My mother said: “I don’t think workers on the land realize how lucky they are when they have a benign squire who is prepared to look after them.”

Mr. Hanson agreed. “They have that and at first they are grateful. But people grow accustomed to what they have and start to want more. It’s a difficult situation. If they are given more, mark my words … once they get it they will want more and more.”

“What is generally known as the vicious circle,” I put in.

Everyone looked at me and my father smiled. “You have hit the nail on the head, Annora,” he said.

Rolf came back in August. I was riding with my father when we met him. He looked no different and smiled at me in that warmly affectionate way as though everything was as it had always been.

He told us that he was interested in a house his friend’s family were buying. They were restoring it and he had been helping them to make decisions. It had meant exploring old records, for the place was very run-down and much of the original character was in danger of being lost.

It was hard to believe that he was the same person who had leaped over the bonfire and led the mob to destroy an old woman.

He came to dine with us and the talk was all about the Reform Bill and the unrest among the workers. Then it turned back to property and Mr. Hanson’s desire to buy more land. He talked with pride about the pheasants they were breeding in their woods. “We’ll have a good shoot this autumn,” said Mr. Hanson proudly.

“Luke is determined on that,” said Rolf.

“Still giving satisfaction, that fellow of yours?” asked my father.

“Couldn’t be better,” Mr. Hanson told him.

“I can see Lawyer Hanson will soon be becoming Squire Hanson,” said my father.

“Our place will never be a Cador,” said Rolf regretfully.

“But yours is a wonderful old house,” my mother consoled him, “and you’re making an excellent job of the reconstruction. That staircase of yours is magnificent.”

“Put in for Queen Elizabeth,” said Mr. Hanson. “Rolf tells me those carvings of the Tudor roses and the fleur-de-lys are the best of their kind.”

“But you are the lucky ones,” said Rolf, “to live in a place like this and know your ancestors have been there through the ages. That makes a difference.”

Rolf was not the only one who was interested in Cador. I discovered someone else who was and I must say that was a surprise.

October had come. All through September there had been talk of the Fair. On the first and second of October St. Matthew’s Fair was held in the marketplace in East Dorey. Jacco and I had been taken often when we were young, usually by one of the grooms. We had bought comfits and gingerbread; we had seen the fat woman and the bearded lady; we had had our fortunes told by Rosa the Gypsy; we had done it all.

Now that I was nearly twelve and Jacco was fourteen we felt ourselves to be too sophisticated for these simple pleasures and, rather condescendingly, said we did not want to go.

The servants, of course, would all go. They had been talking about “Matthey’s Fair” for weeks. Even Mrs. Penlock liked to have her fortune told.

My parents were out visiting and would not be home until late; Miss Caster was taking tea at the vicarage. I think the general idea was that I was going somewhere with Jacco; he, however, had other plans.

Thus it was that on that October day the house was deserted, and I realized that it was very rarely that I found myself alone there. In a house like Cador—even though it has always been one’s home—one is very much aware of the antiquity, of the intruding presence of another age when there is no one around to remind one that it is the present day.

I had been reading in my bedroom and decided that I would go for a ride. I would go and look at the Hansons’ wood, of which they were so proud. It was about half the size of ours, a fact which I knew Rolf deplored. He had said: “One day our woods will rival yours.” I wanted to see him, to force myself to talk with him about that night. But somehow I had always held back. I think in my heart I was trying to pretend he had not been there and sometimes I almost succeeded in convincing myself that this was so. Suppose I talked to him. Suppose he admitted what I suspected, that it had been one of his experiments. I did not want my feelings for Rolf to change. But I feared they would. I feared they had. I was rather bewildered and I seemed to be more so every day. If only it had been someone else, someone I did not care about. I found it very hard to stop caring about Rolf.

I was trying to shake off these thoughts as I came through the solarium, and as I did so I had the eerie feeling that I was not after all alone in the house. How is it that one is aware of a presence? An unexpected movement? A footstep? The creaking of a door? Was it being stealthily opened?

These thoughts crowded into my mind as I went to the peep in the alcove and looked down on the hall.

It looked the same as usual. There was the long table at which Oliver Cromwell’s soldiers had sat when they came searching for the King; the weapons on the wall which had been used by Cadorsons long since dead; the family tree spreading out on the wall … everything that I had seen many times and grown up with.

And yet there was that uncanny feeling that someone was there. Then I saw him. From beyond the screens he came stealthily, looking about him with a kind of wonder: Digory.

What was he doing in the house?

I watched him for some time. He examined the family tree; then he came to the wall and very reverently touched the weapons; he turned to the table and picking up one of the pewter goblets, examined it closely, put it down and stood for a moment staring rapturously at the vaulted roof. Then he began to tiptoe cautiously up the stairs.

I was at the top of the staircase when he reached it.

“Hello, Digory,” I said.

He stared at me silently, a look of blank dismay on his face. Then he spluttered indignantly, “Why don’t ’ee be at the Fair?”

“Because,” I said, “I remained at home. I had no idea, of course, that you intended to pay a visit.”

He turned and was about to dash down the stairs but I caught his arm.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “You looked as though you liked the place.”

“I weren’t doing no wrong.”

“I didn’t say you were. Why aren’t you at the Fair?”

He looked contemptuous.

“You preferred to come to Cador,” I said. “You do like it, don’t you?”

“It ain’t bad at all.”

“I remember in the woods you used to ask me about it. You wanted to know all the details.”

I saw the shadow cross his face and I reproached myself. He would probably be remembering that in those days he had a granny and a home.

I said gently: “I’m glad you like this house, Digory. I’m glad you came in. I’m going to take you round and show you everything.”

He looked at me suspiciously.

“It’s all right,” I assured him. “You know I’m your friend … Jacco too.”

He relaxed a little.

I said: “Do you like working in the stables?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

I remembered a bird I had once seen. Jacco had found it when it fell from its nest. We fed it. I kept it in a cage. It seemed content for a while; then it started to flap its wings against the bars. I opened the door and set it free. Digory was like a caged bird. He was well fed, he was safe, but he was not free.

“I’m going to show you the house,” I said.

He tried not to look excited but he could not hide his feelings from me.

“Come on,” I said. “We’ll begin at the bottom and go right to the top.”

“All right,” he said.

“There’s a dungeon down there. Would you like to see it?”

We came through the kitchens and descended a short spiral staircase.

“It’s very cold down here. Mrs. Penlock uses it as a place to store things. That’s very different from the old days.”

We made our way past shelves upon which stood jars and bottles, and we came through a narrow passage to the dungeon with its iron gate.

“You can look in,” I said.

“There’s nobody in there,” said Digory as though disappointed.

“Of course not. People don’t put their enemies in dungeons nowadays.”

“Some might,” he retorted grimly; and again I saw the memory of that night in his eyes.

“Not now,” I insisted firmly and I thought: I was wrong to bring him down here.

“Let’s go up,” I said. “It’s cold down here.”

So we went through the kitchens, past the ovens which had done service for hundreds of years, past the roasting spits and the great coppers, through the buttery to the laundry rooms. Then up to the great hall.

I talked to him about the wars which had beset the country and told him what part my family had played in them. I took him to the dining room and explained what the tapestries on the walls were depicting. He listened in rapt attention, which surprised me. I talked of the Wars of the Roses and the Great Rebellion, that conflict between Cavalier and Roundhead which had rent the country. I felt like Miss Caster giving a history lesson, but he was interested; he wanted to know.

I showed him the solarium and peeps, which fascinated him; he stood, for a long time, looking down into the hall and then the chapel. I took him to the turrets and we went out and walked along the battlements. I would not have believed that a house could have made such an impression on him. But then it was a wonderful house; it had been kept in good order over the centuries; it had been loved and cherished; and although it had been restored from time to time, there had been great care not to destroy the antiquity. That now seemed all around us. Perhaps it was due to the fact that we were alone in it, but as I talked to him I had the feeling that we were two young people walking back through the centuries.

He had had no schooling; I suppose he had never heard of the events to which I referred before, but he was fascinated by them; and now and then would ask a pertinent question.

We stood for a while looking out to sea.

“Just imagine, Digory,” I said, “from out there Cador would have looked just the same five hundred years ago. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“How do you know?” he demanded. “You wasn’t here.”

“No. But it hasn’t changed so it must have been the same.”

He looked steadily at me and said: “You’ve got the Devil’s kiss on your forrid.”

I put up my hand. His was there before mine. He touched the side of my temple just beside my left eye. I knew what he meant; it was a little mole. My father called it my beauty spot.

I had never thought very much about it.

“What do you mean—the Devil’s kiss?” I asked.

“They do say that’s how it be when the Devil kisses ’ee.”

“What nonsense. I have never even met the gentleman—let alone been kissed by him.”

“He do come in the night when you be sleeping.”

“What a horrible thought! It’s a mole. My father likes it. He says it’s attractive. Who says it is anything to do with the Devil?”

“Them,” he said; and again there was that look of hideous memory in his eyes. “Them says as how it’s the Devil as does it.”

“I’m not afraid of them.”

Again I had spoken rashly. He had been afraid of them; and so should I have been in his place on that terrible night.

I felt very sorry for him. I put a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, Digory,” I said. “We’ve got to forget all about that. It’s over. It was cruel. It was horrible. But it’s done and nothing can be done to change it.”

He was silent, staring ahead, seeing it all, I knew; and I was seeing it with him. I could almost smell the burning thatch.

“We’ve got to go on from there, Digory,” I said. “You’ve got to get used to the stables. You’re fond of the horses and it’s good to work with what you love. Ferry is kind to you, isn’t he? My father insists that he should be. It’s a better way of life … to be part of a household like this … better than running round stealing fish. You could get caught.”

He shook his head.

“Yes, you might, Digory. If there’s anything that bothers you, you only have to tell us … tell me or Jacco. We’ll always help if we can.”

He looked blankly at me and there was still in him that which reminded me of the caged bird.

He said: “Tell you what. I’ll get rid of your Devil’s kiss.”

I put my hand to my temple.

“Oh, it’s all right, Digory. It doesn’t bother me. My father says that when I grow older I’ll call attention to it. Blacken it to make it stand out and make people notice my eyes.”

“There’s them,” he said.

And he meant that frenzied mob.

I could see that he wanted to attempt to charm away my mole and that this was his way of showing appreciation for what I had done for him. “Never brush aside people’s attempts to repay you,” my mother had said. “You may not want repayment but their pride demands that they should give it. Do take it graciously.”

I saw what she meant now.

“All right, Digory,” I said. “You shall charm away my mole.”

We came into the turret and went down through the house. Every now and then he would pause and gaze wonderingly about him. I was pleased and felt I had seen a new side to his nature; he might be uneducated but he had an eye for beauty. He seemed to find it difficult to tear himself away from the tapestries and I had to tell him again about the wars which had inspired them.

I did not know how long this tour of the house had taken but I did realize that time was passing. Isaacs might return; and Mrs. Penlock was only interested in having her fortune told and would not stay after that had been done.

I said: “They’ll be back soon.”

A look of fear came into his face. He was then all eagerness to get away. I was leading him to the front door but he was anxious to leave by the way he had come, which was through an open window in one of the kitchens.

I felt then that I was a little nearer to understanding him and as soon as Jacco came in I would tell him what had happened and suggest that we try to see him now and then and make him realize how secure he was and that while he was under my father’s protection, he was safe from the savagery of a superstitious mob.

I was unprepared for the sequel. It happened two days after our tour of the house.

Jacco and I had been out with our father. Jacco had to learn a good deal about estate management and he was often with my father on his round. I was free to accompany them whenever I wished and that was often because I was very interested in the people who were Cador tenants.

As we came into the stables John Ferry came hurrying out.

“Oh, Sir Jake,” he said, “there be trouble. ’Tis about that boy …”

There was a faint tightening of the lips which betrayed the unspoken comment: “I could have told you so.” This indicated that Digory was in some sort of trouble.

“What’s happened?” asked my father.

“Slattery have caught him red-handed, Sir Jake,” Ferry explained. “A tidy-sized piece of beefsteak he had … was stowing it away in a bag when he was caught. No doubt about it, sir. There was the steak in his bag.”

“What was the point of stealing steak?” demanded my father. “He’s well fed here, isn’t he?”

“There’s them that’s thieves by nature, sir. They do it natural. It’s a habit of a lifetime.”

“Where’s the boy now?”

“Down at Slattery’s. Slattery’s going to charge him. But he said he’d tell me first and I could tell you like … seeing as how you’ve taken the boy in.”

Jacco and I were looking at our father anxiously. He said: “Come on. We’ll go to Slattery’s and sort this out.”

Tom Slattery, the butcher, was a fat red-faced man with a slight resemblance to the pigs which hung up in his shop, except that they had oranges in their mouths and he had broken teeth. He always wore a blue-and-white striped apron, faintly bloodstained, over his grey trousers and my memory of him is standing over a slightly concave board with a chopper in his hands.

We left our horses tethered to the rail and a few steps from the shop and went in.

In the parlour behind the shop cowered Digory, trying hard to hide his terror. We were surprised to see Luke Tregern, the Hansons’ gamekeeper, with Slattery.

“Good day, Slattery … Tregern …” said my father. “What’s all this about a pound of beefsteak and the boy?”

“Well, Sir Jake,” said Slattery, “he be nothing but a thief. Not that we ain’t known that. ’Tis no surprise, as you might say. I had me back turned for a minute and I hears a shout. ’Twas a mercy Mr. Tregern here just come into the shop. See him take it up, he did, and when I spins round there he is stuffing it into his bag all ready to dart out of my shop.”

“That’s the case, Sir Jake,” said Luke Tregern. “I caught the boy in the act.”

He looked rather pleased with himself.

“He’s been thieving all his life,” said Slattery. “Slippery as an eel, that one is. I’d never have known he’d been in and out of my shop if it hadn’t been for Mr. Tregern here.”

“I’m glad I came in when I did,” said Luke Tregern.

Digory turned defiant eyes up to my father.

“Is this true?” asked my father. “Did you steal the steak?”

Digory didn’t answer.

I could not restrain myself. I said: “Why did you do it, you foolish boy? You get enough to eat, don’t you?”

Still he did not answer.

“There must be a reason,” said Jacco.

“Tell us why you stole the steak,” said my father. “Were you hungry? If you don’t tell us, how shall we know what to do about you? If there is a reason, you must tell us.”

There was another silence. Then he lifted a finger and pointed at me.

“My daughter!” said my father. “What has she to do with it?”

“’Twas for her,” said Digory.

“I don’t understand.”

“Had to be secret meat. No one to know where it come from … or it don’t work.”

“What is he talking about?” asked my father.

“Devil’s kiss,” said Digory.

Then I understood. I touched my temple. “Was it this?” I asked.

“You know,” he said. “You wanted it done.”

I said: “I think I understand. Digory wanted to do something for me. He noticed this.” I pointed to my mole. “He was going to get rid of it for me. Was that what the beefsteak was for, Digory?”

He nodded. “It has to go on. Then I put on the brew. After that … ’tis gone in two days.”

“But why did you steal it? I could have got some steak in the kitchen for you.”

“’Tas to be secret. You can’t know where it do come from.”

I said: “It is all clear to me. Digory was trying to do me a good turn. He was going to remove this mole because he thought it was not good for me to have it.” I looked appealingly at my father. “You can understand it after … after …”

My father nodded.

“He wanted to repay us … Jacco and me.”

Jacco said: “It’s quite simple. He was going to take away Annora’s mole and she wasn’t to know where the steak came from or it wouldn’t work.”

“I have never heard such nonsense,” said my father. “You see, Slattery, this is a children’s game. Leave the boy to me. I’ll deal with him.” He put a sovereign on the table. “That’ll take care of the steak and you can keep it as well as the money. I don’t suppose it came to much harm in the boy’s bag. Now I’ll leave you to your business. Thank you for sending to Ferry. Shouldn’t attach too much importance to childish games. I’ll give the boy a talking-to … and my daughter, too.”

We came out of the shop, Digory with us. I noticed that Luke Tregern was looking after us with a rather quizzical expression, and I had the feeling that he was disappointed in the way in which the situation had turned out. I supposed he thought he had been rather clever in spotting Digory’s action and should have been commended for it.

My father said sternly to Digory: “Never take anything that doesn’t belong to you, boy, or you’ll be in trouble. Now go back to your work.”

Digory ran off at great speed and my father turned to me: “As for you,” he said, “I don’t know how you could be so stupid. He might have disfigured you with his witches’ potions.”

“I only thought that he wanted to do something to repay us, and Mama says we should remember people’s pride and respect it.”

“I suppose she is right. But that young idiot will have to take care. There’s enough feeling against him already. There’s a great sense of guilt throughout this place for what happened that night. Nobody wants to take responsibility. I daresay your mother will tell you that people hate to feel guilt and try to justify themselves. If they could prove Mother Ginny’s grandson to be a thief, they’d feel a little justification. So if you have any influence with that boy, tell him to take care.”

“We will, won’t we, Annora?” said Jacco.

I nodded in agreement.

When one is young and innocent of nature, one believes in easy solutions. The fairy tales always told us that they lived “happy ever after.” I accepted that. It was comforting and pleasant. I had thought that when Digory had a good bed to sleep in and was assured of three meals a day, and worked with horses which he loved and had my father’s protection, he would live “happy ever after.”

Comfort could not change Digory. He was wild; his freedom was what he most desired. In the days before the fire he might have lived frugally; he might have gone hungry now and then; he had lived dangerously, outside the community; and people were suspicious of him because his grandmother was a witch. But he had been proud, subservient to nobody—and he had been happy.

What happened I supposed was inevitable. He might have avoided it for a time, if he had had better luck; but the outcome would have been the same.

And this time there was no way of saving him.

He had made the Dogs’ Home his. He slept there, though it must have been less comfortable than the room over the stables which had been allotted to him. There was a clearing behind the Dogs’ Home and here he made fires and cooked for himself.

He did not like the company of the other stable lads; Ferry tolerated him but I guessed he was hoping he would be caught in some misdemeanor so that he could have the pleasure of seeing him removed and proving my father in the wrong. He did not understand that my father would not feel that at all. But Ferry was hoping for the boy’s downfall—as I guessed most of the servants were. Mrs. Penlock never said a word against Digory but she had a very significant sniff when his name was mentioned.

It was about two weeks after the beefsteak incident.

Ferry came to the house, triumphant. He wished to speak to Sir Jake. I had seen him coming and, guessing from his attitude that this meant trouble for Digory, I contrived to be there.

Ferry stood, cap in hand, turning it round and round as he spoke. “’Tis that boy again, Sir Jake.”

“What’s wrong?”

“He be in jail, Sir Jake.”

“What?”

“Caught. In the Hanson woods, sir. Pheasant in his bag. No mistake about what he was up to this time.”

My father looked at him blankly. “The idiot,” he said. “What was he doing stealing a pheasant? He’s fed …”

“There’s some as is natural thieves, sir, and that boy’s one of them. When you think where he comes from … It was Mr. Hanson’s gamekeeper who caught him. Mr. Tregern, sir. He got him charged right away. Serious offence, this, sir.”

“Very serious,” agreed my father. “All right, Ferry.”

Ferry touched his forehead and retired.

I stared in dismay at my father.

“It appears,” he said, looking at me ruefully, “that this time the young fool has got himself into serious trouble.”

How right he was!

Jacco and I were very distressed, looking upon Digory as our protégé as we did. How could he have been so foolish! With our father’s help we had been able to extricate him from the beefsteak incident but this was another matter.

“Can you get him freed?” asked Jacco of my father.

“He’s already in the hands of the law. Hanson’s gamekeeper took quick action. I’ve no doubt they’ll get Slattery to speak against him.”

“Couldn’t you forbid him to?”

“No, my son. I can’t interfere with the course of justice. It’s true what Slattery says. The boy’s a natural thief. If he escaped the consequences of this there would be another incident before long. We’ve seen that of the beefsteak. You would have thought that would have been warning enough.”

“It’s just bravado,” I said.

“It is a luxury which, in his position, he cannot afford.”

It soon became clear that there was nothing to be done. My father asked Mr. Hanson if he would talk to his gamekeeper and this he did. He came back and told us that Luke Tregern was adamant. There was not doubt of the boy’s guilt and he could not have people walking off with the pheasants. If this sort of thing was allowed to go on he could not be responsible. It would be an impossible situation for him. The last thing Mr. Hanson wanted was to lose such an excellent man. Moreover, as he hinted to my father, they both knew enough about the law to understand that it could not be trifled with to gain special favours for certain people.

My father said to us: “Of course I see his point. It is a pity about that beefsteak—and Tregern was the one who caught him at that. I warned the young fool and he has flouted me. No, there is nothing to be done. The boy has got to learn his lesson—a hard one it will no doubt be, but it is his own fault and perhaps the only way to instill some sense into him.”

I wanted to go and see him, to talk to him; but that was not possible.

Jacco and I rode out to the moors and lay on the grass making wild plans to save him. But there was nothing that could be done. Even we had to realize that.

“How could he have been such a fool?” I kept demanding.

“He just liked taking risks. It made him feel good. It reminded him of the old days when he lived with his grandmother. Our father is right. If he had not been caught over this he would have been over something else.”

Jacco shook his head. I think he was coming to the conclusion that there was nothing to be done to help Digory. He had a grudge against the world. I could understand that. He had seen what they had done to his granny on that night and he hated everybody. He did not completely trust even us.

He was tried and there was no question of his guilt. As my father had said, Slattery and Tregern were only too ready to give evidence against him. The beefsteak episode was recalled and there was no mention of the reason he had attempted to steal it. In any case it was not a question of why he had stolen it but that he had. As Digory worked for my father and his only relative had died recently leaving him homeless, he had been treated leniently on that occasion; but the boy had not learned his lesson; he was a born thief and could never be anything else.

We wanted no such people in this country. He was sentenced to seven years’ transportation.

We were all greatly shocked by the sentence. It seemed unduly harsh. His background went against him; and the evidence as given by Slattery and Luke Tregern was the final blow.

My father and I went for a ride together and talked about Digory.

My father said: “It takes me back years. You’ve heard the story. I killed a man who was attempting to assault a gypsy girl. I was sentenced to seven years’ transportation … just as this boy has been. His seems a trivial offence compared with mine. A man’s life against that of a pheasant.”

“What you did was right. What Digory did was wrong.”

“Yet I killed. But I had people to speak for me. Your grandfather was a man of great influence and your mother forced him to save me from the gallows … which might so easily have been my fate.”

“Don’t speak of it. I can’t bear it.”

“Well, my darling. If that had been the end of me there would never have been Annora. That would have been a real tragedy.”

“Don’t joke. And what about Digory?”

“He’ll serve his term. He’ll come through … as I did. Perhaps it’s not such a bad thing. Out of these misfortunes good can come. I grew up in Australia. When I look back I see myself as a feckless fellow with romantic notions. Going off as a gypsy! Imagine that! What folly! I was pulled up sharply and I realized the seriousness of life and when I had served my term I emerged as a reasonable man, ready to take on my responsibilities.”

“I can’t stop thinking of Digory being sent away like that. He’ll be so frightened.”

“Yes. It’s a frightening ordeal. But he’ll come through. After all, it’s not as though he was happy here. What happened that night has scarred him deeply. Perhaps the best thing is a complete change, an entirely new life. If he can come through it, it might not be all bad.” He was silent for a while. Then he said: “This brings it all back to me, Annora. I can see myself on that ship, arriving in a new country … But after a while I grew accustomed to it. That’s one lesson of life. To accept … and to remember all the time that whatever tragic times one has to live through, they can’t last forever. There has to be change. So there will be for Digory.”

“I wonder if we shall ever know. I wonder if we shall see him again.”

“For that, my dear girl, we must wait and see.”

We rode back to the house in a solemn and melancholy mood.