The Master of Phoenix Hall by Jennifer Wilde Page A

he doing out there?”
    â€œWe’ll soon find out.”
    He moved away from the tree. There was a loud whirring noise of something flying through the air. I pulled Nan away from the window just as it shattered with a splintering explosion of sound. Pieces of glass fell to the floor and something large rolled across the carpet. We heard noisy footsteps as the man ran away. Nan was near hysterics and I gripped her hand tightly. The sound of footsteps died away. It was silent but for Peter’s whimpering. He pawed at my feet.
    I turned on the lamp. There was a large rock in the middle of the floor, a piece of paper tied to it clumsily with some string. I picked up the rock and opened the note with trembling fingers. It was scrawled in large, half-formed letters, as though written by a child or someone who was not accustomed to pencil and paper. The message, however, was clear: LEAVE DOWER HOUSE AT ONCE. LEAVE BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE. I gave the note to Nan, and she drew in her breath, staring at me with large, frightened eyes.
    â€œIt’s a prank, Nan,” I said, “merely a silly prank.”
    â€œBut—who sent it?”
    I knew very well who had sent it. Roderick Mellory had tried to buy Dower House, and he had failed. He had talked with me, and he had seen that he could not persuade me to sell. He had failed there, too. I remembered the words that seemed to have contained a half-veiled threat when he mentioned my being alone at Dower House. Now I knew that the threat had been real. He could not buy Dower House and he could not persuade me to give it up, so now he was going to try and frighten me away. I smiled bitterly, my cheeks flushed with anger. Dower House belonged to me. It was mine and I loved it. Roderick Mellory was not going to frighten me into leaving it. He would fail in that as well. I was as stubborn as he was, and I did not frighten easily.

VI
    T HE AIR RANG with shouts of laughter and all the bright noise and confusion of a whole countryside at holiday. This was the one day when all chores were forgotten, when frets and worries were put aside. The green lawns on the outskirts of Lockwood were crowded with people of all ages, all of them intent on having a lighthearted, lusty time. Inhibitions were lost, and a permissive attitude guided everyone. Although not nearly so debauched as in the old days, these celebrations derived from the ancient Celtic Priapean ceremonies and the gaily adorned Maypoles still carried that significance. Maids with rosy cheeks were pursued by lads with sun-browned faces, while indulged parents looked on with good-natured smiles.
    â€œThey’ll all be stone sober and taciturn again tomorrow,” Greg said as we walked down the slope towards the river, “but today anything goes in Lockwood.”
    â€œIt seems so contradictory,” I remarked.
    â€œThey must let loose once in a while,” he replied. “May Day gives everyone a chance to release pent up energies once a year: It gets very robust later on, particularly after the wine takes effect. You’ll see fights and brawls; they’re as much a part of May Day as the wrestling matches among the boys and girls, and everyone enjoys them.”
    He grinned. “Are you shocked, Angela?”
    â€œNot particularly,” I said.
    â€œQueen Victoria wouldn’t approve, but these Cornwall folks have a way of life all their own. Nothing straitlaced on May Day.”
    â€œSo it would seem,” I retorted.
    There was a crowd of people down by the river, many of the men with goat skins swollen with wine. Accompanied by gales of laughter, they tipped their heads back and squirted the wine into their open mouths. Women in bright skirts and shawls watched over the children who eagerly waited to ride in the canoes that bobbed on the surface of the water. There was a group of young boys, all dressed identically in brown pants and little brown jackets, large black silk bows tied