"Yes," I replied, "although not on the mainland. I'm waiting for the sea to grow calm enough."
"So you be going to the Islands then?"
"Yes. My family have asked me to stay with them."
"And you've never been there before!"
"Actually I was born on the Far Island but I haven't been back since I was three."
"You can't be..."
"I'm Ellen Kellaway."
She stared at me in astonishment. "Well now," she said at length. "That be something!"
"You apparently know my family."
"Everyone do know the Kellaways. There's been Kellaways on the Far Island for hundreds of years, 'tis said."
"Mr. Jago Kellaway has invited me to stay. You know him, of course."
"Well, he be the Lord of the Island, as they do say."
I was aware that everyone in the shop was interested in me and it suddenly occurred to me that I had been talking too much and in a somewhat naive fashion, so I hastily paid for the stamps and went back to the inn, where I ate a cold luncheon of ham, cheese and fruit.
The long afternoon had begun and the sea had not changed for the better. The clouds were as lowering as they had been the day before and the waves, edged with white froth which the wind sent high into the air, were thundering on the sands.
I could not stay in, so I decided to walk again. I turned from the main street and went on towards the harbor. One or two little boats were tied up there. I read their names. Our Sally. Jennie. Gay Lass. Bold Adventurer. They danced on the water washing the quayside. I passed lobster pots, and a fisherman who was mending his nets looked at me curiously as I passed. I called a greeting. He mumbled a reply, and went on mending his nets. There was a big shed smelling of fish and in it was a great weighing machine. The fish market, I imagined, but silent and empty today. None of the little boats could go out. The gulls shrieked protestingly, it seemed, because of the lack of tidbits to which they would be accustomed when the catch came in.
I left the coast and took a winding path through some woods thinking of all that I was trying to forget. I found it so hard to shut out of my mind for any length of time the memory of Philip's face creased in laughter, gently mocking, but always ready to protect me; and as frequently I saw Rollo's accusing eyes. It was deeply wounding to know that he suspected me of having driven Philip to his death.
"Oh Philip," I said aloud, "I will never believe you did that. It is quite impossible; I know it is. But what happened?"
And there I was as close to the tragedy as I had been on the morning Rollo had come to tell me it had happened.
Because my thoughts had been far away in the past I had not noticed how deep into the woods I had penetrated and it occurred to me that I ought to retrace my steps and return to the inn, but I was in no great hurry to do this, as there was a lonely evening ahead of me.
I must not get lost, however, so I did turn and, as I thought, went back the way I had come, expecting I should shortly arrive at the spot where the trees grew less closely together and glimpse the sea again. But I did not and very soon I had lost all sense of direction and realized with dismay that I was lost.
I assured myself that I must eventually come out to the sea, but after I had walked for half an hour I was still in the woods. At last I came to a gate and hopefully opened it and passed through. Here the trees grew less thick and I thought that if I went on I might come to a house and ask the way.
As I entered a clearing I heard the sound of horse's hoofs and a rider came into sight. It was a man on a gray horse and he hurriedly pulled up at the sight of me.
"Can you help me?" I asked. "I'm lost."
"You are in fact trespassing," he replied. "These woods are private because of the pheasants."
"Oh dear, I am sorry. I was really trying to find my way out of them."
"Where do you want to go?" he asked.
"I'm staying at the Polcrag Inn."
"You have come a long way."
"Longer than I realized, I'm afraid."
"The easiest way now is past the house. Actually that is even more private, but it's a shortcut."
"Do you think the owner would mind?"
"I'm sure he wouldn't," he said with a smile. "As a matter of fact, I don't and it's my house. I'm Michael Hydrock."
"Then these are your woods. I must apologize."
"Oh, strangers often stray in. It's so easy to slip into the private section. We should have more notices put up."
"If you will kindly show me the way I should be grateful."
"I will with pleasure."
I took a step forward and as I did so tripped over an old beech trunk and fell sprawling onto the grass.
He immediately sprang from his horse and helped me up. I noticed what a pleasant face he had, it was comforting to see that he looked really concerned.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"I don't think so." I stood up. Then I touched my ankle.
"You can stand on it, I see. Can you walk?"
"Yes. I think so."
"It might be painful later. You certainly can't walk all the way back. I tell you what we'll do. We're close to the house. We'll go in and see how badly hurt you are and I could send you to the inn in a carriage."
"This is too kind."
"Not at all. I'll help you onto my horse and I can walk it back," he said.
"That's quite unnecessary. I'm sure I can hobble."
"You might do some harm if you did," he insisted quietly.
"But I'm being such a nuisance. First I trespass and then you have to give up your horse for me."
"It's the least I can do," said the man.'
He helped me onto his horse and, walking beside it, led it forward.
There is one thing I shall never forget—my first glimpse of Hydrock Manor House. We had come out of the wood and there before us it stood—this gray stone dwelling with its embattled gatehouse and the pointed arch at the entrance, the spandrels of the doorway decorated with Gothic patterns. On the smoothest and greenest of lawns I believed I had ever seen strutted a gorgeous peacock, brilliant and disdainful, followed admiringly by his comparatively drab little mate.
I experienced a deep sense of peace such as I had never known before. Places had always affected me deeply. For no reason I felt suddenly happy to be there in spite of the fact that I had hurt my ankle and was dependent on the kindness of a stranger.
There was a gravel path cutting across the lawn to the archway and we went along this and through the arch into a courtyard. Here, too, the sense of deep peace prevailed. Little tufts of grass grew between the cobbles, onto which latticed windows looked out.
The man called "Tom!" and helped me from his horse. Tom, obviously a groom, came hurrying out; he gave me a look as if surprised and took the horses.
"Come this way," said my host, and led me through a door.
We were in a hall—not large but beautifully proportioned, with a hammer-beam-type roof. The floor was paved in a mosaic design and there was a dais at one end and a minstrel gallery at the other.
"I think," said Michael Hydrock, "that I'd better call my old housekeeper. She would know whether the ankle is badly hurt or not She's something of an authority on such matters. But first, do sit down."
He pulled a bell rope and I heard a bell clanging through the house as I sat down gratefully on one of the wooden chairs, which must have dated back to the sixteenth century, and looked up at the fine tapestry on the walls.
He followed my gaze. "It represents the events in the life of Bishop Trelawny, who is highly thought of here," he told me. "There you see him on his way to the Tower of London. And there you see the people of Cornwall marching. You probably know the old song. Most people do: