"He was ill for a long time before he died. That left the reins in my hands."

"And it was then that things began to improve?"

"People on the Island will tell you so. There! Now you're not so happy. Don't talk about the past, Ellen. You're here. Let's go on from there."

He smiled at me and I fancied I saw in his eyes that which faintly alarmed me. But I was in a happy mood as we rode into the stables. It had been an exciting and stimulating morning.

It was afternoon. We had had a luncheon of cold meats and salad, Jenifry, Jago and I. Gwennol had gone to the mainland. "She often gets one of the men to row her over on calm days like this," Jenifry explained.

She asked how I had enjoyed the morning and where we had been. She was very pleasant and I felt I had been overfanciful about the image I had seen in the mirror on the previous night.

Jago had to leave on some estate business and Jenifry told me she rested in the afternoons, so I said I would take a stroll round the castle alone. I should enjoy discovering things for myself.

It was about half past two when I set out—a beautiful September afternoon with the sun picking out pearly tints in the water. I passed between the battlemented bastions to a courtyard and before me was a Gothic arch and two stone steps considerably worn in the middle by thousands of footsteps. I should never cease to marvel at the countless people who must have trodden the castle steps to wear down the stone as it obviously was, and to wonder about their lives. I was in another courtyard which looked familiar and then I heard the cooing of the pigeons and recognized this as the spot I had visited on the previous evening.

Then I saw him. He was very small with a thatch of hair so fair that it was almost white; his eyes were very pale and the fact that he had fair sparse eyebrows and lashes gave him a look of surprise.

He turned suddenly and saw me. I judged him then to be about fourteen or fifteen although before I had seen his face, on account of his being so small, he had appeared to be younger.

He carried a bowl of maize in his hands and as he looked at me a bird perched on his shoulder. A look of fear came over his face and he started to walk towards the outhouse where I had seen a shadow when I was there before and which I now guessed to have been his.

I cried out: "Don't go, please. I've come to see the pigeons."

But he continued to move towards the outhouse.

"If you go the pigeons won't be fed," I reminded him. "Do let me see you feed them. I love the way they flutter round you."

He paused as though he were giving a great deal of consideration to his next move.

I had an inspiration. "I think you must be Slack," I said. "I met your mother at the inn."

He smiled slowly and nodded.

"I'm Ellen Kellaway. I've come to stay here for a while."

"Do you like the pigeons?" he asked.

"I don't know much about them, but I did hear the story of the brown pigeons taking the messages, and I thought that was wonderful."

"These take messages," he said proudly.

"It's like a miracle. They just know where to go, don't they?"

A smile crossed his face. "You train them," he said. He took a handful of maize from the bowl and threw it onto the cobbles. Several of the birds flew down and pecked at it. Some remained perched on the bowl. They cooed contentedly.

"I believe they know you," I said.

"Of course they do."

"How long have you been looking after them?"

"Ever since I've been here." He started counting on his fingers. It seemed something like five years.

"I saw you in there last night," I said, pointing to the outhouse.

"I saw you," he replied with a sly smile.

"I called you but you pretended you didn't hear."

He nodded and continued to look sly.

"May I look in now?"

"Do you want to?"

"Of course I do. I'm getting very interested in pigeons."

He opened the door and we stepped down three stone steps into a small room where sacks of maize and drinking troughs were stored.

"It's my pigeon house," he said. "But I've got to finish feeding them now."

We went back into the courtyard. He held out his arm and two birds immediately alighted on it. "There, my pretties," he murmured. "Be 'ee come to see Slacky then?"

I took a handful of the maize and threw it onto the cobbles. He watched the birds pecking at it. "You like pigeons, Miss," he said. "Her liked 'em too."

"Her?"

He nodded vigorously. "Her liked 'em. Her'd come and help me feed 'em. Then she went away."

"Who was that, Slack?" I asked.

"Her," he said. His eyes were bewildered. "Her just went away."

He was disturbed by the memory. I could see that he had almost forgotten my existence. He went on feeding the pigeons and because I could see that to question him further would only disturb him and make him less inclined to talk, I strolled off.

The next day Gwennol took me round the castle.

"Let's begin with the dungeons," she said. "They're really quite eerie."

We descended a stone spiral staircase clinging to a rope banister and as we did so she warned me to take care.

"These stairs are so treacherous. You never really get used to them. A few years ago one of the maids fell down and wasn't discovered for a day and a night. The poor creature was nearly out of her wits when they did find her—not so much with pain as with fear of ghosts. She swore some ghostly hand pushed her down and nothing would convince her to the contrary."

We had reached a kind of enclosed courtyard, the floor of which was cobbled; it was surrounded by doors. There must have been about eighteen of them. I pushed open one and saw a cell which was like a cave in which it would have been difficult for a man of normal height to stand upright. Fixed to the wall on a chain was a heavy iron ring. I shivered, realizing that this would be used to prevent the cell's inmate from escaping. The walls were seeping with moisture and there was a damp noisome odor about the place.

I shivered and shut the door. I opened another; there was a similar cavelike cell. I explored others. They were not all alike though equally dismal. Some were lofty with half windows high in the wall, glassless and barred. On one wall the sketch of a gallows was cut into the stone; on another an evil grinning face had been drawn. It was a dark gloomy place in which I knew many must have suffered utter despair.

"It's gruesome," I said.

Gwennol nodded. "Imagine yourself a prisoner here. You'd call and no one would hear you and if they did perhaps they wouldn't care."

"You can almost sense the suffering, the mental agony, the frustration and desperation that has gone on here," I said.

"Ugh! Morbid," she commented. "I can see you've had enough, but you had to have a look at them, of course. They're an important part of the castle."

We climbed the stairs to the upper regions and she took me through so many rooms that I lost count of them. We explored the towers—north, south, east and west; and we went along galleries and up and down staircases. She showed me the kitchens, the bakery, the buttery, the winery and the slaughterhouse; she introduced me to the servants, who bobbed their curtsies or touched their forelocks according to their sex and watched me guardedly and with obvious curiosity.

There was one room which led off the hall which interested me particularly because as we entered it she said: "I heard this was your mother's favorite room. Her name was Frances, wasn't it? Some of the older servants still call it Frances's room."

There was a step leading down to it and I followed Gwennol in. She seated herself on a settle which fitted exactly into an alcove.

"She used to paint, I heard," she went on. "She couldn't have used this room as a studio. It's not light enough. I don't think anyone has used it much since she went."

I looked round the room eagerly trying to picture her there. It was certainly not a bright room. The window was small and its panes leaded. It was furnished as a sitting room. There were a few chairs, a table, but little else apart from the wooden settle.

"I wonder if any of her things are still here," I said.

"Look in the cupboard."

I opened the door of this and cried out in triumph, for inside was an easel and some rolls of paper.

"These must have been hers," I cried, and as I picked up the roll of paper I saw a sketchbook lying on the floor. Written across it was her name: Frances Kellaway. This was indeed a discovery and I was so excited by it that my hand shook as I turned over the leaves. Gwennol rose from the settle and looked over my shoulder. There were sketches of the castle from various angles.

"She was quite an artist," said Gwennol.

"I want to take this book and look through it at my leisure," I said.

"Why not?"

"It's so exciting. You're amused, but I knew so little of my mother, and my father I can't remember at all. You must have known him."

"Nobody knew him well. I saw very little of him. I don't think he liked young people. He was ill for a long time and kept in his own rooms. I'd see him now and then in a wheelchair; Fenwick, his valet-secretary, looked after him. Uncle Jago would spend a lot of time with him discussing business. But he hardly seemed like a member of the household."

"It's strange when you come to think about it. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him and I never knew him."