Free The Master of Phoenix Hall by Jennifer Wilde Page A

thought, tall, thin, doing good works, lost to the world of romance. How many dreams must she have given up, how many bright plans must have vanished when she came back to the isolated manison to live with a dying mother and two brothers. Paul Mellory was even more tragic. He could never live a man’s life. His world must always be a narrow one. Books and music could never take the place of all the things that could never be his.
    A large black carriage drove up and a servant got out to help them inside. As the carriage drove away I could see Laurel’s pale, silvery blonde head against the cushion, and I could see Paul Mellory’s eyes. He was staring at me with something like hatred, and I felt very weak inside. He must think that I was looking at him because of his leg. He must think that I was rude. If only I could have spoken to him.
    The graveyard where my aunt was buried was in back of the church. Greg took me there, his fingers wrapped tightly about my elbow as we walked around the building. A high rock fence enclosed the yard, and a huge, ancient oak tree with spreading limbs grew in one corner. The limbs spread over most of the yard, making it dark and shadowy. Tall grass grew between the graves, and the markers for the most part were very old, cracked and yellowed with age. It was damp and chilly, and I stood close beside Greg as he pointed out the grave of my aunt.
    â€œI wish I had known her well,” I said.
    â€œShe would have liked you,” Greg replied.
    â€œDo you think so?”
    â€œHow could she have helped it. You are everything that a young woman should be.”
    â€œWhy do you say that?”
    â€œI think I am a qualified judge.”
    I looked into his eyes, wondering what he meant. I was not sure how I should take his remarks.
    â€œYou were a success with the villagers,” he continued. “They do not show approval openly, but it’s there if you know where to look. I could tell how pleased they were with you.”
    â€œI felt out of place,” I said.
    â€œYou will, for a while. And then you will feel that you belong. It is a wonderful feeling.”
    â€œDo you belong, Greg?” I asked.
    â€œTo Lockwood? I suppose I do. I’ve been accepted. I have a role to fill, and I have a place, but no, I don’t really belong here. I belong somewhere else.”
    I thought his voice had a curious tone.
    â€œWhere do you belong?” I asked.
    He smiled, and it was a strange smile. “I wish I knew,” he said. “Someday, perhaps, I’ll find out …”
    We left the graveyard and Greg took me to the schoolhouse to show me where he worked. It was closed up and locked for the weekend, all the boys sent home, but Greg had a key to the main door. He took me down a long hall and into the main classroom. I had an eerie feeling as I stood there looking at the twenty small wooden desks, each with its own ink pot. I recalled my own school days, and I thought there was something sad about this room. It smelled of chalk dust and ink, and it seemed to be still warm with the heat of young bodies. There was a bookcase crammed with old text books and stacks of paper, and a wooden podium faced the desks. The blackboard had Latin names written on it in large blocked letters.
    â€œHere is where I try to pound knowledge into young skulls,” Greg said, picking up the long wooden pointer and touching the blackboard with its tip. “Pretty impressive, aren’t I?”
    â€œDo you like teaching?” I inquired.
    â€œIt will do until—until something better comes along,” he replied, smiling. “I like the boys. I enjoy working with them. They’re healthy young animals and must be treated as such. I enjoy taking them on swimming jaunts and teaching them cricket. I get along nicely with them most of the time.”
    â€œBut you’re not happy?”
    â€œNot happy? Not unhappy. Maybe I want bigger things. Lockwood is