The Pool of St. Branok Read Online Free PDF Page A

and sat under a blue and gold canopy. I could not take my eyes from her. In my mind I was there. I was Victoria—the proud wife, the wise mother, the great Queen—an example to the nation. I was very contented.
    It was an exhausting day. There was so much to see; I found the displays of workmanship, the efforts of all the countries to send of their best, and the famous people like the Duke of Wellington, very interesting. But nothing could compare with the sight of our little Queen, so radiantly happy, so human, yet very much the Queen. I loved her from that moment and it was the memory of her which would remain in my mind as the most thrilling spectacle of that day.
    There was talk of nothing else but the Exhibition. We discussed it endlessly.
    Aunt Amaryllis said: “Of course you will go again before you return to Cornwall.”
    My mother said we must.
    “Will the Queen be there?” I asked.
    “It would not surprise me,” replied Uncle Peter. “This is Albert’s conception and therefore in her eyes must be perfect.”
    “They fired the guns in Hyde Park,” I said, “and they did not shatter the glass dome.”
    “You remembered that, did you?” said Uncle Peter smiling.
    “Well, it was important.”
    “And a bit of a risk. But didn’t I tell you that risks have to be taken … and if you are bold they will work out in your favor.”
    We retired that night; and as soon as I lay down I was into a beautiful sleep of happy jumbled dreams … myself in pink and silver walking majestically up to the royal dais, everyone cheering me. It was a beautiful dream.
    It happened the following day.
    We were at luncheon, Matthew was there again—he was a very constant visitor—being coached in the way he must act in Parliament, I supposed.
    We were still talking about the Exhibition and were on the last course when there was a quiet knock on the door and Janson, the butler, appeared.
    He gave a discreet little cough and said: “There is a young gentleman to see you, sir.”
    “A gentleman? Can’t he wait until after luncheon, Janson?”
    “He said it was important, sir.”
    “Who is it?”
    “He calls himself a Mr. Benedict Lansdon, sir.”
    Uncle Peter sat very still for a few seconds. It was hardly noticeable but I was watching him closely and I thought he was a little disturbed.
    He half rose in his chair and then sat down again.
    “Oh,” he said. “Oh, very well, Janson, I’ll see him. Ask him to wait.”
    Janson went out and Uncle Peter looked at Aunt Amaryllis.
    She said, “Who is it, Peter? The name …”
    “It could be some long lost relative. I’ll sort it out … if you’ll all excuse me.”
    When he went out the chatter began.
    “I wonder who it is,” said Matthew. “It must be someone in the family. That name …”
    “How exciting,” I said.
    My mother smiled at me but said nothing.
    We had finished luncheon so we rose. Uncle Peter, I gathered, was still closeted in his study with the visitor.
    It is so frustrating to be young and have things kept from you. That there was an enormous mystery about Benedict Lansdon, I had no doubt. My father and mother talked of him in hushed whispers. Aunt Amaryllis looked a little dazed. I heard Matthew say to my father that he hoped it wouldn’t “get about.”
    I wondered what that meant.
    I listened; I watched; and gradually I began to learn the truth.
    Benedict was Uncle Peter’s grandson. He had been born in Australia fifteen years ago. His father was Uncle Peter’s son. Uncle Peter had been married only once and that was to Aunt Amaryllis, but that did not prevent his having a son of whom Amaryllis, until this moment, had never heard.
    I listened to my mother talking of it to my father. She said: “He passed it off as you would expect him to. A youthful misdemeanor … before he met Amaryllis, of course.”
    So Benedict was the result of a youthful misdemeanor.
    It was from Benedict that I heard more of the story than I could get from anyone else.