Percy Blakeney was born on the fifth of December, 1760, at Blake House. 

A deep and lasting sorrow overshadowed the lives of the Blakeneys at this time. Percy was only a few weeks old when his mother fell a prey to the terrible malady which in those days was looked upon as incurable and nothing short of a curse from God. Algernon Blakeney had the terrible misfortune of seeing his idolized wife become hopelessly insane after two years of happy married life. Madness was a stigma which attached itself, so people said, only to those who had erred in life, but since no one could point the finger of accusation at the Blakeneys or the Dewhursts, this sickness, therefore, was regarded as a mystery, a visitation of the devil or a witch's foul curse for some imagined insult. Many looked upon it as a just punishment predestined ever since the time when John Blake had deserted his Dutch wife over a century ago. But these only circulated in private and with extreme caution, since the vast wealth of Algernon and the great social and political influence of Lord Fulford precluded any veiled hints from being uttered in the open. One and all, however, pitied the new-born babe who had entered this world amidst such disastrous circumstances, already predicting a dreadful and miserable destiny for this scion of a noble race.

And indeed, it proved a tragic misfortune for both husband and son; the one deprived of the society and joy of a beautiful wife; the other of the tender care of a loving mother. And one can only conjecture how that poor woman must have suffered in the isolation of her deranged brain.

Joan Dewhurst was only eighteen when she married Algernon Blakeney. Her father was a younger brother of the Marquis of Fulford and the alliance was considered a very fitting one, though, according to some, the girl might easily have chosen a husband who stood higher up in the ranks of nobility, her beauty and accomplishments being famed far and wide. As to Joan herself, she seemed, at first, to have stepped straight into the romance of fairyland hand in hand with a Prince Charming who frankly adored her. And the young couple seemed to have nothing but happiness to look forward to in life. But within two years, a distracted husband was forced to leave his home and to take with him into exile a woman who did not even recognize here erstwhile lover, who had wandered away into a land of shadow lonelier and more terrifying than death.

For Percy it was a curious jumble of recollections that eventually emerged from these first few years of life. There was never a connected memory; it seemed as if isolated incidents alone held sway in the boy's mind. Somewhere or other, there were storms at sea, evil-smelling boats, the bustling of strange lands and the din of foreign incomprehensible languages; somewhere else, the green meadows, the lowing of cattle and the serenity of an English spring. At one time, there was the utter desolation of illness and the frenzies of his father at another, the soft hands of a young woman and the jolly romps with an aged grandfather. But through them all there was no distinct line drawn between each set of impressions, they being, as it were, mixed higgledy-piggledy one into another, so that he could not tell which was first or which was last; the one evoking, even to his dying day, a sense of oppression and of evil presentiment, whilst the other induced always a feeling of well-being and cheerfulness.

One of the earliest recollections and the first milestones in his life, must have been the sudden collapse and death of old Sir George. The shock was a tremendous one for Percy. Though only just turned five at the time, he remembered every detail of that fateful afternoon when, alone with his grandfather at Blake House and whilst in the act of playing together, the old man stumbled and fell at the boy's feet. The sight of the heavy ashen figure, the noise of the laboured and stertorous breathing terrified him. He watched the still figure with horror and alarm. 

In his childish incomprehension of what had happened, he stood gazing down at the lifeless body until a feeling of sudden and utter loneliness surged up within his heart and took possession of his faculties. He remained motionless, hesitating, striving to repel the growing fear which all in a moment had now gripped his mind. He touched his grandfather; he tried to lift him, but the dead weight was too heavy for him to lift. Then the silence of the room suddenly struck Percy with a shock -- a shock of awe and dread. He called to the old man, softly at first, coaxingly; then louder and louder until his voice sounded like a shrill shriek which echoed unanswered through the room.

After a valiant battle with himself he incontinently fled from the room. In an upstairs attic he faced the awful truth. The impression of a mysterious, hidden enemy, who stalked people unseen, striking without warning or reason, was an overwhelming one to his infant mind and remained as vivid in old age as it had been at the time of the occurrence. Thereafter, death became a reality long before it should; an actual person whom Percy endowed with flesh and blood; a person to be tracked down, detected and overcome; an insatiable monster to be cheated, its appetite to be starved.

"I shall never forget," he is reported to have said on one occasion to his intimate friend, Anthony Dewhurst, "my first sight of death. It was so unheroic, so damned stupid, that I was overcome with shame at the idea that it could kill a Blakeney in so silly a fashion."

Algernon, summoned in haste, failed utterly to grasp the situation as it appeared in the eyes of his son.

"Why did you run away?" the father asked.

And Percy, an emotion of strong aversion prompting him, made answer:

"I couldn't help it: I was so ashamed."

The aftermath of this episode was to see the temporary break-up of the Blake household.

The French doctors under whom Lady Blakeney had undergone treatment at various private institutions, were now hopeful of a partial recovery and begged Sir Algernon to bring Percy over to France in order that the reunion of mother and son might hasten the desired cure. Hitherto, at their insistence, the father had refused, strongly opposing their entreaties on the ground that the shock might have a deleterious result on his wife and fearing lest it might produce a feeling of revulsion in Percy which might ruin his whole future outlook on life. The opportunity for the experiment had now, however, presented itself. After the formalities of death and succession had been complied with, the new baronet left the property in the hands of a capable lawyer and set sail for Calais with his son.

The next two years are almost a blank. There exists no exact record of the Blakeney wanderings. That the meeting of mother and son nearly ended in disaster, that the boy ran more or less wild, that Sir Algernon grew more and more morose, is certain. But the details are entirely lacking. Percy never could remember any fixed event during those twenty-four months, so overcome was he by the death of his beloved grandfather, and so bewildered was he by his mother's strange attitude towards him.

Again there were only blurred and faint recollections; a fat French woman who washed clothes and taught him "argot"; a rapid transitory impression of varied houses and queer streets; here and there, some vague picture of tramping dispirited soldiers, a bunch of ragged children jeering at him, calling him foul names, of long, wearisome journeys in rickety stage coaches.

During this time, however, one very definite emotion emerged, his indifference to his father. On the occasions when they met there was always friction. It seemed as if Percy could never do right -- either he was too noisy and boisterous or else too subdued and shy. Percy stood in awe of this strange man whom he scarcely knew and whose moods were so changeable.

Sir Algernon, on his side, could not understand the high spirited temperament of his son. Thus it came about that they bickered and quarrelled continuously over unimportant trifles until at length a definite sense of hostility was born and effectively erected a barrier against mutual understanding. Percy found himself hugged and embraced one minute only to be repulsed with angry words the next; whilst Sir Algernon was bitterly hurt by his son's unresponsiveness and was deeply offended by the total disregard paid to his wishes.

Gradually, however, Percy learnt to contain his lively spirits, refraining from childish provocation. He appeared, at this time, stupid in the presence of his elders, since he could not adapt himself to their varying moods. On the other hand the atmosphere was not very conducive to friendly relationship, since his father was too deeply steeped in his own misery to give a thought to any one else. He felt that Percy could not share his sorrow and would not understand it. Neither ever attempted to approach the other or to find a common foundation on which to build a mutual trust. Thus they drifted apart, the breach widening with the years until they became strangers.

Lady Blakeney, having taken a turn for the worse, was ordered to go to Berlin, where a famous specialist for the mind was achieving remarkable results. Thither Sir Algernon departed in high hopes and Percy found himself once more at Blake House under the care of Anne Derwent. 

Anne was only seventeen when she married Captain Edward Derwent, a young and wealthy army officer. The girl had been content with her lot at first; she knew no other happiness since she had passed her girlhood in the religious seclusion deemed necessary in those days for the well-being of maidens in exalted social circles. The honeymoon bliss, however, did not last; she found herself deserted for mistresses and ballet-girls, until, after five years of misery, she was left a widow, Edward having committed suicide owing to a threatened court martial. Soon after that she was in residence at Blake House under the protection of Sir Algernon Blakeney, her maternal uncle.

Percy adored this cousin of his, who, in gratitude, poured out her starved love upon this boy so tragically deprived of home and companionship. She quickly divined the streak of romanticism which lay slumbering in his heart, and carefully nurtured it so that it evoked in him a flame which burnt brightly all through his life. Under her guidance life became tinged with romance; every act and thought was invested with glamour. The stories of mythology and the tales of adventure ceased to be mere tales and became actual happenings made real by his vivid imagination. He carried them into his play, treating his games seriously as if they were real events so that, in the end, he would reproduce faithfully but often with disastrous results the incidents recounted in his story books.

Unfortunately, he chose for the "damsels in distress" he desired to rescue as mythical hero, the daughters of the neighboring squires, and the complaints of Percy's wildness and roughness became so notorious that on several occasions only pecuniary damages salved the feelings of outraged parents. The climax of these exploits nearly brought about a scandal on one occasion. After he had carefully studied the story of Perseus and Andromeda he lured his small neighbor, Mary Ffoulkes, aged nine, out into the park and, having stripped her of all her clothes in imitation of the picture in his book, he immersed her in a stream and bound her to the trunk of a tree. The rescue was carried out to the last detail and Percy triumphantly brought the girl home, unfortunately forgetting that she was still in a state of complete nudity. Filling the house with laughter, he deposited his frail and dripping burden at her mother's feet, exclaiming:

"I've just rescued her from the sea dragon. I claim the reward of her hand in marriage."

Anne Derwent went as usual as the peacemaker and, as soon as Lady Ffoulkes had recovered from the vapors and little Mary was safely tucked up in a warm bed, she questioned Percy.

"But why on earth did you strip the child and immerse her in water? Why can't you play like other children? Why can't you pretend that such things are only a game?"

To which Percy gave the unexpected reply:

"That would not be the same thing. It must be real. What is the good of pretending I am rescuing a princess in distress? She would not be properly frightened if she knew that it was only a game."

And Percy laughed that boisterous and hearty laugh of his which was irresistible. Gradually both Anne and Lady Ffoulkes thawed under its influence so they could not find it in their hearts to continue to scold.

But these pranks had become too frequent of late to allow them to pass unchecked and Anne grew apprehensive as to the effect of so much freedom and enforced idleness on the boy's moral character. She thought it was her duty to acquaint Sir Algernon with these daily episodes of Percy's life, and at last the father awoke to the realization that his son was growing up and was no longer in the baby stage. He perceived that Anne was not strong enough to cope with the lad any longer: but he absolutely refused to leave his wife and take charge of the boy himself.

The result was an impasse, a stage of vacillation on the part of the father which threatened to have an injurious effect on the boy's entire future. However, there was already something fine and strong in Percy's character, for temperamentally he did not seem to be any worse for this period of laxity in his moral education. In the end it was Anne Derwent's constant and repeated pleadings that forced Sir Algernon to rouse himself out of his supineness. He finally decided that the time had come for Percy to learn to work. Hence, very soon after this adventure with little Mary Ffoulkes the boy was introduced to the books and school studies.

During this first dozen years of his life, it was only natural that, as he was constantly passing from pillar to post, Percy should only have received the most elementary education. It is to be feared that he displayed an exaggerated talent for idleness coupled with a total incapacity to master the principles of hard work. With no fixed abode, lessons and discipline had been out of the question or else reduced by fits and starts to the absolute minimum at the kind though somewhat incompetent hands of Anne Derwent, so that the boy learnt to hate school books and took no pleasure in erudition.

On the other hand his early travels had inculcated in him a knowledge of men and affairs far in advance of his years; with that imitative capacity inherent in most children, he had picked up without conscious effort a remarkable fluency in French for one so young, which language he soon spoke not only idiomatically, but without the slightest trace of foreign accent.

Up to his seventh year he had been allowed to gratify his every whim and his chief delight was the pursuit of all sport such as a boy of his age could indulge in. From his earliest days his physique had been above the ordinary. He was broader, taller, and stronger than most boys of his own age. His well-knit little body and his long legs never seemed to tire however great the strain put upon them. He was able to outrun and outbox the country lads. And he hunted with the local hounds, never boggling at fences or refusing the exhausting cross-country runs.

But this freedom was now to come to an abrupt end. In consequence, Blake House saw a succession of tutors, for the most part worthy schoolmasters or clerics who, desirous of increasing their meager stipends, were loath to give up a lucrative post and took the line of least resistance.

One and all were sent away or resigned their duties through sheer inability to make any headway with the boy, though Percy was very far from being stupid. He had a rooted aversion to Latin and Greek and neither threats nor promises of reward induced him to alter his opinion. In mathematics he showed a marked genius for the business side of figures -- a genius doubtless inherited from ancestor Blake. At the early age of ten he could keep an account book and ledgers, and computed compound interest. But the higher branches, such as algebra and trigonometry, frankly bored him, so that his teachers soon gave up the attempt of driving those into his head.

Above all, Percy showed a marvelously inventive faculty for getting rid of his tutors and he contrived to play on them some of those mad pranks of which he was so fond. A Mr. Horace Webley suffered very severely at his hands. To him, Percy took an instant dislike and determined to rid himself of his unwanted presence: this he duly effected by the simple expedient of tying Webley up in a disused barn and leaving him there for twenty-four hours. The poor man had to rely on a pile of green apples for his sole substance, thereby enduring such torture of colic that he could hardly walk to the London coach the next day.

"Thank goodness," Percy exclaimed that same afternoon to Anne, "I hated Webley; he was always so greasily dressed."

Sir Algernon, over in Berlin, was duly notified of his son's wilfulness and waywardness, but obstinately closed his eyes to the root cause of it all. Sick to death, however, of the eternal complaints which reached him from England, he decided to have the boy educated abroad. As luck or chance had it, he was called to Paris on business. He therefore sent for his son to join him there. For the next six months Percy lived in France with his father. Only one notable incident occurred during this stay. 

In Paris, Percy had occasion to learn swordsmanship. He managed, though only nine years old at the time, to learn the intricacies of sword play as practiced in France. He subdued his strength and bulk, turning them into a neat and precise machine under the control of his brain and eyes. His master, one of the champion fencers of Paris, was astounded not only at this English boy's diligence, but also at his wonderful capacity to master the complicated ripostes and elaborate parries then in vogue, which he executed with a flick of his iron wrist as if born to the art.

Since the fashion and the ridged rules of etiquette then pertaining to aristocracy of France considered dueling the only possible method of wiping out an insult, the sons of the nobility were gathered together in the Cercle d'escrime, there to receive the requisite training in sword play, and be taught to conform as closely as possible to the unwritten laws of their elders. Thus duels between children were of everyday occurrence and though Percy, being an English boy, was averse to settling quarrels in this foreign fashion, he was often dragged into what was called in those days an affair of honour.

In the annals of the Club, there is inscribed a date with the names of two boys who fought a duel on a memorable occasion. The story forms part of the archives of two noteworthy families. The date is January 10th, 1769, and the names are: Percy Blakeney, aged nine, and the Vicomte de Bonnefin, aged eleven.

The young Vicomte had been watching Percy lunging desultory at a padded target; a patronizing, somewhat contemptuous smile curled his lips and suddenly he snatched the épée from the English boy's hand with the insolent remark:

"You cannot expect an English booby to lunge gracefully," and he proceeded to give Percy a lesson in the art. "All Englishmen are bullies," he went on with the same impudence, "but this one is mad."

Percy, whose youthful temper was not under that control which he achieved in manhood, merely knocked the braggart down and rescued his sword. Thereupon uproar ensued: it was an insult, a challenge, more portentous and venomous than any of those petty quarrels that occured in the Circle. It was a direct challenge from perfidious Albion to Madame la France.

Within a few minutes, in shirt sleeves, the young opponents stood face to face, surrounded by an angry crowd of boys all of whom were partisans of their own compatriot. Percy was alone, unsupported, except by the fencing master who, supervising the fight with commendable impartiality, encouraged the English lad. Unfortunately the Vicomte, though two years the elder, was no match for the calm impassivity and steel wrist of Percy.

It became obvious from the beginning that France was getting the worst of the encounter, and England seemed deliberately to heap insult upon insult by disarming the opponent at every opportunity, and returning his sword with a mischievous look in a pair of lazy blue eyes. Indeed, for Percy, the whole episode had by then developed into a joke and become not a little ridiculous. In England fists would have decided the quarrel and he felt that this smacked of the theatre. The affair became silly and distasteful to him; he lost interest and fenced with as sure a wrist as before but more mechanically.

Then came disaster. The boys were now both cross and tired: the foil play grew wild and uncontrolled. The Vicomte hurled himself impotently against his tormentor. Percy, staggered by the unexpected attack, was not able to parry sufficiently quickly to avoid an accident. The shock of the onslaught sent the French boy's épée clashing to the floor. The lad staggered. Percy, thrown off his balance, slipped and his sword pierced de Bonnefin's right shoulder, inflicting a very severe wound. The Vicomte slithered to the floor and, with scarcely a groan, lapsed into unconsciousness. In those days surgery was still in its infancy: the wound did not prove mortal, but it became septic and the arm had ultimately to be amputated. De Bonnefin went through life with one arm and enfeebled health.

When paying his respects to the boy's father, Percy said ruefully:

"Sir, why don't you fight with fists like I learnt to do in England?"

Just after this episode, in the month of February of that year, Lady Blakeney seemed to recover her senses: her health was better and an improvement in her mental condition became markedly noticeable. So Percy was immediately dragged to Berlin.

A childish letter, treasured by Anne Derwent, gives us an amusing insight into Percy's mind when he first went to Germany.

"My dearest cousin Anne," he wrote six weeks after his installation in Berlin, "The Prussians are beastly people, I hate them all. I am not allowed to play those lovely games that we played together last year. Everybody is so stiff and the do not know how to enjoy themselves as we used to.

"I wish you were here. You would laugh at Hans who thinks such a lot of himself. He is a coward and would not fight me. He said such a thing was simply not done and that boys in Germany did not behave so stupidly. I like Mister Ingram. He is English and I stay with him, but I wish he would not talk German all the time. Father says I must learn to speak it and Mister Ingram gives me lessons every day and gives me cakes if I learn well. Hans does not like Mister Ingram who teaches him English. I don't think Mister Ingram gives him cakes after the lesson.

"Father rides with me every morning. I love that. The German soldiers are very smart, but very ugly.

"Dear cousin Anne, do come and take me away."

As a matter of fact, the journey to Germany had a great and lasting effect upon the immature lad. The laxity and the offensive morals of the French had made a deep impression upon him. His duel with de Bonnefin with its sad consequences, and his association with young boys who had never been taught to put a curb upon their desires, had developed in him some sense of revolt against his father's strict discipline, and especially against the life which he knew he would have to lead in England sooner or later.

"Sir, let us live in France for ever," Percy is reported to have said to his father when he first heard of the imminent departure for Germany.

But German respectability, the outcome of the spirit of Martin Luther, exercised a more steadying influence on his character. Here in Berlin he learnt many useful lessons in decorum and manners. The effeminate and elaborate courtesies demanded in France cut no ice in Germany. Percy found himself laughed at by his equals and deliberately snubbed. This brought him down to earth and he soon realized that frivolity and love of pleasure were not the real hall-marks of a gentleman and that personality was the only thing that counted.

Such a complete reversal of childish ideas might have been a task beyond the ordinary powers of a mere lad. But Percy, though still very young, had already a certain strength of character -- though most people who knew him at the time would have denied it -- this helped him, no doubt, to surmount many difficulties and to bend his young mind to this entirely new outlook on life. The lesson was hard, but he learnt it in the end.

Then, within a year, came the death of Lady Blakeney: this was a merciful release for all concerned after nearly ten years of sorrow and terror and it put an end to Sir Algernon's foreign wanderings.

He returned to England with Percy and took up residence at Blake, endeavouring to gather up the threads of a tangled life. But existence seemed a paltry affair for this disillusioned and unhappy man. Though friends and relations gathered round him to ease his loneliness and to apply the healing balm of friendship to his wounds, he could not forget the tormented years. The stress of continual worry and the strain of perpetual anxiety had added years to his age and put a blight upon his mind which nothing seemed to cure or even alleviate. He sank deeper and deeper into the gloom of misery and wretchedness, unable to endure the slightest reference to the beloved departed. A restlessness, born of this spiritual ache, forbade him peace: it pushed him to the grave-side of his wife in his longing to be as near as possible to her earthly remains. He became a wanderer on the face of the earth, knowing no rest. 

In the meantime, Percy was growing up in this brooding, mournful atmosphere.

Anne Derwent, in spite of her sense of gratitude, found herself antagonized by Sir Algernon. Though she had devoted all her energies to the education of Percy and the maintenance of the estate, Sir Algernon did not seem to appreciate her loyalty: he certainly never rewarded it. After a few months, Anne, wearied and dispirited, cast about for an excuse to leave Blake House, but all her attempts in that direction were frustrated by Sir Algernon, who seemed incapable of managing his house and his estate without her assistance.

But a young and pretty woman cannot continue to live in the house of a rich widower without causing a certain amount of scandal. Though the village knew how closely Anne was related to the Blakeney family, the gossip-mongers soon spread unpleasant rumours. These rumours were carefully kept away from Sir Algernon's ears, but they were freely discussed in taproom and bar parlour. Gradually, however, gossip grew more bold and an inkling of it filtrated through to the neighbouring gentry, with the result that Anne found herself stared at in the road and on more than one occasion was subject to open insult.

Anne Derwent was not a fool. She realized quickly enough that her position would soon become untenable and, hardening her heart against the separation from Percy, she forthwith packed her trunks. Sir Algernon raved and fumed when she broke the news of here imminent departure. He threatened to have the law upon the slanderers: he pleaded with her to remain if only for Percy's sake. But Anne, glad of an excuse for leaving Blake House, refused to be turned from her purpose.

After her departure, others, both friends and relations, followed her example. Though they pitied both Sir Algernon and the boy, Percy, from the bottom of their hearts, they felt they could not face a long visit at Blake House, and contented themselves with writing occasional sympathetic letters which generally remained unanswered.

Sir Algernon hardly noticed the gradual falling away of his circle of friends, steeped as he was in memories of the past, but he did try to settle down and to give his son some kind of home life. Unfortunately, he had lost the power of visualizing a parent's duties and neglected the most important ones, either through lack of knowledge or total indifference. In consequence, Percy was thrown on his own resources and quickly developed a tendency to run wild with the abandon of a savage. His father thereafter found life very complicated; he was at an absolute loss how to cope with the boy and generally alternated between the extremes of severity and the limit of leniency. Frequent chastisements, however, had the effect of irritating Percy into worse excesses until, at length, Sir Algernon found home life well nigh intolerable; row following row with painful regularity.

Most of Percy's pranks, since "maidens in distress and tutors to be tortured" had been banned, now consisted in expeditions wherein horseplay and rascality were most conspicuous. These pranks were generally carried out with the co-operation of the farmers' boys recruited from the neighbourhood -- boys who readily accepted the young gentleman's leadership either from sheer admiration of his pluck or fear of his hammer-like fists.

These escapades consisted in raids on neighbouring farmyards, carried out with audacity and cunning, chiefly to the detriment of live-stock; one farmer discovered his cows unable to leave the stable because all their tails had been tied together with rope; another noticed that his prize white pigs had been painted over in patriotic colours. There naturally followed stormy interviews with irate farmers, ending in severe inroads on the Blakeney income and a sound beating for Percy, until Sir Algernon finally realized his own total incapacity to deal with his turbulent son.

He therefore came to the conclusion, with a certain amount of personal satisfaction, that the best way to be rid of Percy would be to send him to school, a proceeding which solved the problem of education for the boy and relieved the father from further responsibility. 

So the boy was sent to Harrow and Sir Algernon packed up his trunks and returned to Paris.