GHOSTS OF DEAD THINGS
"It was here," she said, as they passed through the walled gardenseawards, "that I saw you first--you and the other gentleman who was sokind to me."
Wingrave nodded.
"I believe that I remember it," he said; "you were a mournful-lookingobject in a very soiled pinafore and most untidy hair."
"I had been out on the cliffs," she reminded him, "where I am taking younow. If you are going to make unkind remarks about my hair, I think thatI had better fetch a hat."
"Pray don't leave me," he answered. "I should certainly lose my way.Your hair in those days was, I fancy, a little more--unkempt!"
She laughed.
"It used to be cut short," she said. "Hideous! There! Isn't thatglorious?"
She had opened the postern gate in the wall, and through the narrowopening was framed a wonderful picture of the Cornish sea, rollinginto the rock-studded bay. Its soft thunder was in their ears; saltand fragrant, the west wind swept into their faces. She closed the gatebehind her, and stepped blithely forward.
"Come!" she cried. "We will climb the cliffs where we left you aloneonce before."
Side by side they stood looking over the ocean. Her head was thrownback, her lips a little parted. He watched her curiously.
"You must have sea blood in your veins," he remarked. "You listen asthough you heard music all the time."
"And what about you?" she asked him, smiling. "You are the grandson ofAdmiral Sir Wingrave Seton who commanded a frigate at Trafalgar, and anancestor of yours fought in the Armada."
"I am afraid," he said quietly, "that there is a hiatus in my lifesomewhere. There are no voices which call to me any more, and my familyrecords are so much dead parchment."
Trouble passed into her glowing face and clouded her eyes.
"Ah!" she said, "I do not like to hear you talk so. Do you know thatwhen you do, you make me afraid that something I have always hoped forwill never come to pass?"
"What is it?" he asked.
"I have always hoped," she said, "that some day you would come once moreto Tredowen. I suppose I am rather a fanciful person. This is a countryof superstitions and fancies, you know; but sometimes when I have beenalone in the picture gallery with all that long line of dark faceslooking down upon me from the walls, I have felt like an interloper.Always they seem to be waiting! Tonight, after dinner, I will take youthere. I will try and show you what I mean."
He shook his head.
"I shall never come back," he said, "and there are no more of my name."
She hesitated. When at last she spoke, the color was coming and going inher cheeks.
"Sir Wingrave," she said, "I am only an ignorant girl, and I have noright to talk to you like this. Please be angry with me if you want to.I deserve it. I know all about--that ten years! Couldn't you forget it,and come back? None of the country people round here, your own people,believe anything evil about you. You were struck, and you struck backagain. A man would do that. You could be as lonely as you liked here,or you could have friends if you wished for them. But this is the placewhere you ought to live. You would be happier here, I believe, than inexile. The love of it all would come back, you would never be lonely.It is the same sea which sang to you when you were a child, and to yourfathers before you. It would bring you forgetfulness when you wanted it,or--"
Wingrave interrupted her. His tone was cold, but not unkind.
"My dear young lady," he said, "it is very good of you to be sosympathetic, but I am afraid I am not at all the sort of person youimagine me to be. What I was before those ten years--well, I haveforgotten. What I am now, I unfortunately know. I am a soured,malevolent being whose only pleasure lies in the dealing out to otherssome portion of the unhappiness which was dealt out to me."
"I do not believe it," she declared briskly.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Nevertheless, it is true," he declared coolly. "Listen! More or lessyou interest me. I will tell you something which I have never yettold to a single human being. I need not go into particulars. You willprobably believe a broad statement. My ten years' imprisonment was moreor less an injustice!"
"Sir Wingrave!"
He checked her. There was not a tremor in his tone. The gesture withwhich he had repelled her was stiff and emotionless.
"I went into prison one man, I came out another. While I live, Ishall never be able to think kindly again of a single one of my fellowcreatures. It was not my fault. So far as our affections are concerned,we are machines, all of us. Well, my mainspring has broken."
"I don't believe it," she declared.
"It is, nevertheless, true," he affirmed calmly. "I am living in exilebecause I have no friends, because friends have become an impossibilityto me. I shall not tell you any more of my life because you are youngand you would not believe me if I did. Some day," he added grimly, "youwill probably hear for yourself."
"I shall never believe anything," she declared, "which I do not chooseto believe. I shall never believe, for instance, that you are quite whatyou think yourself."
"We will talk of other things," he said. "Five years ago, you showedAynesworth where the seagulls built."
"And now I will show you," she exclaimed, "if you are sure that yourhead is steady enough. Come along!"...
It was after dinner that she took him into the picture gallery. MissHarrison, very much disturbed by the presence of the master of Tredowen,and still more so by the hint which she had already received as tocoming changes, followed them at a little distance.
"I am so sorry," Juliet said, "that we have no cigars or cigarettes."
"I seldom smoke," Wingrave answered.
"If only we had had the slightest idea of your coming," Miss Harrisonsaid for the tenth time, "we would have made more adequate preparations.The wine cellar, at least, could have been opened. I allowed Mr. andMrs. Tresfarwin to go for their holiday only yesterday, and the cellars,of course, are never touched."
"Your claret was excellent," Wingrave assured her.
"I am quite sure," Miss Harrison said, "that claret from the localgrocer is not what you are accustomed to--"
"My dear madam," Wingrave protested, "I seldom touch wine. Show me whichpicture it is, Juliet, that you--ah!"
She had led him to the end of the gallery and stopped before what seemedto be a plain oak cupboard surrounded by a massive frame. She looked athim half fearfully.
"You want to see that picture?" he asked.
"If I might."
He drew a bunch of keys from his pocket and calmly selected one. It wasa little rusty, but the cupboard turned at once on its hinges. A woman'sface smiled down upon them, dark and splendid, from the glowing touchof a great painter. Juliet studied it eagerly, and then stole a sidelongglance at the man by her side. He was surveying it critically andwithout any apparent emotion.
"Herkomer's, I think," he remarked. "Quite one of his best."
"It is your mother?" she whispered.
He nodded.
"I'm not great at genealogy," he said, "but I can go as far back asthat. She was by way of being a great lady, the daughter of the Duke ofWarminster."
"You were an only son," she said softly. "She must have been very fondof you."
"Customary thing, I suppose," he remarked. "Lucky for her, under thecircumstances, that she died young."
He closed the oaken door in front of the picture, and locked it.
"I should like to see the armory," he said; "but I really forget--let mesee, it is at the end of the long gallery, isn't it?"
She led him there without a word. She was getting a little afraid ofhim. They inspected the library and wandered back into the picturegallery. It was she, now, who was silent. She had shown him all herfavorite treasures without being able to evoke a single spark ofenthusiasm.
"Once," she remarked, "we all had a terrible fright. We were told thateverything was going to be sold."
He nodded.
"I did think of it," he admitte
d; "but there seemed to be no hurry. Allthese things are growing into money year by year. Some day I shall sendeverything to Christie's."
She looked at him in horror.
"You cannot--oh, you cannot mean it?" she cried.
"Why not? They are no use to me."
"No use?" she faltered.
"Not a bit. I don't suppose I shall see them again for many years. Andthe money--well, one can use that."
"But I thought--that you were rich?" she faltered.
"So I am," he answered, "and yet I go on making more and more, and Ishall go on. Money is the whip with which its possessor can scourgehumanity. It is with money that I deal out my--forgive me, I forgot thatI was talking aloud, and to a child," he wound up suddenly.
She looked at him, dry-eyed, but with a strained look of sorrowstrangely altering her girlish face.
"You must be very unhappy," she said.
"Not at all," he assured her. "I am one of those fortunate personswho have outlived happiness and unhappiness. I have nothing to do butlive--and pay off a few little debts."
He rose directly afterwards, and she walked with him out to the gardenswhence a short cut led to the village.
"I have not tried again to make you change your mind," he said as theystood for a moment on the terrace. "If my wishes have any weight withyou, I trust that you will do nothing without consulting Mr. Pengarth."
"And you--" she faltered, "are you--never in London? Sha'n't I see youagain any time?"
"If you care to, by all means," he answered. "Tell Mr. Pengarth to letme have your address. Goodbye! Thank you for taking care of my treasuresso well."
She held his cold hand in hers and suddenly raised it to her lips. Thenshe turned away and hurried indoors.
Wingrave stood still for a moment and gazed at his hand through thedarkness as though the ghosts of dead things had flitted out from thedark laurel shrubs. Then he laughed quietly to himself.