CHAPTER XI
The little station at which Hamel alighted was like an oasis in themiddle of a flat stretch of sand and marsh. It consisted only of a fewraised planks and a rude shelter--built, indeed, for the convenience ofSt. David's Hall alone, for the nearest village was two miles away. Thestation-master, on his return from escorting the young lady to her car,stared at this other passenger in some surprise.
"Which way to the sea?" Hamel asked.
The man pointed to the white gates of the crossing.
"You can take any of those paths you like, sir," he said. "If youwant to get to Salthouse, though, you should have got out at the nextstation."
"This will do for me," Hamel replied cheerfully.
"Be careful of the dikes," the station-master advised him. "Some of themare pretty deep."
Hamel nodded, and passing through the white gates, made his way by araised cattle track towards the sea. On either side of him flowed anarrow dike filled with salt-water. Beyond stretched the flat marshland,its mossy turf leavened with cracks and creeks of all widths, filledalso with sea-slime and sea-water. A slight grey mist rested upon themore distant parts of the wilderness which he was crossing, a mist whichseemed to be blown in from the sea in little puffs, resting for a timeupon the earth, and then drifting up and fading away like soap bubbles.
More than once where the dikes had overflown he was compelled to changehis course, but he arrived at last at the little ridge of pebbled beachbordering the sea. Straight ahead of him now was that strange-lookingbuilding towards which he had all the time been directing his footsteps.As he approached it, his forehead slightly contracted. There was ampleconfirmation before him of the truth of his fellow-passenger's words.The place, left to itself for so many years, without any attention fromits actual owner, was neither deserted nor in ruins. Its solid greystone walls were sea-stained and a trifle worn, but the arched woodendoors leading into the lifeboat shelter, which occupied one side of thebuilding, had been newly painted, and in the front the window was hungwith a curtain, now closely drawn, of some dark red material. The lockfrom the door had been removed altogether, and in its place was theaperture for a Yale latch-key. The last note of modernity was suppliedby the telephone wire attached to the roof of the lifeboat shelter. Hewalked all round the building, seeking in vain for some other meansof ingress. Then he stood for a few moments in front of the curtainedwindow. He was a man of somewhat determined disposition, and he foundhimself vaguely irritated by the liberties which had been taken with hisproperty. He hammered gently upon the framework with his fist, and thewindows opened readily inwards, pushing back the curtain with them.He drew himself up on to the sill, and, squeezing himself through theopening, landed on his feet and looked around him, a little breathless.
He found himself in a simply furnished man's sitting-room. An easelwas standing close to the window. There were reams of drawing paper andseveral unfinished sketches leaning against the wall. There was a smalloak table in the middle of the room; against the wall stood an exquisitechiffonier, on which were resting some cut-glass decanters and goblets.There was a Turkey carpet upon the floor which matched the curtains, butto his surprise there was not a single chair of any sort to be seen.The walls had been distempered and were hung with one or two engravingswhich, although he was no judge, he was quite sure were good. Hewandered into the back room, where he found a stove, a tea-service upona deal table, and several other cooking utensils, all spotlessly cleanand of the most expensive description. The walls here were plainlywhitewashed, and the floor was of hard stone. He then tried the door onthe left, which led into the larger portion of the building--the shed inwhich the lifeboat had once been kept. Not only was the door locked, buthe saw at once that the lock was modern, and the door itself was securedwith heavy iron clamps. He returned to the sitting-room.
"The girl with the grey eyes was right enough," he remarked to himself."Mr. Fentolin has been making himself very much at home with myproperty."
He withdrew the curtains, noticing, to his surprise, the heavy shutterswhich their folds had partly concealed. Then he made his way out alongthe passage to the front door, which from the inside he was able to openeasily enough. Leaving it carefully ajar, he went out with the intentionof making an examination of the outside of the place. Instead, however,he paused at the corner of the building with his face turned landwards.Exactly fronting him now, about three-quarters of a mile away, on thesummit of that strange hill which stood out like a gigantic rock inthe wilderness, was St. David's Hall. He looked at it steadily and withincreasing admiration. Its long, red brick front with its masses ofclustering chimneys, a little bare and weather-beaten, impressed himwith a sense of dignity due as much to the purity of its architectureas the singularity of its situation. Behind--a wonderfully effectivebackground--were the steep gardens from which, even in this uncertainlight, he caught faint glimpses of colouring subdued from brilliancy bythe twilight. These were encircled by a brick wall of great height, thewhole of the southern portion of which was enclosed with glass. From thefragment of rock upon which he had seated himself, to the raisedstone terrace in front of the house, was an absolutely straight path,beautifully kept like an avenue, with white posts on either side, andbuilt up to a considerable height above the broad tidal way which ranfor some distance by its side. It had almost the appearance of a racingtrack, and its state of preservation in the midst of the wilderness waslittle short of remarkable.
"This," Hamel said to himself, as he slowly produced a pipe from hispocket and began to fill it with tobacco from a battered silver box, "isa queer fix. Looks rather like the inn for me!"
"And who might you be, gentleman?"
He turned abruptly around towards his unseen questioner. A woman wasstanding by the side of the rock upon which he was sitting, a woman fromthe village, apparently, who must have come with noiseless footstepsalong the sandy way. She was dressed in rusty black, and in place of ahat she wore a black woolen scarf tied around her head and underneathher chin. Her face was lined, her hair of a deep brown plentifullybesprinkled with grey. She had a curious habit of moving her lips, evenwhen she was not speaking. She stood there smiling at him, but there wassomething about that smile and about her look which puzzled him.
"I am just a visitor," he replied. "Who are you?"
She shook her head.
"I saw you come out of the Tower," she said, speaking with a stronglocal accent and yet with a certain unusual correctness, "in at thewindow and out of the door. You're a brave man."
"Why brave?" he asked.
She turned her head very slowly towards St. David's Hall. A gleam ofsunshine had caught one of the windows, which shone like fire. Shepointed toward it with her head.
"He's looking at you," she muttered. "He don't like strangers pokingaround here, that I can tell you."
"And who is he?" Hamel enquired.
"Squire Fentolin," she answered, dropping her voice a little. "He'sa very kind-hearted gentleman, Squire Fentolin, but he don't likestrangers hanging around."
"Well, I am not exactly a stranger, you see," Hamel remarked. "My fatherused to stay for months at a time in that little shanty there and paintpictures. It's a good many years ago."
"I mind him," the woman said slowly. "His name was Hamel."
"I am his son," Hamel announced.
She pointed to the Hall. "Does he know that you are here?"
Hamel shook his head. "Not yet. I have been abroad for so long."
She suddenly relapsed into her curious habit. Her lips moved, but nowords came. She had turned her head a little and was facing the sea.
"Tell me," Hamel asked gently, "why do you come out here alone, so farfrom the village?"
She pointed with her finger to where the waves were breaking in a thinline of white, about fifty yards from the beach.
"It's the cemetery, that," she said, "the village cemetery, you know. Ihave three buried there: George, the eldest; James, the middle one;and David, the youngest. Three of
them--that's why I come. I can't putflowers on their graves, but I can sit and watch and look through thesea, down among the rocks where their bodies are, and wonder."
Hamel looked at her curiously. Her voice had grown lower and lower.
"It's what you land folks don't believe, perhaps," she went on, "butit's true. It's only us who live near the sea who understand it. I amnot an ignorant body, either. I was schoolmistress here before I marriedDavid Cox. They thought I'd done wrong to marry a fisherman, but I borehim brave sons, and I lived the life a woman craves for. No, I am notignorant. I have fancies, perhaps--the Lord be praised for them!--and Itell you it's true. You look at a spot in the sea and you see nothing--agleam of blue, a fleck of white foam, one day; a gleam of green with ablack line, another; and a grey little sob, the next, perhaps. But yougo on looking. You look day by day and hour by hour, and the chasms ofthe sea will open, and their voices will come to you. Listen!"
She clutched his arm.
"Couldn't you hear that?" she half whispered.
"'The light!' It was David's voice! 'The light!'" Hamel was speechless.The woman's face was suddenly strangely transformed. Her mood, however,swiftly changed. She turned once more towards the hall.
"You'll know him soon," she went on, "the kindest man in these parts,they say. It's not much that he gives away, but he's a kind heart. Yousee that great post at the entrance to the river there?" she wenton, pointing to it. "He had that set up and a lamp hung from there.Fentolin's light, they call it. It was to save men's lives. It wasburning, they say, the night I lost my lads. Fentolin's light!"
"They were wrecked?" he asked her gently.
"Wrecked," she answered. "Bad steering it must have been. James wouldsteer, and they say that he drank a bit. Bad steering! Yes, you'll meetSquire Fentolin before long. He's queer to look at--a small body but agreat, kind heart. A miserable life, his, but it will be made up to him.It will be made up to him!"
She turned away. Her lips were moving all the time. She walked about adozen steps, and then she returned.
"You're Hamel's son, the painter," she said. "You'll be welcome downhere. He'll have you to stay at the Hall--a brave place. Don't let himbe too kind to you. Sometimes kindness hurts."
She passed on, walking with a curious, shambling gait, and soon shedisappeared on her way to the village. Hamel watched her for a momentand then turned his head towards St. David's Hall. He felt somehow thather abrupt departure was due to something which she had seen in thatdirection. He rose to his feet. His instinct had been a true one.
The Vanished Messenger Page 11