The Malefactor

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  LORD OF THE MANOR

  She came slowly towards the two men through the overgrown rose garden,a thin, pale, wild-eyed child, dressed in most uncompromising black. Itwas a matter of doubt whether she was the more surprised to see them, orthey to find anyone else, in this wilderness of desolation. They stoodface to face with her upon the narrow path.

  "Have you lost your way?" she inquired politely.

  "We were told," Aynesworth answered, "that there was a gate in the wallthere, through which we could get on to the cliffs."

  "Who told you so?" she asked.

  "The housekeeper," Aynesworth answered. "I will not attempt to pronounceher name."

  "Mrs. Tresfarwin," the child said. "It is not really difficult. But shehad no right to send you through here! It is all private, you know!"

  "And you?" Aynesworth asked with a smile, "you have permission, Isuppose?"

  "Yes," she answered. "I have lived here all my life. I go where Iplease. Have you seen the pictures?"

  "We have just been looking at them," Aynesworth answered.

  "Aren't they beautiful?" she exclaimed. "I--oh!"

  She sat suddenly down on a rough wooden seat and commenced to cry. Forthe first time Wingrave looked at her with some apparent interest.

  "Why, what is the matter with you, child?" Aynesworth exclaimed.

  "I have loved them so all my life," she sobbed; "the pictures, and thehouse, and the gardens, and now I have to go away! I don't know where!Nobody seems to know!"

  Aynesworth looked down at her black frock.

  "You have lost someone, perhaps?" he said.

  "My father," she answered quietly. "He was organist here, and he diedlast week."

  "And you have no other relatives?" he asked.

  "None at all. No one--seems--quite to know--what is going to become ofme!" she sobbed.

  "Where are you staying now?" he inquired.

  "With an old woman who used to look after our cottage," she answered."But she is very poor, and she cannot keep me any longer. Mrs. Colsonsays that I must go and work, and I am afraid. I don't know anyoneexcept at Tredowen! And I don't know how to work! And I don't want togo away from the pictures, and the garden, and the sea! It is all sobeautiful, isn't it? Don't you love Tredowen?"

  "Well, I haven't been here very long, you see," Aynesworth explained.

  Wingrave spoke for the first time. His eyes were fixed upon the child,and Aynesworth could see that she shrank from his cold, unsympatheticscrutiny.

  "What is your name?" he asked.

  "Juliet Lundy," she answered.

  "How long was your father organist at the church?"

  "I don't know," she answered. "Ever since I was born, and before."

  "And how old are you?"

  "Fourteen next birthday."

  "And all that time," he asked, "has there been no one living atTredowen?"

  "No one except Mrs. Tresfarwin," she answered. "It belongs to a veryrich man who is in prison."

  Wingrave's face was immovable. He stood on one side, however, and turnedtowards his companion.

  "We are keeping this young lady," he remarked, "from what seems to beher daily pilgrimage. I wonder whether it is really the pictures, orMrs. Tresfarwin's cakes?"

  She turned her shoulder upon him in silent scorn, and looked atAynesworth a little wistfully.

  "Goodbye!" she said.

  He waved his hand as he strolled after Wingrave.

  "There you are, Mr. Lord of the Manor," he said. "You can't refuse to dosomething for the child. Her father was organist at your own church, anda hard struggle he must have had of it, with an absentee landlord, and acongregation of seagulls, I should think."

  "Are you joking?" Wingrave asked coldly.

  "I was never more in earnest in my life," Aynesworth answered. "The girlis come from gentlefolks. Did you see what a delicate face she had, andhow nicely she spoke? You wouldn't have her sent out as a servant, wouldyou?"

  Wingrave looked at his companion ominously.

  "You have a strange idea of the duties of a landlord," he remarked. "Doyou seriously suppose that I am responsible for the future of every bratwho grows up on this estate?"

  "Of course not!" Aynesworth answered. "You must own for yourself thatthis case is exceptional. Let us go down to the Vicarage and inquireabout it."

  "I shall do nothing of the sort," Wingrave answered. "Nor will you! Doyou see the spray coming over the cliffs there? The sea must be worthwatching."

  Aynesworth walked by his side in silence. He dared not trust himself tospeak. Wingrave climbed with long, rapid strides to the summit ofthe headland, and stood there with his face turned seawards. The longbreakers were sweeping in from the Atlantic with a low, insistent roar;as far as the eye could reach the waves were crusted with white foam.Every now and then the spray fell around the two men in a littledazzling shower; the very atmosphere was salt. About their heads theseagulls whirled and shrieked. From the pebbled beach to the horizonthere was nothing to break the monotony of that empty waste of waters.

  Wingrave stood perfectly motionless, with his eyes fixed upon thehorizon. Minute after minute passed, and he showed no signs of moving.Aynesworth found himself presently engaged in watching him. Thoughtsmust be passing through his brain. He wondered what they were. It washere that he had spent his boyhood; barely an hour ago the two men hadstood before the picture of his father. It was here, if anywhere, thathe might regain some part of his older and more natural self. Was it astruggle, he wondered, that was going on within the man? There wereno signs of it in his face. Simply he stood and looked, and looked, asthough, by infinite perseverance, the very horizon itself might recede,and the thing for which he sought become revealed....

  Aynesworth turned away at last, and there, not many yards behind,apparently watching them, stood the child. He waved his hand andadvanced towards her. Her eyes were fixed upon Wingrave half fearfully.

  "I am afraid of the other gentleman," she whispered, as he reached herside. "Will you come a little way with me? I will show you a seagull'snest."

  They left Wingrave where he was, and went hand in hand, along the cliffside. She was a curious mixture or shyness and courage. She talked verylittle, but she gripped her companion's fingers tightly.

  "I can show you," she said, "where the seagulls build, and I can tellyou the very spot in the sea where the sun goes down night after night.

  "There are some baby seagulls in one of the nests, but I daren't go verynear for the mother bird is so strong. Father used to say that when theyhave their baby birds to look after, they are as fierce as eagles."

  "Your father used to walk with you here, Juliet?" Aynesworth asked.

  "Always till the last few months when he got weaker and weaker," sheanswered. "Since then I come every day alone."

  "Don't you find it lonely?" he asked.

  She shook her head.

  "At first," she answered, "not now. It makes me unhappy. Would you liketo go down on the beach and look for shells? I can find you some verypretty ones."

  They clambered down and wandered hand in hand by the seashore. She toldhim quaint little stories of the smugglers, of wrecks, and the legendsof the fisher people. Coming back along the sands, she clung to his armand grew more silent. Her eyes sought his every now and then, wistfully.Presently she pointed out a tiny whitewashed cottage standing by itselfon a piece of waste ground.

  "That is where I live now, at least for a day or two," she said. "Theycannot keep me any longer. When are you going away?"

  "Very soon, I am afraid, little girl," he answered. "I will come and seeyou, though, before I go."

  "You promise," she said solemnly.

  "I promise," Aynesworth repeated.

  Then she held up her face, a little timidly, and he kissed her.Afterwards, he watched her turn with slow, reluctant footsteps to theunpromising abode which she had pointed out. Aynesworth made his way tothe inn, cursing his impecuniosity and Wingrave's brutal indifference.

&n
bsp; He found the latter busy writing letters.

  "Doing your work, Aynesworth?" he remarked coldly. "Be so good as towrite to Christie's for me, and ask them to send down a valuer to gothrough the pictures."

  "You are really going to sell!" Aynesworth exclaimed.

  "Most certainly," Wingrave answered. "Heirlooms and family picturesare only so much rubbish to me. I am the last of my line, and I doubtwhether even my lawyer could discover a next of kin for my personalproperty. Sell! Of course I'm going to sell! What use is all thishoarded rubbish to me? I am going to turn it into gold!"

  "And what use is gold?" Aynesworth asked curiously. "You have plenty!"

  "Not enough for my purpose," Wingrave declared. "We are going to Americato make more."

  "It's vandalism!" Aynesworth said, "rank vandalism! The place as it isis a picture! The furniture and the house have grown old together. Why,you might marry!"

  Wingrave scowled at the younger man across the room.

  "You are a fool, Aynesworth," he said shortly. "Take down theseletters."

  After dinner, Wingrave went out alone. Aynesworth followed him aboutan hour later, when his work was done, and made his way towards theVicarage. It was barely nine o'clock, but the little house seemedalready to be in darkness. He rang twice before anybody answered him.Then he heard slow, shuffling footsteps within, and a tall, gaunt man,in clerical attire, and carrying a small lamp, opened the door.

  Aynesworth made the usual apologies and was ushered into a bare,gloomy-looking apartment which, from the fact of its containing awriting table and a few books, he imagined must be the study. His hostnever asked him to sit down. He was a long, unkempt-looking man with acold, forbidding face, and his manner was the reverse of cordial.

  "I have called to see you," Aynesworth explained, "with reference to oneof your parishioners--the daughter of your late organist."

  "Indeed!" the clergyman remarked solemnly.

  "I saw her today for the first time and have only just heard her story,"Aynesworth continued. "It seems to be a very sad one."

  His listener inclined his head.

  "I am, unfortunately, a poor man," Aynesworth continued, "but I havesome friends who are well off, and I could lay my hands upon a littleready money. I should like to discuss the matter with you and see if wecannot arrange something to give her a start in life."

  The clergyman cleared his throat.

  "It is quite unnecessary," he answered. "A connection of her father'shas come forward at the last moment, who is able to do all that isrequired for her. Her future is provided for."

  Aynesworth was a little taken aback.

  "I am very glad to hear it," he declared. "I understood that she hadneither friends nor relations."

  "You were misinformed," the other answered. "She has both."

  "May I ask who it is who has turned up so unexpectedly?" Aynesworthinquired. "I have taken a great fancy to the child."

  The clergyman edged a little towards the door, and the coldness of hismanner was unmistakable.

  "I do not wish to seem discourteous," he said, "but I cannot recognizethat you have any right to ask me these questions. You may accept myword that the child is to be fittingly provided for."

  Aynesworth felt the color rising in his cheeks.

  "I trust," he said, "that you do not find my interest in herunwarrantable. My visit to you is simply a matter of charity. If my aidis unneeded, so much the better. All the same, I should like to knowwhere she is going and who her friends are."

  "I do not find myself at liberty to afford you any information," was thecurt reply.

  Thereupon there was nothing left for Aynesworth to do but to put on hishat and walk out, which he did.

  Wingrave met him in the hall on his return.

  "Where have you been?" he asked a little sharply.

  "On a private errand," Aynesworth answered, irritated by his words andlook.

  "You are my secretary," Wingrave said coldly. "I do not pay you to goabout executing private errands."

  Aynesworth looked at him in surprise. Did he really wish to quarrel?

  "I imagine, sir," he said, "that my time is my own when I have no workof yours on hand. If you think otherwise--"

  He paused and looked at his employer significantly. Wingrave turned onhis heel.

  "Be so kind," he said, "as to settle the bill here tonight. We leave bythe seven o'clock train in the morning."

  "Tomorrow!" Aynesworth exclaimed.

  "Precisely!"

  "Do you mind," he asked, "if I follow by a later train?"

  "I do," Wingrave answered. "I need you in London directly we arrive."

  "I am afraid," Aynesworth said, after a moment's reflection, "that it isimpossible for me to leave."

  "Why?"

  "You will think it a small thing," he said, "but I have given mypromise. I must see that child again before I go!"

  "You are referring," he asked, "to the black-frocked little creature wesaw about the place yesterday?"

  "Yes!"

  Wingrave regarded his secretary as one might look at a person who hassuddenly taken leave of his senses.

  "I am sorry," he said, "to interfere with your engagements, but it isnecessary that we should both leave by the seven o'clock train tomorrowmorning."

  Aynesworth reflected for a moment.

  "If I can see the child first," he said, "I will come. If not, I willfollow you at midday."

  "In the latter case," Wingrave remarked, "pray do not trouble to followme unless your own affairs take you to London. Our connection will haveended."

  "You mean this?" Aynesworth asked.

  "It is my custom," Wingrave answered, "to mean what I say."

  Aynesworth set his alarm that night for half-past five. It seemed to himthat his future would largely depend upon how soundly the child slept.