"Oh yes, Miss Trojan, you don't suppose that I cared for you very much during those weeks. I suffered a little, too, and it changed me from a girl into a woman--rather too quickly to be altogether healthy, perhaps. And then he came and told me in so many words. I thought at first that it had broken my heart; a girl does, you know, when it happens the first time, but you needn't be afraid--my heart's all right--and I wouldn't marry Robin now if he begged me to. But it had hurt, all of it, and perhaps one's pride had suffered most of all--and so, of course, I kept the letters. It was the one way that I could hurt you. I'm frank, am I not?--but every woman would do the same.

You see you are so very proud, you Trojans!

"It is not only that you thank G.o.d that you are not as other men, but you are so bent on making the rest of us call out 'Miserable sinner!'

very loudly and humbly. And we don't believe it. Why should we?

Everybody has their own little bits o' things that they treasure, and they don't like being told that they're of no value at all. Why, Miss Trojan, I'm quite a proud person really--you'd be surprised if you knew."

She laughed, and then sat down on the sofa opposite Clare, with her chin resting on her hand.

"So you see, Miss Trojan, it's natural, after all, that I kept the letters."

Clare had listened to the last part of her speech in silence, her lips firmly closed, her hands folded on her lap. As she listened to her she knew that it was quite hopeless, that nothing that she could ever say would change the young person's mind. She was horribly disappointed, of course, and it would be terrible to be forced to return to Robin, and tell him that she had failed: for the first time she would have to confess failure--but really she could not humble herself any longer: she was not sure that, even now, she had not unbent a little more than was necessary. If the young person refused to consider the question of terms there was no more to be said--and how dare she talk about the Trojans in that way?

"Really, Miss Feverel, I scarcely think that it is necessary for us to enter into a discussion of that kind, is it? I daresay you have every reason for personal pride--but really that is scarcely my affair, is it? If no offer of money can tempt you--well, really, there the matter must rest, mustn't it? Of course I am sorry, but you know your own mind. But that you should think yourself insulted by such an offer is, it seems to me, a little absurd. It is quite obvious what you mean to do with them."

Dahlia smiled.

"Is it?" she said. "That is very clever of you, Miss Trojan. I am sorry that you should have so much trouble for such a little result."

"There is no more to be said," answered Clare, moving to the door.

"Good morning," and she was gone.

"Oh dear," said Dahlia, as she went back to the window, "how unpleasant she is. Poor Robin! What a time he will have!"

For her the pathos was over, but for them--well--it had not begun.

CHAPTER XII

The question of the Cove was greatly agitating the mind of Pendragon.

Meetings had been held, a scheme had been drawn up, and it would appear that the thing was settled. It had been conclusively proved that two rows of lodging-houses where the Cove now stood would be an excellent thing. The town was over-crowded--it must spread out in some direction, and the Cove-end was practically the only possible place for spreading.

The fishery had been declining year by year, and it was hinted at the Club that it would be rather a good thing if it declined until it vanished altogether; the Cove was in no sense of the word useful, and by its lack of suitable drainage and defective protection from weather, it was really something of a scandal,--it formed, as Mr. Grayseed, pork butcher and mayor of the town, pointed out, the most striking contrast with the upward development so marked in Pendragon of late years. He called the Cove an "eyesore" and nearly proclaimed it an "anomaly"--but was restrained by the presence of his wife, a nervous woman who followed her husband with difficulty in his successful career, and checked his language when the length of his words threatened their accuracy.

The town might be said to be at one on these points, and there was no very obvious reason why the destruction of the Cove should not be proceeded with--but, still, nothing was done. It was said by a few that the Cove was picturesque and undoubtedly attracted strangers by the reason of its dirty, crooked streets and bulging doorways--an odd taste, they admitted, but nevertheless undoubted and of commercial importance. On posters Pendragon was described as "the picturesque abode of old-time manners and customs," and Baedeker had a word about "charming old-time byways and an old Inn, the haunt, in earlier times, of smugglers and freebooters." Now this was undoubtedly valuable, and it would be rather a pity were it swept away altogether. Perhaps you might keep the Inn--it might even be made into a Museum for relics of old Pendragon--bits of Cornish crosses, stones, some quaint drawings of the old town, now in the possession of Mr. Quilter, the lawyer.

The matter was much discussed at the Club, and there was no doubt as to the feeling of the majority; let the Cove go--let them replace it with a smart row of red-brick villas, each with its neat strip of garden and handsome wooden paling.

Harry had learnt to listen in silence. He knew, for one thing, that no one would pay very much attention if he did speak, and then, of late, he had been flung very much into himself and his reserve had grown from day to day. People did not want to listen to him--well, he would not trouble them. He felt, too, as Newsome had once said to him, that he belonged properly to "down-along," and he knew that he was out of touch with the whole of that modern movement that was going on around him.

But sometimes, as he listened, his cheeks burned when they talked of the Cove, and he longed to jump up and plead its defence; but he knew that it would be worse than useless and he held himself in--but they didn't know, they didn't know. It enraged him most when they spoke of it as some lifeless, abstract thing, some old rubbish-heap that offended their sight, and then he thought of its beauties, of the golden sand and the huddling red and grey cottages cl.u.s.tering over the sea as though for protection. You might fancy that the waves slapped them on the back for good-fellowship when they dashed up against the walls, or kissed them for love when they ran in golden ripples and softly lapped the stones.

On the second night after his visit to Dahlia Feverel, Harry went down, after dinner, to the Cove. He found those evening hours, before going to bed, intolerable at the House. The others departed to their several rooms and he was suffered to go to his, but the loneliness and dreariness made reading impossible and his thoughts drove him out. He had lately been often at the Inn, for this was the hour when it was full, and he could sit in a corner and listen without being forced to take any part himself. To-night a pedlar and a girl--apparently his daughter--were entertaining the company, and even the melancholy sailor with one eye seemed to share the feeling of gaiety and chuckled solemnly at long intervals. It was a scene full of colour; the lamps in the window shone golden through the haze of smoke on to the black beams of the ceiling, the dust-red brick of the walls and floor, and the cavernous depths of the great fireplace. Sitting cross-legged on the table in the centre of the room was the pedlar, a little, dark, beetle-browed man, and at his side were his wares, his pack flung open, and cloths of green and gold and blue and red flung pell-mell at his side. Leaning against the table, her hands on her hips, was the girl, dark like her father, tall and flat-chested, with a ma.s.s of black hair flung back from her forehead. No one knew from what place they had come nor whither they intended to go--such a visit was rare enough in these days of trains--and the little man's reticence was attacked again and again, but ever unsuccessfully. There were perhaps twenty sailors in the room, and they sat or stood by the fireplace watching and listening.

Harry slipped in and took his place by Newsome in the corner.

"I will sing," said the girl.

She stood away from the table and flung up her head--she looked straight into the fire and swayed her body to the time of her tune.

Her voice was low, so that men bent forward in order that they might hear, and the tune was almost a monotone, her voice rising and falling like the beating of the sea, with the character of her words. She sang of a Cornish pirate, Coppinger, "Cruel Coppinger," and of his deeds by land and sea, of his daring and his cleverness and his brutality, and the terror that he inspired, and at last of his pursuit by the king's cutter and his utter vanishing "no man knew where." But gradually as her song advanced Coppinger was forgotten and her theme became the sea--she spoke like one possessed, and her voice rose and fell like the wind--all Time and Place were lost. Harry felt that he was unbounded by tradition of birth or breeding, and he knew that he was absolutely as one of these others with him in the room--that he felt that call of those old G.o.ds just as they did. The girl ceased and the room was silent. Through the walls came the sound of the sea--in the fire was the crackling of the coals, and down the great chimney came a little whistle of the wind. "A mighty fine pome 'tis fur sure," said the white-bearded sailor solemnly, "and mostly wonderful true." He sighed.

"They'm changed times," he said.

The girl sat on the table at her father's side, watching them seriously. She flung her arms behind her head and then suddenly--

"I can dance too," she said.

They pulled the table back and watched her.

It was something quite simple and unaffected--not, perhaps, in any way great dancing, but having that quality, so rarely met with, of being exactly right and suited to time and place. Her arms moved in ripples like the waves of the sea--every part of her body seemed to join in the same motion, but quietly, with perfect tranquillity, without any sense of strain or effort. The golden lamps, the coloured clothes, the red-brick floor, made a background of dazzling colour, and her black hair escaped and fell in coils over her neck and shoulders.

Suddenly she stopped. "There, that's all," she said, binding her hair up again with quick fingers. She walked over to the sailors and talked to them with perfect freedom and ease; at last she stayed by the handsomest of them--a dark, well-built young fellow, who put his arm round her waist and shared his drink with her.

Harry, as he watched them, felt strangely that it was for him a scene of farewell--that it was for the last time that the place was to offer him such equality or that he himself would be in a position to accept it. He did not know why he had this feeling--perhaps it was the talk of the Club about the Cove, or his own certain conviction that matters at the House were rapidly approaching a crisis. Yes, his own protests were of no avail--things must move, and perhaps, after all, it were better that they should.

Bethel came in, and as usual joined the group at the fire without a word; he looked at the pedlar curiously and then seemed to recognise him--then he went up to him and soon they were in earnest conversation.

It grew late, and at the stroke of midnight Newsome rose to shut up the house.

"I will go back with you," Bethel said to Harry, and they walked to the door together. For a moment Harry turned back. The girl was bending over the sailor--her arms were round his neck, and his head was tilted back to meet her mouth; the pedlar was putting his wares into his pack again, but some pieces of yellow and blue silk had escaped him and lay on the floor at his feet; down the street three of the sailors were tramping home, and the chorus of a chanty died away as they turned the corner.

The girl, the pedlar, the colours of the room, the vanishing song, remained with Harry to the end of his life--for that moment marked a period.

As he walked up the hill he questioned Bethel about the pedlar.

"Oh, I had met him," he said vaguely. "One knows them all, you know.

But it is difficult to remember where. He is one of the last of his kind and an amusing fellow enough----" But he sighed--"I am out of sorts to-night--my kite broke. Do you know, Trojan, there are times when one thinks that one has at last got right back--to the power, I mean, of understanding the meaning and truth of things--and then, suddenly, it has all gone and one is just where one was years ago and it seems wasted. I tell you, man, last night I was on the moor and it was alive with something. I can't tell you what--but I waited and watched--I could feel them growing nearer and nearer, the air was clearer--their voices were louder--and then suddenly it was all gone.

But of course you won't understand--none of you--why should you? You think that I am flying a kite--why, I am scaling the universe!"

"Whatever you are doing," said Harry seriously, "you are not keeping your family. Look here, Bethel, you asked me once if I would be a friend of yours. Well, I accepted that, and we have been good friends ever since. But it really won't do--this kind of thing, I mean.

Scaling the universe is all very well, if you are a single man--then it is your own look-out; but you are married--you have people depending on you, and they will soon be starving."

Bethel burst out laughing.

"They've got you, Trojan! They've got you!" he cried. "I knew it would come sooner or later, and it hasn't taken long. Three weeks and you're like the rest of them. No, you mustn't talk like that, really.

Tell me I'm a d.a.m.ned fool--no good--an absolutely rotten type of fellow--and it's all true enough. But you must accept it at that. At least I'm true to my type, which is more than the rest of them are, the hypocrites!--and as to my family, well, of course I'm sorry, but they're happy enough and know me too well to have any hope of ever changing me----"

"No--of course, I don't want to preach. I'm the last man to tell any one what they should do, seeing the mess that I've made of things myself. But look here, Bethel, I like you--I count myself a friend, and what are friends for if they're not to speak their minds?"

"Oh! That's all right enough. Go on--I'll listen." He resigned himself with a humorous submission as though he were indulging the opinions of a child.

"Well, it isn't right, you know--it isn't really. I don't want to tell you that you're a fool or a rotter, because you aren't, but that's just what makes it so disappointing for any one who cares about you. You're letting all your finer self go. You're becoming, what they say you are, a waster. Of course, finding yourself's all right--every man ought to do that. But you have no right to throw off all claims as completely as you have done. Life isn't like that. We've all got our Land of Promise, and, just in order that it may remain, we are never allowed to reach it. Whilst you are lying on your back on the moor, your wife and daughter are killing themselves in order to keep the home together--I say that it is not fair."

"Oh, come, Trojan," Bethel protested, "is that quite fair on your side?

Things are all right, you know. They like it better, they do really.

Why, if I were to stay at home and try to work they'd think I was going to be ill. Besides, I couldn't--not at an office or anything like that. It isn't my fault, really--but it would kill me now if I couldn't get away when I want to--not having liberty would be worse than death."

"Ah, that's yourself," said Harry. "That's selfish. Why don't you think of them? You can't let things go on as they are, man. You must get something to do."

"I'm d.a.m.ned if I will." Bethel stopped short and stretched his arms wide over the moor. "It isn't as if it would do them any good, and it would kill me. Why, one is deaf and blind and dumb as soon as one has work to do. I'm a child, you know. I've never grown up, and of course I hadn't any right to marry. I don't know now why I did. And all you people--you grown-ups--with your businesses and difficult pleasures and noisy feasts--of course you can't understand what these things mean.

Only a few of you who sit with folded hands and listen can know what it is. I saw a picture once--some people feasting in a forest, and suddenly a little faun jumped from a tree on to their table and waited for them to play with him. But some were eating and some drinking and some talking scandal, and they did not see him. Only a little boy and an old man--they were doing nothing--just dreaming--and they saw him.