The Malefactor [20]
I was like you once. It seemed all right to me to go under to save a woman's honor. You never have. Therefore, I say you've no right to call me a brute. Personally, I don't object. It is simply a matter of equity."
"I admit it," Aynesworth declared. "You are acting like a brute."
"Precisely. I didn't make myself what I am. Prison did it. Go and try ten years yourself, and you'll find you will have to grope about for your fine emotions. Are you coming to America with me?"
"I suppose so," Aynesworth answered. "When you we start?"
"Saturday week."
"Sport west, or civilization east?"
"Both," Wingrave answered. "Here is a list of the kit which we shall require. Add yourself the things which I have forgotten. I pay for both!"
"Very good of you," Aynesworth answered.
"Not at all. I don't suppose you'd come without. Can you shoot?"
"A bit," he admitted.
"Be particular about the rifles. I can take you to a little corner in Canada where the bears don't stand on ceremony. Put everything in hand, and be ready to come down to Cornwall with me on Monday."
"Cornwall!" Aynesworth exclaimed. "What on earth are we going to do in Cornwall?"
"I have an estate there, the home of my ancestors, which I am going to sell. I am the last of the Setons, fortunately, and I am going to smash the family tree, sell the heirlooms, and burn the family records!"
"I shouldn't if I were you," Aynesworth said quietly. "You are a young man yet. You may come back to your own!"
"Meaning?"
"You may smoke enough cigarettes to become actually humanized! One can never tell! I have known men proclaim themselves cynics for life, who have been making idiots of themselves with their own children in five years."
Wingrave nodded gravely.
"True enough," he answered. "But the one thing which no man can mistake is death. Listen, and I will quote some poetry to you. I think--it is something like this:--
"'"The rivers of ice may melt, and the mountains crumble into dust, but the heart of a dead man is like the seed plot unsown. Green grass shall not sprout there, nor flowers blossom, nor shall all the ages of eternity show there any sign of life.'"
He spoke as though he had been reading from a child's Primer. When he had finished, he replaced his cigarette between his teeth.
"I am a dead man," he said calmly. "Dead as the wildest seed plot in God's most forgotten acre!"
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. It was a matter of doubt whether she was the more surprised to see them, or they to find anyone else, in this wilderness of desolation. They stood face 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 wall there, through which we could get on to the cliffs."
"Who told you so?" she asked.
"The housekeeper," Aynesworth answered. "I will not attempt to pronounce her name."
"Mrs. Tresfarwin," the child said. "It is not really difficult. But she had no right to send you through here! It is all private, you know!"
"And you?" Aynesworth asked with a smile, "you have permission, I suppose?"
"Yes," she answered. "I have lived here all my life. I go where I please. 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. For the 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 the house, 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 died last week."
"And you have no other
"I admit it," Aynesworth declared. "You are acting like a brute."
"Precisely. I didn't make myself what I am. Prison did it. Go and try ten years yourself, and you'll find you will have to grope about for your fine emotions. Are you coming to America with me?"
"I suppose so," Aynesworth answered. "When you we start?"
"Saturday week."
"Sport west, or civilization east?"
"Both," Wingrave answered. "Here is a list of the kit which we shall require. Add yourself the things which I have forgotten. I pay for both!"
"Very good of you," Aynesworth answered.
"Not at all. I don't suppose you'd come without. Can you shoot?"
"A bit," he admitted.
"Be particular about the rifles. I can take you to a little corner in Canada where the bears don't stand on ceremony. Put everything in hand, and be ready to come down to Cornwall with me on Monday."
"Cornwall!" Aynesworth exclaimed. "What on earth are we going to do in Cornwall?"
"I have an estate there, the home of my ancestors, which I am going to sell. I am the last of the Setons, fortunately, and I am going to smash the family tree, sell the heirlooms, and burn the family records!"
"I shouldn't if I were you," Aynesworth said quietly. "You are a young man yet. You may come back to your own!"
"Meaning?"
"You may smoke enough cigarettes to become actually humanized! One can never tell! I have known men proclaim themselves cynics for life, who have been making idiots of themselves with their own children in five years."
Wingrave nodded gravely.
"True enough," he answered. "But the one thing which no man can mistake is death. Listen, and I will quote some poetry to you. I think--it is something like this:--
"'"The rivers of ice may melt, and the mountains crumble into dust, but the heart of a dead man is like the seed plot unsown. Green grass shall not sprout there, nor flowers blossom, nor shall all the ages of eternity show there any sign of life.'"
He spoke as though he had been reading from a child's Primer. When he had finished, he replaced his cigarette between his teeth.
"I am a dead man," he said calmly. "Dead as the wildest seed plot in God's most forgotten acre!"
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. It was a matter of doubt whether she was the more surprised to see them, or they to find anyone else, in this wilderness of desolation. They stood face 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 wall there, through which we could get on to the cliffs."
"Who told you so?" she asked.
"The housekeeper," Aynesworth answered. "I will not attempt to pronounce her name."
"Mrs. Tresfarwin," the child said. "It is not really difficult. But she had no right to send you through here! It is all private, you know!"
"And you?" Aynesworth asked with a smile, "you have permission, I suppose?"
"Yes," she answered. "I have lived here all my life. I go where I please. 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. For the 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 the house, 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 died last week."
"And you have no other