The Malefactor HTML version

II.6. Ghosts Of Dead Things
"It was here," she said, as they passed through the walled garden seawards, "that I saw
you first--you and the other gentleman who was so kind to me."
Wingrave nodded.
"I believe that I remember it," he said; "you were a mournful-looking object in a very
soiled pinafore and most untidy hair."
"I had been out on the cliffs," she reminded him, "where I am taking you now. If you are
going to make unkind remarks about my hair, I think that I 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 that glorious?"
She had opened the postern gate in the wall, and through the narrow opening was framed
a wonderful picture of the Cornish sea, rolling into the rock-studded bay. Its soft thunder
was in their ears; salt and fragrant, the west wind swept into their faces. She closed the
gate behind her, and stepped blithely forward.
"Come!" she cried. "We will climb the cliffs where we left you alone once before."
Side by side they stood looking over the ocean. Her head was thrown back, her lips a
little parted. He watched her curiously.
"You must have sea blood in your veins," he remarked. "You listen as though you heard
music all the time."
"And what about you?" she asked him, smiling. "You are the grandson of Admiral Sir
Wingrave Seton who commanded a frigate at Trafalgar, and an ancestor of yours fought
in the Armada."
"I am afraid," he said quietly, "that there is a hiatus in my life somewhere. There are no
voices which call to me any more, and my family records are so much dead parchment."
Trouble passed into her glowing face and clouded her eyes.