SEEN THROUGH
The girl was Winefred.
Engaged in the selection of pebbles, she did not observe the approach
of Mr. Holwood; and the rush of the inflowing wave, and the under
rattle of the retreat, as the water drew the shingle after it, served
to drown the footfall.
When he addressed her, she was taken by surprise, and started.
He saw before him a tall, handsome girl, flushed with her walk, with
dark hair slightly dispersed by the wind from the sea, with hale
cheeks, brown, agate-like, honest eyes, fresh flexible lips, and a
well-moulded lower jaw and chin.
'Why are you picking and choosing among the stones?' he asked.
'Please, sir, I be looking for chalcedony.'
'You should say _I am_ and not _I be_. But let that pass.
Chalcedony――――'
'And jasper.'
'And jasper; what do you know about them? Are you deficient in grammar
and a proficient in mineralogy?'
Winefred looked at him with an odd expression of perplexity and humour
in her brown eyes and a dimple forming in one cheek.
Now he saw that she had the eyes and features of Jane, but there was
in her face something more――a reminiscence of a dearly loved and lost
sister, who had been his companion in boyhood, his _confidante_, but
who had died of decline just as she attained the age of this child.
'Tell me, my girl, what is your name?' There was a catch in his voice
as he asked the question.
'Winefred.'
'And your surname?'
'Marley. That is what my mother is called.'
He paused before speaking again. A warm flow, as from a broken vein,
suffused his heart. He would have liked to clasp the child to him and
have said, 'I am your father, kiss me, put your arms about me and let
me cry.' But he dared not do so.
Presently he spoke again.
'Will you sit by me on this rock and tell me about these pebbles? I do
not understand. Why do you gather them? What is done with them?'
She at once took the place indicated, without shyness, with no
awkwardness. But he did not seat himself, he stood leaning against the
larger bulk of the chalky mass so that he might study her face as she
spoke.
'About these pebbles?'
'Please, sir, they are chalcedony. Sometimes I get moss agates.'
'I understand. But I protest, to my uninitiated eyes they look vastly
uninteresting.'
'If wet and held to the light you can see through them and note
markings in them; if I find some of good colour and very clear, with
veins and silklike twists, then the gentlefolk buy them.'
'Oh! the pebbles.'
'No. Not the pebbles as they are, they have to be polished first. When
we had our cottage, there was a grinding stone there, and mother turned
the handle and I rubbed down the stone, and then with a little powder
and some oil I got polish enough to see whether they really was good
for anything.'
'Whether they _were_. Excuse me, I interrupt.'
'Are you a schoolmaster, sir?'
'I――oh dear, no.'
'I thought you might be, and were turning the grinding stone on me.'
There was a twinkle in her eyes.
'Well, sir,' she continued, 'then I take them to Mr. Thomas Gasset, at
Seaton, and he gives me a shilling for a very beautiful specimen, but
generally eightpence or a groat.'
'Ah! That is your pocket money?'
'I don't know about pocket money; it generally goes into my mouth.'
'In sweets?'
'In bread and butter. Well, sir, Mr. Gasset works the stones up into
seals or brooches, or paper weights, or just as so many specimens; and
these the visitors buy. And if you be going――――'
'You are――――' corrected Mr. Holwood.
Winefred made a slight movement with her arm, as though turning a
grindstone.
'If you are going to Seaton, sir, you'll find Mr. Gasset's shop on the
right-hand side of the street, about a hundred paces above the Red
Lion.'
He nodded. He was without his hat; now he stooped laboriously――for he
was tightly strapped, and wore stays――and picked it up.
'And so――she turns the handle of the grindstone.'
'What――my mother? Yes, sir. But our cottage has fallen down, and now we
have not got the grindstone where we are.'
'Where is that?'
'With Captain Rattenbury.'
'Of the Royal Navy?'
'No, sir. I don't reckon he was a proper captain, nowhere――――'
'I beg your pardon――anywhere.'
'Never mind the grinding, sir.'
'My dear, polish is everything――you see it in the pebbles.'
She considered a moment, then smiled: 'Yes, sir, polish is a great
deal. I suppose we are all of us rolled up by the great sea of time,
alike on the beach, but some are smoothed and shaped――and those are the
ladies and gentlemen, and some are left in the rough, and those are
such as mother and me.'
'You are a shrewd observer. Now about this grinding stone?'
'We shall move it to the captain's house. Will you come and see it on
the undercliff? Mother is there.'
'I――I――no――no!' replied Mr. Holwood hastily. 'My avocations call me. I
cannot to-day. On some future occasion, perhaps. Pray, how long have
you been with this Captain Rattenbury?'
'Two days only.'
'Two days only,' he repeated with an air of relief. 'I was led to
understand――that is to say, I understood you to have said――longer. You
are there temporarily, I suppose?'
'No, sir, mother is going to be his housekeeper.'
'Oh!――――' His countenance fell. He righted his hat on his head. 'Does
your mother ever speak to you about your father who is dead?'
'He is not dead.'
'Indeed; he is not dead. You are sure of that?'
'Yes, sir. He is away somewhere at the other end of the world, I am
told.'
'Then she speaks to you about him?'
'No, sir, never.'
There ensued a long pause, which became painful.
Winefred said: 'But she thinks of him――a lot.'
'She thinks of him!'
'Yes, sir, I can see it, when she sits on the cliff and looks away to
sea. She has her mind on him then; I know by the way she loses herself;
and if I speak to her she does not hear me. She seems to me to be
seeking that place beyond the ocean――they call it Tierra del Fuego,
where he is. And at night, by the fire, she puts her cheek in her hand
and looks into the coals. I have to shake her to bring her round.'
'And you believe she is thinking of him!'
'I know she is, though she never mentions him.'
Again a pause.
The girl's searching eyes were on him. He could not bear their
penetrating light, and he dropped his on the shingle, which he stirred
with the ferule of his umbrella.
Presently Mr. Holwood said, 'Do you consider, candidly, that your
mother is happy? Is she of a cheerful disposition?'
'Not over-cheerful, I reckon.' He winced. 'It is only when I am at my
Tomfool tricks that I can get her to smile. I never heard her laugh
outright. How can she? Just you think, sir, how it would be with you if
your wife had run away and gone to Tierra del Fuego, and you did not
know what games she was up to there.'
The gentleman was visibly agitated. He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket
for his latchkey, drew it forth and blew into it. 'Some sand has got
in,' he explained.
He was uneasy. He desired to hear more, but was afraid to ask. He
desired to see more of that honest fresh face, but he was afraid to
meet the clear eyes.
'I suppose Captain Rattenbury is a respectable person?'
'What do you mean by respectable? He is not what you call a gentleman.
He's rough on all sides.'
'I did not mean that――a――a good man?'
'He has been very kind to us, and is teaching me to dance.'
'Oh!' Again his face fell.
'That is a bit of polish, I suppose?'
He did not answer. Presently he said, 'My child,' and his heart bounded
as he used the term. 'Your name is Winefred, you say. Does your mother
have no shorter, more endearing name for you than that?'
'She calls me Winnie.'
'Well, Winnie, my dear, I trust you are a good girl and say your
prayers.'
'I say my prayers.'
'What has your mother taught you to say?'
'I say, Our Father'
'Anything else?'
'Yes, I say God bless dear mother, for ever and ever, Amen.'
'And do you never pray God to bless your dear father, who is――in Tierra
del Fuego?'
'He may be my father, but he cannot be my _dear_ father. I have never
seen him to love him, and he does not care for me, as he never writes
or asks anything about me. If he has been in England he has never come
to see either of us. He has never sent me a kiss.'
Suddenly Holwood stooped, caught the girl's head between his hands, and
pressed his lips to her brow.
'Suppose, my child, that he has sent you this from the far-away world
in which he lives. Why should you not pray for your father? He may need
your prayers in Tierra del Fuego.'
'What is the good of my saying God bless him when God cannot do it?'
'Why not?'
'He is a bad man; he has left mother and me.'
'Perhaps it was unavoidable. Tierra del Fuego is a long way off.'
'No, it is not that. If he had not cut mother to the heart that she has
never recovered, she would have taught me to use his name. But he went
away wilfully to be rid of her and me.'
'You think so?'
'I know it.'
'And you have not thought much about him, I suppose?'
'I do not know what he is like. I know nothing about him because mother
will not speak about him. But I know he is a heartless, wicked man to
desert mother and me.'
Holwood said nothing to this. His head had fallen. He took off his
nodding hat and set it on the stone. He folded his arms and looked
pensively, broodingly at the pebbles.
[Illustration: SUDDENLY HOLWOOD STOOPED AND PRESSED HIS LIPS TO HER
BROW.]
What would he not now have given had the past been different? Had it
been possible now to go back and reconsider his conduct? How happy he
could have been in a humble dwelling by the seaside with his simple,
beautiful, loving wife, and this glorious child to take to his arms as
his own flesh and blood, and for whom to scheme and build castles in
the air.
But over eighteen years ago he had taken a wrong direction, and to
retrace his steps was now impossible.
'Please, sir, you have dropped your key.'
'Bless my soul,' exclaimed he, rousing himself, 'it will become choked
with sand.'
'There is no sand here, only small gravel.'
He proceeded to stoop. But this was a slow and painful process,
attended with strainings and creakings. Winefred forestalled him. She
had picked up the key and presented it to him, lying across her rosy
palm, before his person had described a right angle.
'Winnie,' said Holwood in a low tone, 'will you do me a pleasure? I
am a man of principle――in the abstract. I subscribe to schools for
the education of children in the elements of morality. It is to me a
shocking thought that a young person of your age, and sex, should not
invoke the blessing of heaven upon the author of your being. Would you
like to possess a watch――a Geneva watch?'
He drew from his fob a delicate timepiece of gold, with a gold face.
'This,' said he, 'is a watch that I no longer have occasion for, as I
possess a gentleman's repeater that belonged to my father, and which I
value accordingly. Would you like to have this bauble? It is a lady's
watch.'
'I am not a lady.'
'Only a little grindstone and shammy leather wanted, perhaps. But no
more of this. Will you accept this from an entire stranger, unknown to
you by name, but a Patron of Virtue. Include, henceforth, the name of
your father in your devotions.'
The girl flushed with pleasure and surprise.
She put forth her hand――then withdrew it again.
'I cannot pray for my _dear_ father, but I will ask God to bless my
_poor_ father.'
'Poor!――hem――yes, poor――in Tierra del Fuego, the Land of Fire.'
He thrust watch and chain into her hand, caught up his beaver, and
walked hastily away, that is to say as hastily as it is possible to
walk over a beach of sliding rounded cobble stones.
Her poor father! Poor――not in income, comforts, waistcoats, and
hats――but poor in all that makes life rich, love surrounding, and
within trust and strength, and self-respect.
Had he remained another moment facing his child, had she seen the tears
flow over his cheeks, then, as surely as she discerned the chalcedony
or the agate in the moistened pebble, so surely would she have seen in
the weeping man――one not wholly worthless, not one altogether flint.