Wandsborough at the period of our story was what might be called an
out-of-the-way place. The nearest railway station was fully three miles
off, and even that only found itself on a branch line. It would be
difficult to account for the existence of the little old town, but that
at one time it rejoiced in manufactures of its own, and did a steady
trade. Then the tide turned. Foreign products ruled the market, to the
exclusion of Wandsborough goods. Factories closed; the stir and bustle
of labour became a thing of the past; and the place was given over to a
sleepy and respectable quietude.
From the point of view of those who love the latter, Wandsborough was
extremely lucky in its remoteness, being almost unknown to tourist and
holiday maker. Lucky, too, in having so far escaped the speculator's
eye; for though more than a mile from the sea, it was near enough, and
possessed attractions enough, to warrant its transformation into that
foretaste of eternal punishment, a British watering-place--nigger
minstrels, shrimps, donkeys, barrel organs, yahoos, and all. Its
country walks were of the loveliest, whether you climbed the heather-
and gorse-clad uplands, and drinking in the salt breeze, turned to look
back upon the little town, with its red roofs and tall spire, nestling
in a green hollow, while on your other hand, far beneath, danced and
sparkled the summer sea; or whether, turning your steps inland, you
strolled through shady lanes where the ferns and wild geraniums grew
amid fresh cool moss, and little brown wrens hopped warily from frond to
frond beneath the shade of a miniature scaur. Or if seaward bent, what
a wild, picturesque, ever varying coast was there for you to explore!
Down one of the ways leading thither comes Olive Ingelow. It is a warm
morning, almost too warm to be comfortable anywhere out of the shade,
although the distant steeple is only chiming a quarter to ten; but one
side of the road is overshadowed by tall elms, and beneath these the
girl gracefully walks. She makes a very lovely picture, the lithe
figure in its cool morning dress moving with the elastic step and ease
of youth. A large light straw hat shades the delicate oval face, and
the glance of her dark eyes wanders joyously over sunlit meadows where
lambs are frisking among the buttercups. She carries a two-handled
canvas basket, containing drawing materials, though, should she weary of
reproducing Nature, yet another solace does the canvas basket contain,
for is not that the corner of a novel peeping out? She is going to have
a whole long morning all to herself on the seashore.
Leaving the road, she steps over a stile and strikes into a field path.
Hot though it is in the open, there is a certain delight in the glowing
warmth upon her cheeks. She wanders from the path and her dainty boots
are powdered with yellow particles from the buttercups which her feet
displace. It is a heavenly morning, she thinks; one to make her feel
lovingly disposed towards all the world--but--oh! and the girl catches
her breath in a spasm of alarm, suddenly remembering that this field is
wont to be the abode of a certain grisly terror to the unwary
pedestrian, in the shape of a remarkably large and vicious bull. A
quick furtive glance round reassures her. The field is empty. But all
the same her heart beats pretty fast until she is safe over the next
stile, and she is conscious of a lingering, if insane, apprehension that
the enemy may peradventure arise out of the earth.
Then the last field is left behind, and a stony bit of barren ground
grown with patches of gorse dips to a steep, narrow, staircase-like way,
whose rocky walls rise abrupt on either side. Descending this, Olive
finds herself on the beach.
She is in a small semi-circular cove shut in by perpendicular cliffs.
At quite low tide it is possible to approach or leave it by a narrow
strip of shingle at either end, at other times it is only to be gained
by the way down which she has come. Settling herself comfortably at the
foot of one of the great rocks which lie scattered capriciously about
the beach, Olive pauses to rest and recover herself before beginning to
draw. The sea is like glass, now and then the merest breath rippling
over it in shades of blue and silver and gold. Brown rocks, left bare
by the receding tide, upheave their slippery backs, heavily festooned
with seaweed, and the broad level sands lie wet and glistening in the
sun. Now and then a large gull, stalking along the extreme edge of the
uncovered shore, rises with a scream, and wings its way to the lofty
recesses of the cliff. Yonder three or four sturdy bare-legged urchins
are busily plying their shrimping nets, and gathering in much spoil from
numerous clear pools gleaming amid the green brown rocks. And so still
is the air that their voices and laughter are borne distinctly to
Olive's ears, though mellowed by distance.
She begins to investigate the contents of her basket. Nothing is left
behind? No--colour-box, block, palettes, brushes--all are there; not
even the water-bottle forgotten. She will just throw off the upper end
of the little bay, and bring in those two great turret-like rocks--whose
bases are covered except at the very lowest of tides--and the rough,
jagged headland, from which they seem to have broken loose and fled to
take up a position of their own out in the midst of the sea.
Comfortably ensconced in her snug position, for half an hour the girl is
very busy. The outline of her sketch is drawn, and she is ruminating on
the laws of perspective previous to the first wash of colour, when lo!
another factor appears on the scene--another living thing within the
silent and secluded cove. It is a dog.
Careering to and fro over the firm level sands, his snowy chest and ruff
gleaming in the sun, and his silky brush streaming out like a flag, he
keeps looking upward at the cliffs, uttering the while short joyous
barks, as if to say to someone not yet in sight, "Aha--here I am--down
first on this splendid beach. So come down after me as quickly as you
can, for--it _is_ fun?"
"Oh, what a love of a dog!" cries Olive, dropping her work to watch him.
"Here--come here, you beauty--come and talk to me, and let's have a
look at you!"
The beautiful creature stops suddenly in the midst of his gambols,
startled at the sound of a human voice where he thought himself quite
alone. Then, wagging his bushy tail, he trots up to where she is
sitting.
"You love! You perfect picture!" cries the girl ecstatically, throwing
her arms round his snowy ruff and gazing into his soft, laughing brown
eyes. "Where do you come from, and who do you belong to?" She kisses
him in the middle of the forehead, and lays her cheek against his
velvety ear. The dog presses affectionately against her, trying to lick
her face with his hot panting tongue.
A low, shrill whistle. The unappreciative animal tears himself from her
and stands for a moment gazing inquiringly around. But as he rushes
from her there is a metallic sound, and lo! the little tin vessel
containing her painting water rolls off the rock, upset by a stroke of
his bushy tail, and the contents are swallowed, in a trice, by the
thirsty sand.
Olive gives a little cry of dismay as she sees her morning's work
brought to a standstill. There is no fresh water anywhere about. She
is gazing ruefully on the empty vessel, when a shadow falls between her
and the sun. Looking up with a start, her glance meets that of
another--not for the first time. Before her stands the stranger who
gazed at her so attentively in the parish church on Sunday.
"I'm afraid my rascally dog has done serious damage. I don't know how
to apologise sufficiently on his behalf. Pray forgive him--and me--if
you can. Is that absolutely your last drop?"
"I'm afraid it is. In fact--it is," replies Olive, and her rueful smile
changes to a brighter flash as she looks up at him. "But it was not
altogether his fault--nor yours. I called him."
"Oh! He is such a clumsy fellow sometimes, and yet he ought to have
learnt manners by now. Here--Roy! Come here, you villain, and see what
you've done. Now--what have you to say for yourself, sir!"
The dog walks slowly up with a downcast air and a drooping tail, though
the latter is softly agitating in deprecatory wags. He looks very
penitent beneath his master's stern tones, but there is no trace of
cowering.
"Please don't be angry with him," says Olive. "It really was all my
fault for calling him. But, then, he is such a beauty."
"There, Roy. Do you hear that--you bad dog? Come here and apologise.
It isn't often you fall in with those who return good for evil. Here--
give a paw--no, not that one--the other."
Sitting down in front of Olive, the dog lifts his right paw and gravely
places it in her little hand.
"Now the other!" cries his master--and he repeats the performance with
the left, looking up into her face with such soft, pleading eyes.
"There," says Roy's master. "You don't deserve to be treated so
generously, you bad dog. And now"--turning to Olive--"will you let me
try and remedy the mischief? There must be fresh water somewhere about
the cliffs."
"Oh, I couldn't think of troubling you to that extent. Besides I am not
bound to draw this morning. I have a book here, and would just as soon
read instead."
But this does not meet the stranger's views at all. He intends to talk
to this girl, now that a fortunate chance has put it in his power to do
so. He can do so while she is drawing--hardly if she reads. So he
answers, but without eagerness:
"It will be no trouble at all. And I think you ought to draw this
morning, because it is just one of those days which are built for that
purpose. You can read at home, but you can't reproduce this perfect bit
of coast anywhere but here. So I'll start off upon my errand of
reparation before you are angry with me for presuming to lecture you,"
and picking up the little canister away he goes.
Olive laughs softly to herself as she looks after him. He is so cool
and self-possessed, and then his voice, too, is a very pleasing one.
Who can he be? She hopes he will return soon with or without the water,
and not be in a very great hurry to continue his walk. Then she is the
least bit in the world frightened. What would Margaret, for instance,
say if she could see her sitting in this out-of-the-way corner of the
seashore, talking to a man who is a perfect stranger? And how the
tongues of Wandsborough would clack--a phase of exercise, by the way, to
which those unruly members were by no means unaccustomed. Anyhow she
can see at a glance that the man is thoroughbred. If he is making any
stay in Wandsborough, as she is inclined to think is the case, she is
sure to meet him sooner or later, so why not forestall the acquaintance?
If he is not, why then in all probability she will never see him again,
and in either case there is no harm done. She is thus musing, when the
object of her reflections appears at her side, as suddenly as he did
before.
"I have been successful," he says, setting down the canister very
carefully. "But I am afraid you were waxing impatient."
"Not at all. I think you have been very quick, and I did hope you would
be able to find me some water, for I feel in the humour for daubing just
now."
"Good. And now allow me to arrange the necessary articles," and without
waiting for an answer he opens her colour-box and sets her palettes and
brushes in order.
"An artist," thinks the girl. "Of course that's what he is," and on the
strength of this inspiration she ploughs away nervously with her brush,
though shyness as a rule is not one of those sins which can fairly be
laid to Olive Ingelow's charge.
"That won't do," presently remarks the stranger, who is leaning lazily
against the rock watching her work. "Excuse me--but you must just round
off this outline a little more--it is too hard and steely--so," as
acting obediently on his directions the drawing begins to assume
life-like shape.
"I suppose you paint a great deal?" ventures Olive deferentially. Who
knows what R.A. of renown may be criticising her crude attempts!
"No, I don't."
"But you used to," she persists.
"Never wielded a brush in my life."
"But you seem to know all about it. How in the world could you tell me
to make those alterations if you can't paint yourself?" she asks
quickly, her incredulity giving way to a flash of not unnatural
resentment.
"Pardon me. I didn't say I couldn't. What I said was that I never
had."
"Isn't that the same thing?"
"No, because I could--if I tried."
"How do you know you could?"
"Well, since you so mercilessly bring me to bay I am compelled to answer
you with a woman's reason. I know it--because I do."
They both laugh heartily.
"And now tell me," goes on the stranger. "What is the name of those two
eccentric towers of rock you are drawing?"
"They are called The Skegs. There is a story attached to them, and a
ghost."
"Yes? What sort of a one?"
"Well, it's rather an eerie affair altogether. Most family ghosts haunt
the family seat. That of the Dorriens seems to prefer the open air.
The story is a very old one. Two Dorriens fell madly in love with the
same girl."
"Not an uncommon circumstance. And did they fight--or play ecarte for
her?"
"Neither. One killed the other. It's a long story, and I'm very bad at
telling long stories. I always mix up the people and begin by telling
the end first. But the end of this one is that The Skegs are haunted by
the murderer's ghost, and that it only appears before the death of a
Dorrien. Then a black cloud settles down upon the highest of the two
rocks, and those who see it can distinctly hear the wild baying of a
dog. And it takes the shape of one."
"A decidedly uncanny, though not original form, for there's no part of
the world without that very phase of apparition," remarks the stranger,
gazing thoughtfully at the two great rock towers. "Has anyone ever seen
this spectre?"
"Yes. When Captain Dorrien was lost in the Alps three years ago, the
fishing people in Minchkil Bay say it appeared. They believe in it
implicitly. It was seen, too, at just about the time old Squire
Dorrien, the General's brother, died at sea."
"And do you believe in it?"
"I don't know. I suppose not. And yet if I were anywhere near the spot
at night I'm sure I should be horribly afraid of seeing it. None of the
fishermen like to go near The Skegs at night, but I suppose we ought to
rise above such beliefs. Even my father won't say he doesn't believe in
it, but he always rather evades the subject, so I don't press it."
"Quite right. And who are these Dorriens for whom the laws of Nature
condescend to alter their course?"
"Ah! Now you're laughing at my story. Never mind. They are the
largest landowners hereabouts and their place is Cranston Hall. It lies
in a line with that lofty headland--that's Minchkil Beacon--three miles
from Wandsborough."
"What sort of people are they?"
The girl gives a little shrug of her shoulders and makes a distasteful
_moue_. "Not nice. At least nobody likes them much. I don't, though I
don't know them personally. It's a case of instinctive dislike."
"So you indulge in instinctive likes and dislikes," says the stranger
with a queer smile. "A very feminine trait."
Then he relapses into silence. It is delightful to him to sit there in
the golden summer morning, watching this beautiful girl with the oval
face and expressive, ever-changing eyes. Roy, extended at full length
on the shingle, is dreaming, his head resting on the skirt of Olive's
dress. Afar off the smoke of a distant steamer streaks the horizon, but
for all else the blue sea is deserted. The shrimping boys have
disappeared round the rocky promontory, and save for the girl, the man,
and the dog, not a living thing moves within the cliff-girt bay. Inch
by inch the sun creeps up to where they sit, which spot in a few moments
will afford shade no longer.
Then, faintly distant, rings out the chime of a church clock.
"Three-quarters!" exclaims Olive listening. "I must go. It is a
quarter to one--already."
The last word slips out unconsciously. The morning has passed very
quickly in the society of this man whom the merest chance has thrown in
her way, and whom she may never see again; as to whose very identity she
is in ignorance.
"Don't go yet," pleads the stranger. "I suppose the regulation 1:30 is
the time you must be back by--and it won't take three-quarters of an
hour to walk to Wandsborough--if that's your destination."
"Yes, it is--" She hesitates. He might as well tell her where he is
staying.
"Well, have pity upon a homeless wanderer, and give him and this lovely
spot another short fifteen minutes."
Olive yields--but neither talk much. At length she packs up her drawing
things and rises.
"Not `good-bye' yet," urges her companion. "Our ways lie together for a
little distance. Allow me to escort you that far."
Without waiting for a reply, he takes up her basket and they slowly
ascend the cliff path. Roy, ever ready for a change, starts out of the
land of dreams and trots briskly before them.
Olive is rather silent and inclined to give random answers to her
companion's occasional remarks. The fact is, she is a little bit
frightened at her adventure, and her uneasiness increases the nearer
they approach the town.
Just as they gain the road an equestrian trots by, a young man with a
pale vapid countenance. He slackens his pace as he passes, and sticking
up his eyeglass favours Olive with an admiring stare. Her escort's hand
instinctively clenches.
"Who is that--cub?"
"Yes, `cub,' that's just what he is," answers the girl angrily. "It's
Hubert Dorrien."
"Oh!"
Her companion keeps a strange silence for the rest of the way, and there
is a slight frown upon his face.
"Here we are at Wandsborough," he says at length, as they gain the
outskirts of the town. "I ought to have relieved you of my company
before, only there was no means of doing so, as our ways both lay along
the same road. Now, good-bye. I shall remember this morning for a very
long time. This is a small place, and we are sure to meet again. I
shall look forward to the pleasure of improving our acquaintance."
She flashes upon him a bright little smile, and trips away lightly down
the empty street--thankful that it is empty. Then for the first time it
occurs to her she has been talking to this stranger all the morning as
freely and naturally as if she had known him all her life.