A BIT OF ROMANTIC HISTORY
The house at the top of the hill had two names. It had once been
called The Watch Tower, for reasons but vaguely known by the present
generation of villagers. To-day it was generally styled The Pines.
Yet even this had fallen into disuse, save on the occupant's letter
paper. When any one asked where Rear Admiral Killigrew lived, he was
directed to "the big white house at the top o' the hill."
The Killigrews had not been born and bred there. Its builder had been
a friend of King George; that is, his sympathies had been with taxation
without representation. One day he sold the manor cheap. His reasons
were sufficient. It then became the property of a wealthy trader, who
died in it. This was in 1809. His heirs, living, and preferring to
live, in Philadelphia, put up a sign; and being of careful disposition,
kept the place in excellent repair.
In the year 1816, it passed into the hands of a Frenchman, and during
his day the villagers called the house The Watch Tower; for the
Frenchman was always on the high balcony, telescope in hand, gazing
seaward. No one knew his name. He dealt with the villagers through
his servant, who could speak English, himself professing that he could
not speak the language. He was a recluse, almost a hermit. At odd
times, a brig would be seen dropping anchor in the offing. She was
always from across the water, from the old country, as villagers to
this day insist upon calling Europe. The manor during these peaceful
invasions showed signs of life. Men from the brig went up to the big
white house, and remained there for a week or a month. And they were
lean men, battle-scarred and fierce of eye, some with armless sleeves,
some with stiff legs, some twisted with rheumatism. All spoke French,
and spat whenever they saw the perfidious flag of old England. This
was not marked against them as a demerit, for the War of 1812 was yet
smoking here and there along the Great Lakes. Suddenly, they would up
and away, and the manor would reassume its repellent aloofness. Each
time they returned their number was diminished. Old age had succeeded
war as a harvester. In 1822, the mysterious old recluse surrendered
the ghost. His heirs--ignored and hated by him for their affiliation
with the Bourbons--sold it to the father of the admiral.
The manor wasn't haunted. The hard-headed longshoremen and sailors who
lived at the foot of the hill were a practical people, to whom spirits
were something mostly and generally put up in bottles, and emptied on
sunless, blustery days. Still, they wouldn't have been human if they
had not done some romancing.
There were a dozen yarns, each at variance with the other. First, the
old "monseer" was a fugitive from France; everybody granted that.
Second, that he had helped to cut off King Lewis' head; but nobody
could prove that. Third, that he was a retired pirate; but retired
pirates always wound up their days in riotous living, so this theory
died. Fourth, that he had been a great soldier in the Napoleonic wars,
and this version had some basis, as the old man's face was slashed and
cut, some of his fingers were missing, and he limped. Again, he had
been banished from France for a share in the Hundred Days. But, all
told, nothing was proved conclusively, though the villagers burrowed
and delved and hunted and pried, as villagers are prone to do when a
person appears among them and keeps his affairs strictly to himself.
But the next generation partly forgot, and the present only
indifferently remembered that, once upon a time, a French _emigré_ had
lived and died up there. They knew all there was to know about the
present owner. It was all compactly written and pictured in a book of
history, which book agents sold over the land, even here in Dalton.
All these things Fitzgerald and his companion learned from the driver
on the journey up the incline.
"Where was this Frenchman buried?" inquired Breitmann softly.
"In th' cemet'ry jest over th' hill. But nobody knows jest where he is
now. Stone's gone, an' th' ground's all level that end. He wus on'y a
Frenchman. But th' admiral, now you're talkin'! He pays cash, an'
don't make no bargain rates, when he wants a job done. Go wan, y' ol'
nag; what y' dreamin' of?"
"There might be history in that corner of the graveyard," said
Breitmann.
"Who knows? Good many strange bits of furniture found their way over
here during those tremendous times. Beautiful place in the daytime;
eh?" Fitzgerald added, with an inclination toward The Pines.
"More like an Italian villa than an Englishman's home. Good gardeners,
I should say."
"Culture and money will make a bog attractive."
"Is the admiral cultured, then?"
"I should imagine so. But I am sure the daughter is. Not that veneer
which passes for it, but that deep inner culture, which gives a deft,
artistic touch to the hand, softens the voice, gives elegance to the
carriage, with a heart and mind nicely balanced. Judge for yourself,
when you see her. If there is any rare knickknack in the house, it
will have been put there by the mother's hand or the daughter's. The
admiral, I believe, occupies himself with his books, his butterflies,
and his cruises."
"A daughter. She is cultured, you say? Ah, if culture would only take
beauty in hand! But always she selects the plainer of two women."
Fitzgerald smiled inwardly. "I have told you she is not plain."
"Oh, beautiful," thoughtfully. "Culture and beauty; I shall be pleased
to observe."
"H'm! If there is any marrow in your bones, my friend, you'll show
more interest when you see her." This was thought, not spoken.
Fitzgerald wasn't going to rhapsodize over Miss Killigrew's charms. It
would have been not only incautious, but suspicious. Aloud, he said:
"She has a will of her own, I take it; however, of a quiet, resolute
order."
"So long as she is not capricious, and does not interfere with my
work--"
"Or peace of mind!" interrupted Fitzgerald, with prophetic suddenness,
which was modified by laughter.
"No, my friend; no woman has ever yet stirred my heart, though many
have temporarily captured my senses. A man in my position has no right
to love," with a dignity which surprised his auditor.
Fitzgerald looked down at the wheels. There was something even more
than dignity, an indefinable something, a superiority which
Fitzgerald's present attitude of mind could not approach.
"This man," he mused, "will afford some interesting study. One would
think that nothing less than a grand duke was riding in this rattling
old carryall." There was silence for a time. "I must warn you,
Breitmann, that, in all probability, you will have your meals at the
table with the admiral and his daughter; at least, in this house."
"At the same table? It would hardly be so in Europe. But it pleases
me. I have been alone so much that I grow moody; and that is not good."
There was always that trifling German accent, no matter what tongue he
used, but it was perceptible only to the trained ear. And yet, to
Fitzgerald's mind, the man was at times something Gallic in his
liveliness.
"You will never use your title, then?"
Breitmann laughed. "No."
"You have made a great mistake. You should have fired the first shot
with it. You would have married an heiress by this time," ironically,
"and all your troubles would be over."
"Or begun," in the same spirit. "I'm no fortune hunter, in the sense
you mean. Pah! I have no debts; no crumbling _schloss_ to rebuild.
All I ask is to be let alone," with a flash of that moodiness of which
he had spoken. "How long will you be here?"
"Can't say. Three or four days, perhaps. It all depends. What shall
I say about you to them?"
"As little as possible."
"And that's really about all I could say," with a suggestion.
But the other failed to meet the suggestion half-way.
"You might forget about my ragged linen in Paris," acridly.
"I'll omit that," good-naturedly. "Come, be cheerful; fortune's wheel
will turn, and it pulls up as well as down. Remember that."
"I must be on the ascendancy, for God knows that I am at the nadir just
at present." He breathed in the sweet freshness which still clung to
the morning, and settled his shoulders like a recruiting sergeant.
"How well the man has studied his English!" thought Fitzgerald. He
rarely hesitated for a word, and his idioms were always nicely adjusted.
The admiral was alone. He received them with an easy courtliness,
which is more noticeable in the old world than in the new. He directed
the servants to take charge of the luggage, and to Breitmann there was
never a word about work. That had all been decided by letter. He
urged the new secretary to return to the library as soon as he had
established himself.
"Strange that you should know the man," said the admiral. "It comes in
pat. From what you say, he must be a brilliant fellow. But this
situation seems rather out of his line."
"We all have our ups and downs, admiral. I've known a pinch or two
myself. We are an improvident lot, we writers, who wander round the
globe; rich to-day, poor to-morrow. But on the other hand, it's
something to set down on paper what a king says, the turn of a battle,
to hobnob with famous men, explorers, novelists, painters, soldiers,
scientists, to say nothing of the meat in the pie and the bottom crust.
I'm going to write a novel some day myself."
"Here," said the admiral, with a sweep of the hand, which included the
row upon row of books, "come here to do it. Make it a pirate story;
there's always room for another."
"But it takes a Stevenson to write it. It is very good of you, though.
Where is Miss Killigrew this morning?"
"She hasn't returned from her ride. Ah! Come in, Mr. Breitmann, and
sit down. By the way, you two must be fair horsemen."
Breitmann smiled, and Fitzgerald laughed.
"I dare say," replied the latter, "that there's only one thing we two
haven't ridden: ostriches. Camels and elephants and donkeys; we've
done some warm sprinting. Eh, Breitmann?"
The secretary agreed with a nod. He was rather grateful for
Fitzgerald's presence. This occupation was not going to be menial; at
the least, there would be pleasant sides to it. And, then, it might
not take him a week to complete his own affair. There was no
misreading the admiral; he was a gentleman, affable, kindly, and a good
story-teller, too, crisp and to the point, sailor fashion. Breitmann
cleverly drew him out. Pirates! He dared not smile. Why, there was
hardly such a thing in the pearl zone, and China was on the highway to
respectability. And every once in so often there was a futile treasure
hunt! He grew cold. If this old man but knew!
"Do you know butterflies, Mr. Fitzgerald?"
"Social?"
The admiral laughed. "No. The law doesn't permit you to stick pins in
that kind. No; I mean that kind," indicating the cases.
Both young men admitted that this field had been left unexplored by
either of them.
It was during a lull, when the talk had fallen to the desultory, that
the hall door opened, and Laura came in. Her cheeks glowed like the
sunny side of a Persian peach; her eyes sparkled; between her moist red
lips there was a flash of firm, white teeth; the seal-brown hair
glinted a Venetian red--for at that moment she stood in the path of the
sunshine which poured in at the window--and blown tendrils in
picturesque disorder escaped from under her hat.
The three men rose hastily; the father with pride, Fitzgerald with
gladness, and Breitmann with doubt and wonder and fear.