“There you are, Mr. Lord of the Manor,” he said. “You can’t refuse to do something for the child. Her father was organist at your own church, and a hard struggle he must have had of it, with an absentee landlord, and a congregation of seagulls, I should think.”
“Are you joking?” Wingrave asked coldly.
“I was never more in earnest in my life,” Aynesworth answered. “The girl is come from gentlefolks. Did you see what a delicate face she had, and how nicely she spoke? You wouldn’t have her sent out as a servant, would you?”
Wingrave looked at his companion ominously.
“You have a strange idea of the duties of a landlord,” he remarked. “Do you seriously suppose that I am responsible for the future of every brat who grows up on this estate?”
“Of course not!” Aynesworth answered. “You must own for yourself that this case is exceptional. Let us go down to the Vicarage and inquire about it.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” Wingrave answered. “Nor will you! Do you see the spray coming over the cliffs there? The sea must be worth watching.”
Aynesworth walked by his side in silence. He dared not trust himself to speak. Wingrave climbed with long, rapid strides to the summit of the headland, and stood there with his face turned seawards. The long breakers were sweeping in from the Atlantic with a low, insistent roar; as far as the eye could reach the waves were crusted with white foam. Every now and then the spray fell around the two men in a little dazzling shower; the very atmosphere was salt. About their heads the seagulls whirled and shrieked. From the pebbled beach to the horizon there was nothing to break the monotony of that empty waste of waters.
Wingrave stood perfectly motionless, with his eyes fixed upon the horizon. Minute after minute passed, and he showed no signs of moving. Aynesworth found himself presently engaged in watching him. Thoughts must be passing through his brain. He wondered what they were. It was here that he had spent his boyhood; barely an hour ago the two men had stood before the picture of his father. It was here, if anywhere, that he might regain some part of his older and more natural self. Was it a struggle, he wondered, that was going on within the man? There were no signs of it in his face. Simply he stood and looked, and looked, as though, by infinite perseverance, the very horizon itself might recede, and the thing for which he sought become revealed....
Aynesworth turned away at last, and there, not many yards behind, apparently watching them, stood the child. He waved his hand and advanced towards her. Her eyes were fixed upon Wingrave half fearfully.