In the summer time the whole of the beautiful land-locked harbour was covered with a sort of phosphorescence, which caused the water to look like living fire. Many a young lad who lived in Kingsala spent the night in the inner harbour, stretched fast asleep in the bottom of his boat. In the evenings hardly any of the "Quality," as they were called, were seen in the streets. They were as a rule floating about in the harbour, singing, chattering, laughing, or exchanging confidences one with another. The land-locked inner harbour was in the summer months transformed into a sort of drawing-room, where friends met friends, exchanged the news—very small and very local—and arranged picnics at the Platters and Dishes the next day.
The "Quality" of Kingsala had little or nothing to do. They were without exception gentlefolks living on their means. Work was a thing unheard of; it was not gentlemanly. You might fish, you might hunt, but work for a living—never. Pleasure was the order of the hour.
Kingsala was what was called a "soft" place, which expression means that in the summer the sun was bright and glorious without being too hot, and that in winter the mists fell, although nobody minded them in the least. It is true they shut out all views of the lovely harbour, with its Old Fort at one side and its Charles Fort at the other. Frost hardly ever visited this part of the world, but the finest of fine rain blotted out the view completely. On these occasions the girls—and very handsome girls they were—put on their waterproofs and flirted with the officers in the garrison-town, meeting them in a place which was called The Green, and enjoying life to the uttermost. These girls never thought about age. They wanted to have a good time, and they could not possibly tell you what age they were; the subject of age was taboo at Kingsala. The people were good-natured and most neighbourly.
If a very poor family of little or no means took a house there, the said family lived as a matter of course on their neighbours, breakfasting in one house, lunching in another, having a picnic tea in another, and dining in a fourth. They were always welcome. They lived practically for nothing, except for the small trifle they paid for the rent of their dwelling. Certainly Kingsala was the home for the very poor, but it had one peculiarity which greatly added to its many charms.
Leaving the sea behind you, you walked up Break Heart Hill or the Green Hill or the Stony Steps, whereupon you found yourself on what we will call the Round Hill. Here were to be seen spacious houses, where those who really had money resided. Here were to be found the aristocracy of the little place.
Walking over the Round Hill, you obtained a view of every part and every side of the inner harbour, and it was here, in the very best position, that O'Brien's two trustees, O'More of Moresland and Walters of Walterscourt, resided side by side. They had each a large stone house, with big gardens and every imaginable luxury.
These men were, for Kingsala, thought very rich indeed. Walters was perhaps the richer, but O'More had the bigger heart.
On the night before his intended visit to these good gentlemen, the Rev. Patrick O'Brien wrote a letter to each telling them that he meant to see them both at O'More's house on the following day. He said in his letter, "I particularly want to see you both together. The matter is of urgent moment, and I trust you will both manage to meet me at Moresland."
The two trustees certainly did manage to meet Mr. O'Brien. He took a circuitous drive to Moresland in order to avoid the steepest of the hills; thus he had to pass through the World's End. The smell of the drying fish was very distinct, and Dominic found himself sniffing somewhat disdainfully, whereupon his father said, "Why now, my brave avick, whatever are you turning up your nose for?"
"I'm sorry, pater; but I must say it's a nasty smell," said the boy. "The place looks so terribly dirty, and all those fish hanging out to dry give me an uncomfortable feeling."