w yards from the
pier, he was employed in such cases as a sort of ferryman. He was a big,
black-browed youth generally silent, but something seemed now to sting
him into speech.
"Well, sir," he said, "everybody knows it's not natural. Everybody
knows the sea blights trees and beats them under, when they're only just
trees. These things thrive like some unholy great seaweed that don't
belong to the land at all. It's like the--the blessed sea serpent got on
shore, Squire, and eating everything up."
"There is some stupid legend," said Squire Vane gruffly. "But come up
into the garden; I want to introduce you to my daughter."
When, however, they reached the little table under the tree, the
apparently immovable young lady had moved away after all, and it was
some time before they came upon the track of her. She had risen, though
languidly, and wandered slowly along the upper path of the terraced
garden looking down on the lower path where it ran closer to the main
bulk of the little wood by the sea.
Her languor was not a feebleness but rather a fullness of life, like
that of a child half awake; she seemed to stretch herself and enjoy
everything without noticing anything. She passed the wood, into the gray
huddle of which a single white path vanished through a black hole. Along
this part of the terrace ran something like a low rampart or balustrade,
embowered with flowers at intervals; and she leaned over it, looking
down at another glimpse of the glowing sea behind the clump of trees,
and on another irregular path tumbling down to the pier and the
boatman's cottage on the beach.
As she gazed, sleepily enough, she saw that a strange figure was very
actively climbing the path, apparently coming from the fisherman's
cottage; so actively that a moment afterwards it came out between the
trees and stood upon the path just below her. It was not only a figure
strange to her, but one somewhat strange in itself. It was that of a
man still young, and seeming somehow younger than his own clothes, which
were not only shabby but antiquated; clothes common enough in texture,
yet carried in an uncommon fashion. He wore what was presumably a light
waterproof, perhaps through having come off the sea; but it was held at
the throat by one button, and hung, sleeves and all, more like a cloak
than a coat. He rested one bony hand on a black stick; under the shadow
of his broad hat his black hair hung down in a tuft or two. His face,
whi
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