David's Hall. He looked at it steadily and with increasing admiration. Its long, red brick front with its masses of clustering chimneys, a little bare and weather-beaten, impressed him with a sense of dignity due as much to the purity of its architecture as the singularity of its situation. Behind - a wonderfully effective background - were the steep gardens from which, even in this uncertain light, he caught faint glimpses of colouring subdued from brilliancy by the twilight. These were encircled by a brick wall of great height, the whole of the southern portion of which was enclosed with glass. From the fragment of rock upon which he had seated himself, to the raised stone terrace in front of the house, was an absolutely straight path, beautifully kept like an avenue, with white posts on either side, and built up to a considerable height above the broad tidal way which ran for some distance by its side. It had almost the appearance of a racing track, and its state of preservation in the midst of the wilderness was little short of remarkable.
"This," Hamel said to himself, as he slowly produced a pipe from his pocket and began to fill it with tobacco from a battered silver box, "is a queer fix. Looks rather like the inn for me!"
"And who might you be, gentleman?"
He turned abruptly around towards his unseen questioner. A woman was standing by the side of the rock upon which he was sitting, a woman from the village, apparently, who must have come with noiseless footsteps along the sandy way. She was dressed in rusty black, and in place of a hat she wore a black woolen scarf tied around her head and underneath her chin. Her face was lined, her hair of a deep brown plentifully besprinkled with grey. She had a curious habit of moving her lips, even when she was not speaking.
She stood there smiling at him, but there was something about that smile and about her look which puzzled him.
"I am just a visitor," he replied. "Who are you?"
She shook her head.
"I saw you come out of the Tower," she said, speaking with a strong local accent and yet with a certain unusual correctness, "in at the window and out of the door. You're a brave man."
"Why brave?" he asked.
She turned her head very slowly towards St. David's Hall. A gleam of sunshine had caught one of the windows, which shone like fire.
She pointed toward it with her head.
"He's looking at you," she muttered. "He don't like strangers poking around here, that I can tell you."
"And who is he?" Hamel enquired.
"Squire Fentolin," she answered, dropping her voice a little. "He's a very kind-hearted gentleman, Squire Fentolin, but he don't like strangers hanging around."
"Well, I am not exactly a stranger, you see," Hamel remarked. "My father used to stay for months at a time in that little shanty there and paint pictures. It's a good many years ago."
"I mind him," the woman said slowly. "His name was Hamel."
"I am his son," Hamel announced.
She pointed to the Hall. "Does he know that you are here?"
Hamel shook his head. "Not yet. I have been abroad for so long."
She suddenly relapsed into her curious habit. Her lips moved, but no words came. She had turned her head a little and was facing the sea.
"Tell me," Hamel asked gently, "why do you come out here alone, so far from the village?"
She pointed with her finger to where the waves were breaking in a thin line of white, about fifty yards from the beach.
"It's the cemetery,. that," she said, "the village cemetery, you know. I have three buried there: George, the eldest; James, the middle one; and David, the youngest. Three of them - that's why I come. I can't put flowers on their graves, but I can sit and watch and look through the sea, down among the rocks where their bodies are, and wonder."
Hamel looked at her curiously. Her voice had grown lower and lower.
"It's what you land folks don't believe, perhaps," she went on, "but it's true. It's only us who live near the sea who understand it.
I am not an ignorant body, either. I was schoolmistress here before I married David Cox. They thought I'd done wrong to marry a fisherman, but I bore him brave sons, and I lived the life a woman craves for. No, I am not ignorant. I have fancies, perhaps - the Lord be praised for them! - and I tell you it's true. You look at a spot in the sea and you see nothing - a gleam of blue, a fleck of white foam, one day; a gleam of green with a black line, another; and a grey little sob, the next, perhaps. But you go on looking.
You look day by day and hour by hour, and the chasms of the sea will open, and their voices will come to you. Listen!"
She clutched his arm.
"Couldn't you hear that?" she half whispered.
"'The light!' It was David's voice! 'The light!'" Hamel was speechless. The woman's face was suddenly strangely transformed.
Her mood, however, swiftly changed. She turned once more towards the hall.
"You'll know him soon," she went on, "the kindest man in these parts, they say. It's not much that he gives away, but he's a kind heart. You see that great post at the entrance to the river there?" she went on, pointing to it. "He had that set up and a lamp hung from there. Fentolin's light, they call it. It was to save men's lives. It was burning, they say, the night I lost my lads.
Fentolin's light!"
"They were wrecked?" he asked her gently.
"Wrecked," she answered. "Bad steering it must have been. James would steer, and they say that he drank a bit. Bad steering! Yes, you'll meet Squire Fentolin before long. He's queer to look at - a small body but a great, kind heart. A miserable life, his, but it will be made up to him. It will be made up to him!"
She turned away. Her lips were moving all the time. She walked about a dozen steps, and then she returned.
"You're Hamel's son, the painter," she said. "You'll be welcome down here. He'll have you to stay at the Hall - a brave place.
Don't let him be too kind to you. Sometimes kindness hurts."
She passed on, walking with a curious, shambling gait, and soon she disappeared on her way to the village. Hamel watched her for a moment and then turned his head towards St. David's Hall. He felt somehow that her abrupt departure was due to something which she had seen in that direction. He rose to his feet. His instinct had been a true one.
