Part 6 (2/2)

”Why not?”

”Why--the--the Skipper would only have Jack put, that was all. Jack--he was the boy on the schooner 'Flying Fish'--'Lead, kindly light.'”

”Ah!”

The exclamation came in a sigh, that might have been a murmur of relief or of disappointment. Then there was a silence. The painter went over again to the fire. Uniacke stood still where he was and looked on the ground. He had told a deliberate lie. It seemed to grow as he thought of it. And why had he told it? A sudden impulse, a sudden fear, had led him into sin. A strange fancy had whispered to him, ”What if that boy buried by the wall yonder should be the wonder-child, the ragam.u.f.fin who looked at the rainbow, the sea urchin, the spectre haunting your guest?” How unlikely that was! And yet s.h.i.+ps go far, and the human fate is often mysteriously sad. It might be that the wonder-child was born to be wrecked, to be cast up, streaming with sea-water on the strand of this lonely isle. It might be that the eyes which wors.h.i.+pped the rainbow were sightless beneath that stone yonder; that the hands which pointed to it were folded in the eternal sleep. And, if so, was not the lie justified? If so, could Peter Uniacke regret it? He saw this man who had come into his lonely life treading along the verge of a world that made him tremble in horror. Dared he lead him across the verge into the darkness? And yet his lie troubled him, and he saw a stain spreading slowly out upon the whiteness of his ardent soul. The painter turned from the fire. His face was haggard and weary.

”I will go to bed,” he said. ”I must try to get some sleep even in the storm.”

He held out his thin hand. Uniacke took it.

”Good-night,” he said.

”Good-night. I am sorry I have troubled you with my foolish history.”

”It interested me deeply. By the way--what did you say your wonder-child's name was, his full name?”

”Jack--Jack Pringle. What is it?”

”Nothing. That gust of wind startled me. Good-night.”

The painter looked at Uniacke narrowly, then left the room.

The clergyman went over to the fire, leaned his arms on the mantelpiece, and rested his head on them.

Presently he lifted his head, went softly to the door, opened it and listened. He heard the tread of his guest above stairs, moving to and fro about the spare room. He waited. After a while there was silence in the house. Only the wind and the sea roared outside. Then Uniacke went into the kitchen, pulled out a drawer in a dresser that stood by the window, and took from it a chisel and a hammer. He carried them into the pa.s.sage, furtively put on his coat and hat, and, with all the precaution of a thief, unlocked the front door and stole out into the storm.

PART II.

THE GRAVE.

PART II.

THE GRAVE.

In the morning the storm was still fierce. Clouds streamed across a sky that bent lower and lower towards the aspiring sea blanched with foam.

There was little light, and the Rectory parlour looked grim and wintry when Sir Graham and Uniacke met there at breakfast time. The clergyman was pale and seemed strangely discomforted and at first unable to be natural. He greeted his guest with a forcible, and yet flickering, note of cheerfulness, abrupt and unsympathetic, as he sat down behind the steaming coffee-pot. The painter scarcely responded. He was still attentive to the storm. He ate very little.

”You slept?” asked Uniacke presently.

”Only for a short time towards dawn. I sat at my window most of the night.”

”At your window?” Uniacke said uneasily.

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