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Updated: June 24, 2025
Above the rim of the silver-blue sea patched with purple stains in the middle distance webs of steamer smoke lay along the southern sky. Occasionally a sound of voices, the creak of a wooden windlass and grind of a boat's keel upon the pebbles as it was wound slowly up the foreshore, came from the direction of the ferry and of Faircloth's Inn.
Faircloth's Inn on Marychurch Haven and your Indian palace, as basis to two children's memories and outlook, are too widely divergent, when one comes to think of it. When listening to you and Colonel Carteret talking at luncheon I caught very plain sight of that. Not that he talked of set purpose to read me a wholesome lesson in humility never in life. He's not that sort.
She couldn't ask that of him ten thousand times no, she couldn't ask it though not to ask it was to let the breach in sympathy and confidence widen silently and grow. So much was sadly clear to her. She unfolded Faircloth's letter and read it through a second time, in vain hope of discovering some middle way, some leading.
Standing in the conflicting gaslight and moonlight, the haunted quiet of the small hours broken only by the trample and wash of the sea, he read Darcy Faircloth's letter from its unconventional opening, to its equally unconventional closing paragraph.
Faircloth's name, it is true; but the son profited, at all events vicariously, by its prosperity. A swaggering fellow, with an inordinate opinion of his own ability and merits; but in that he shared a family failing. For arrogance and assumption the whole clan was difficult to beat. "You have heard whose son this young Faircloth is, of course?"
She, too, appeared perturbed. Her eyebrows were drawn into a little frown and her expression was perplexed to the point of child-like distress. "Not any," she answered simply. "Some one staying at Faircloth's Inn possibly. People come there from Marychurch to spend the day during the summer.
"Then pray don't repeat it to me, my love" another yawn and an irritable one. "Gossip as you know is abhorrent to me." "And to me but one needs to be forearmed with the truth if one is to rebut it conclusively. Only upon such grounds should I think of mentioning this to you." She made a dash. "James, have you by chance ever heard peculiar rumours about young Darcy Faircloth's parentage?"
She had spoken valiantly on Faircloth's behalf, had generously acted as his advocate; yet now, beholding him thus in open converse with her father, the wings of love were scorched by the flame of jealousy not so much of the young man himself, as of a past which he stood for and in which she had no part.
Still holding Faircloth's hand, and still silent, her shoulder touching his now and again in walking, Damaris went down the sloping path, hoary lichen-stained head-and-foot stones set in the vivid churchyard grass as yet unbleached by the cold of winter on either side.
For Faircloth's letter seemed to her very wonderful, alike in its vigour, its simplicity and her lips quivered its revelation of loving. How he cared and how he went on caring! There were coarse words in it, the meaning of which she neither knew nor sought to know; but she did not resent them.
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