Still In The Family

Auckland Star, Volume LXX, Issue 246, 18 October 1939, Page 17

Still In The Family

By W. A. Sweeney

Short Story <?

yiTELL, I like your cottage, Beale, and I like your countrvside.

You've certainly chosen a pretty spot in which to Imrv vourseltY'

"When I feel like it,"' said Heale, "we'll go and visit our oldest inhabitant. He's the most entertaining personage in these parts."

''I'm not too interested in ancient men." I murmured. "L experience something like tile creeps —" *

"This mail's not a hit like that, - ' Heale interrupted with a slight smile. "(,'uite the contrary. Hut if you're jeadv we'll go along."'

This oldest inhabitant was only SO, imkl lived in a .small, dark cottage Tint Ini" from Bcale's. Ho lived all alone, and was something of a recluse. A woman fame to liis place every second day to put, his cottage in order, to look a Her his washing and his supplies of food.

"He's nil old ninti of education, keen intelligence and —altogether <|!lite exceptional." Here a qjieer little smile, as il at some private joke. played around Bcale's mouth. "Only," he continued, "he doesn't encourage visitors. I in the only one he tolerates —in fact, lie likes me —and as he. doesn't gossip with the villagers they regard him as something of an old hermit."

\\ e knocked at Mr. Daltou's door and waited a long time before we heard -huffling steps, and after much fumbling with the lock, lie peered at us from the dim interior.

"All, come in, Mr. Beale, come in," lie said heart iI v.

"I've brought a friend, Mr. Dalton." said Beale, introducing me. The old man looked at me with remarkablv -harp eyes, and then extended his hand, which trembled a. little.

on re just in time for a cup of lea. said old Mr. Dalton. preceding us o lii-i sitting room. "Sit down while I jet some more cups." He shuffled into 'he kitchen, a bent old man with un- • idy, long white hair, large, hornrimmed spectacles, thin, mobile, wrinkled face, bushy, nearly-white eyebrows, clad in slippers and dressing -own, The room was eminently coinortable, tastefully furnished, and the veil- li I led bookshelf, and books and lauibzines scattered here and there indiated the pastime of a man of culture. Wo discussed various topics, idly. >\hile we drank tea, and then J said: "Vou have lived always here, Mr. Dalton ?" "Oh, dear. no. T came here from London 12 years ago. I came when 1 lost my son." "Oh," I said sympathetically, anil Beale glanced across at me in a manner which signified that lie had heard if this son more than once. "I still live in the hope that one day 'ie may walk in here." he went on, while I sat looking at him imcomprchendingly. 'He went on a trip to America, and I never heard of him again. Me must be dead. I tell myself, but still—well, there's always a flicker of hope. Hope keeps us living, Mr. Beale." lie sighed, heavily, and reached to replenish our cups with his trembling hands. Both hands, I noticed, were half-covered with white woollen mittens.

"What's interesting at the playhouses in London these duvs'r" he asked me. "I take an interest still in the theatre, because, you see, my boy was on the stage." "Beally," I said, and then I talked of some of the plays running in town at the time. Old Mr. Dalton listened with intense interest, and then began to talk from knowledge and experience of the theatre of his younger days.

Just before we left there was a. curious . little occurrence. Behind the old man's ehair was a low shelf on which paper-bound volumes, magazines and periodicals had been piled haphazardly, so that they threatened to topple over. Some movement of his chair, no doubt, did dislodge the topmost, and it slid gently down the back of his armchair and rested on the hack of his head. Mr. Dalton continued to talk, Unaware of it. Beale arose, and, murmuring something, removed the periodical, to the old man's astonishment and, I noticed, confusion.

"Poor old hoy," I thought. "Nerve centres beginning to go. First step towards paralysis. He didn't feel that on his head."

On the way home Beale said, "Interesting old chap, isn't he?" Very," J replied. "I'm afraid he's not long for this world now. Did you notice lie didn't feel that paper lighting on his head?"

"I did." He thought a while. "Yon mean his sensitivity is beginning to ?" I nodded, and Beale walked on with wrinkled brows.

"111 tell you of something that has puzzled me," he said. "One night I arrived from London here by the last train and walked home from the station.

As T passed old Dalton's cottage I saw a light in the window, and though it was very late, and everybody round here was in bed, I approached with a half notion of saying good-night to him. As 1 iieaml his window \ saw him moving about within. You know how he shuffles slowly—you saw him. to-day? W ell. that night he was moving'about the room like vou or me."

"Deuced queer! Did you go in to say goodnightY"

"Yes. I knocked at the door and, after asking who was there, ho came in slow, shuttling steps as usual. What do v oii make of that?"'

"J. make nothing of it, my son, except you tell me what you had to drink that evening up in town. I'm inclined to think you must have heen the victim of tho light l ays on the glass, Beale. What- other explanation can there lie'' By the way, does nobody ever come to see the old man—no relatives J"

Beale shook his head. "Nobody except a man of affairs who calls once a month about, money matters. Old Dalton told me he had no relatives in England, unless the <-oii is alive here."

lie's a rather pathetic old figure."

"He is and T like him." said Heale. "hut T wish r could explain that night f saw him striding round the room."

N'ext day Beale and 1 went fishing, and when we returned late in the evening his housekeeper was waiting on the doorstep. "Will you please go up to Mr. Daltou's, sir." she said, excitedly. "The woman who does his washing has just been 'ere and she says there's something wrong. She can't get in and she looked through the window and "

We waited to hear no more. Beale was possessed of a strange excitement as wo reached Dalton's. The woman was t ill 1 here, and she explained. We looked through the window and then force;! open the cottage door.

Old Air. Dalton was lying on the floor dead. He fceined to have succumbed to a heart attack. Heale and I bent over him. and we both noticed something strange about the hair. We noticed, also, something very, very strange about the wrinkled face. Death had removed the wrinkles, but had left strange, almost ini|>ercoptihlo smear* o'" paint. Beale seized the long white hair and Vicld in his hand u wig. The man on the floor now looked about 50 instead of SO. "What is the mystery, Beale?"' I asked quiet ly. "Heaven knows." he replied. But we found out later when the polio.arrived and went through the dead niaii"correspondence. The man of affairs from London wiw summoned immediately, and there was a letter for him. When lie read ft lie said.

"About .'!() years ago Christopher Dal ton saved the life of Muriel Lady Sishey. then a little nirl. Ho saved 'lier from drowning at the risk of his life, and her }>a rents ti\ed on him a life annuity ol £20(1 in gratitude. We have heen paying this money regularly till now, and now — it's incredible!"

lit 1 stopped and g«izcd stupidly at tin letter. "Who is this man anyway V" demanded tile inspector.

"That." said the other, is the son .if Christopher Dalton. An actor. His father died in an accident 12 years ago. it seems, and Die son simply took hiplace. Head this letter." The inspector took the envelop -1 marked, "To he opened after my de«th."