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Page 27
The Killigrews had not been born and bred there. Its builder had been
a friend of King George; that is, his sympathies had been with taxation
without representation. One day he sold the manor cheap. His reasons
were sufficient. It then became the property of a wealthy trader, who
died in it. This was in 1809. His heirs, living, and preferring to
live, in Philadelphia, put up a sign; and being of careful disposition,
kept the place in excellent repair.
In the year 1816, it passed into the hands of a Frenchman, and during
his day the villagers called the house The Watch Tower; for the
Frenchman was always on the high balcony, telescope in hand, gazing
seaward. No one knew his name. He dealt with the villagers through
his servant, who could speak English, himself professing that he could
not speak the language. He was a recluse, almost a hermit. At odd
times, a brig would be seen dropping anchor in the offing. She was
always from across the water, from the old country, as villagers to
this day insist upon calling Europe. The manor during these peaceful
invasions showed signs of life. Men from the brig went up to the big
white house, and remained there for a week or a month. And they were
lean men, battle-scarred and fierce of eye, some with armless sleeves,
some with stiff legs, some twisted with rheumatism. All spoke French,
and spat whenever they saw the perfidious flag of old England. This
was not marked against them as a demerit, for the War of 1812 was yet
smoking here and there along the Great Lakes. Suddenly, they would up
and away, and the manor would reassume its repellent aloofness. Each
time they returned their number was diminished. Old age had succeeded
war as a harvester. In 1822, the mysterious old recluse surrendered
the ghost. His heirs--ignored and hated by him for their affiliation
with the Bourbons--sold it to the father of the admiral.
The manor wasn't haunted. The hard-headed longshoremen and sailors who
lived at the foot of the hill were a practical people, to whom spirits
were something mostly and generally put up in bottles, and emptied on
sunless, blustery days. Still, they wouldn't have been human if they
had not done some romancing.
There were a dozen yarns, each at variance with the other. First, the
old "monseer" was a fugitive from France; everybody granted that.
Second, that he had helped to cut off King Lewis' head; but nobody
could prove that. Third, that he was a retired pirate; but retired
pirates always wound up their days in riotous living, so this theory
died. Fourth, that he had been a great soldier in the Napoleonic wars,
and this version had some basis, as the old man's face was slashed and
cut, some of his fingers were missing, and he limped. Again, he had
been banished from France for a share in the Hundred Days. But, all
told, nothing was proved conclusively, though the villagers burrowed
and delved and hunted and pried, as villagers are prone to do when a
person appears among them and keeps his affairs strictly to himself.
But the next generation partly forgot, and the present only
indifferently remembered that, once upon a time, a French _emigr�_ had
lived and died up there. They knew all there was to know about the
present owner. It was all compactly written and pictured in a book of
history, which book agents sold over the land, even here in Dalton.
All these things Fitzgerald and his companion learned from the driver
on the journey up the incline.
"Where was this Frenchman buried?" inquired Breitmann softly.
"In th' cemet'ry jest over th' hill. But nobody knows jest where he is
now. Stone's gone, an' th' ground's all level that end. He wus on'y a
Frenchman. But th' admiral, now you're talkin'! He pays cash, an'
don't make no bargain rates, when he wants a job done. Go wan, y' ol'
nag; what y' dreamin' of?"
"There might be history in that corner of the graveyard," said
Breitmann.
"Who knows? Good many strange bits of furniture found their way over
here during those tremendous times. Beautiful place in the daytime;
eh?" Fitzgerald added, with an inclination toward The Pines.
"More like an Italian villa than an Englishman's home. Good gardeners,
I should say."
"Culture and money will make a bog attractive."
"Is the admiral cultured, then?"
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