"You used to come here when you were a boy, though," he objected,
after a pause, with a glance at the great breakers that curled in upon
the cove; "and you must surely have found it pleasant enough then,
what with the bathing and the fishing and the shooting and the
boating, and all the delights of the sea and the country."

Walter Tyrrel nodded his head. It was clear the subject was extremely
distasteful to him.

"Yes--till I was twelve or thirteen," he said, slowly, as one who
grudges assent, "in my uncle's time, I liked it well enough, no doubt.
Boys don't realize the full terror of sea or cliff, you know, and are
perfectly happy swimming and climbing. I used to be amphibious in
those days, like a seal or an otter--in the water half my time; and I
scrambled over the rocks--great heavens, it makes me giddy now just to
THINK where I scrambled. But when I was about thirteen years old"--his
face grew graver still--"a change seemed to come over me, and I began
. . . well, I began to hate Penmorgan. I've hated it ever since. I
shall always hate it. I learned what it all meant, I suppose--rocks,
wrecks, and accidents. I saw how dull and gloomy it was, and I
couldn't bear coming down here. I came as seldom as I dared, till my
uncle died last year and left it to me. And then there was no help for
it. I HAD to come down. It's a landlord's business, I consider, to
live among his tenants and look after the welfare of the soil,
committed to his charge by his queen and country. He holds it in
trust, strictly speaking, for the nation. So I felt I must come and
live here. But I hate it, all the same. I hate it! I hate it!"

He said it so energetically, and with such strange earnestness in his
voice, that Eustace Le Neve, scanning his face as he spoke, felt sure