Part 37 (1/2)
”But I sha'n't be frightened, papa.”
”How do you know that?”
”Because you are going to carry me.”
”But what if I should slip? I might, you know.”
”I don't mind. I sha'n't mind being tumbled over the precipice, if you do it. I sha'n't be to blame, and I'm sure you won't, papa.” Then she drew my head down and whispered in my ear, ”If I get as much more by being killed, as I have got by having my poor back hurt, I'm sure it will be well worth it.”
I tried to smile a reply, for I could not speak one. We took her just as she was, and with some tremor on my part, but not a single slip, we bore her down the winding path, her face showing all the time that, instead of being afraid, she was in a state of ecstatic delight. My wife, I could see, was nervous, however; and she breathed a sigh of relief when we were once more at the foot.
”Well, I'm glad that's over,” she said.
”So am I,” I returned, as we set down the litter.
”Poor papa! I've pulled his arms to pieces! and Mr. Percivale's too!”
Percivale answered first by taking up a huge piece of stone. Then turning towards her, he said, ”Look here, Miss Connie;” and flung it far out from the isthmus on which we were resting. We heard it strike on a rock below, and then fall in a shower of fragments. ”My arms are all right, you see,” he said.
Meantime, Wynnie had scrambled down to the sh.o.r.e, where we had not yet been. In a few minutes, we still lingering, she came running back to us out of breath with the news:
”Papa! Mr. Percivale! there's such a grand cave down there! It goes right through under the island.”
Connie looked so eager, that Percivale and I glanced at each other, and without a word, lifted her, and followed Wynnie. It was a little way that we had to carry her down, but it was very broken, and insomuch more difficult than the other. At length we stood in the cavern. What a contrast to the vision overhead!--nothing to be seen but the cool, dark vault of the cave, long and winding, with the fresh seaweed lying on its pebbly floor, and its walls wet with the last tide, for every tide rolled through in rising and falling--the waters on the opposite sides of the islet greeting through this cave; the blue s.h.i.+mmer of the rising sea, and the forms of huge outlying rocks, looking in at the further end, where the roof rose like a grand cathedral arch; and the green gleam of veins rich with copper, das.h.i.+ng and streaking the darkness in gloomy little chapels, where the floor of heaped-up pebbles rose and rose within till it met the descending roof. It was like a going-down from Paradise into the grave--but a cool, friendly, brown-lighted grave, which even in its darkest recesses bore some witness to the wind of G.o.d outside, in the occasional ripple of shadowed light, from the play of the sun on the waves, that, fleeted and reflected, wandered across its jagged roof. But we dared not keep Connie long in the damp coolness; and I have given my reader quite enough of description for one hour's reading. He can scarcely be equal to more.
My invalids had now beheld the sea in such a different aspect, that I no longer feared to go back to Kilkhaven. Thither we went three days after, and at my invitation, Percivale took Turner's place in the carriage.
CHAPTER XI.
JOE AND HIS TROUBLE.
How bright the yellow sh.o.r.es of Kilkhaven looked after the dark sands of Tintagel! But how low and tame its highest cliffs after the mighty rampart of rocks which there face the sea like a cordon of fierce guardians! It was pleasant to settle down again in what had begun to look like home, and was indeed made such by the boisterous welcome of Dora and the boys. Connie's baby crowed aloud, and stretched forth her chubby arms at sight of her. The wind blew gently around us, full both of the freshness of the clean waters and the scents of the down-gra.s.ses, to welcome us back. And the dread vision of the sh.o.r.e had now receded so far into the past, that it was no longer able to hurt.
We had called at the blacksmith's house on our way home, and found that he was so far better as to be working at his forge again. His mother said he was used to such attacks, and soon got over them. I, however, feared that they indicated an approaching break-down.
”Indeed, sir,” she said, ”Joe might be well enough if he liked. It's all his own fault.”
”What do you mean?” I asked. ”I cannot believe that your son is in any way guilty of his own illness.”
”He's a well-behaved lad, my Joe,” she answered; ”but he hasn't learned what I had to learn long ago.”
”What is that?” I asked.
”To make up his mind, and stick to it. To do one thing or the other.”