Part 13 (1/2)

She had sentiments also regarding the rabbits Bernel shot on the cliffs, but being wild, and she herself having had no hand in their upbringing and not having known them intimately, she accepted them as natural provision, though not without compunctions at times concerning possible families of orphans left totally unprovided for.

When she did permit herself a few hours off duty she did it with a whole-hearted enjoyment--approaching the nave abandon of childhood--which, to Gard's sober restraint, when he was graciously permitted to witness it, was wholly charming.

By degrees, and especially after her father's tragic death, Nance's feelings towards the stranger had perceptibly changed.

He might be an alien, an Englishman; but he was at all events a Cornishman, and she had heard say that the men of Cornwall and of the Islands and of the Bretagne had much in common, just as their rugged coasts had. And England, after all, was allied to the Islands, belonged to them in fact, and was indeed quite as essential a part of the Queen's dominions as the Islands themselves, and to harbour unfriendly feeling towards your own relations--unless indeed, as in the case of Tom, they had given you ample cause--would be surely the mark of a small and narrow mind.

And he might be a miner; and mines, and most miners, were naturally hateful to her. But he had been a sailor, and was miner only by accident as it were, and she knew that he loved the sea. Allowance, she supposed, must be made for men getting twists in their brains--like her father. He had gone crazy over these mines though he had been sensible enough in other matters.

What her careful, surrept.i.tious observation of him, from the depths and round the wings of her sun-bonnet, told her was that he was an upright man, and true, and bold, with a spirit which he kept well in hand but which could blaze like lightning on occasion, and a strength which he could turn to excellent purpose when the need arose.

And--and--she admitted it shyly to herself and not without wonder, and found herself dwelling upon it as she sang softly to the ping-pang of the milk into the pail, or the swoosh of it in the churn--he thought of her, Nance Hamon--perhaps he even admired her a little--any way he was certainly interested in her, and in his shy reserved way he showed a desire for her company which she no longer found pleasure in defeating as she had done at first.

Undoubtedly an odd feeling, this, of being cared for by an outside man--- but withal tending to increase of self-esteem and therefore not unpleasing.

Peter Mauger, indeed--but then she had never looked upon Peter as anything but Peter, and the shadow of Tom had always obscured him to her. Stephen Gard was a man, and a different kind of a man from Peter altogether.

She remembered, with a slight reddening still of the warm brown cheeks whenever she thought of it--how, on the previous Sunday afternoon, she and Bernel had gone running over the downs through the waist-high bracken towards Breniere, the tide in their favourite pool below the rocks being too high for bathing. And on the slope above the Cromlech they had come suddenly on Gard, lying there looking out over the sea towards L'Etat.

He had jumped up at sight of them and stood hesitating a moment.

”Going for a bathe?” he asked, knowing the usual course of their proceedings.

”Yes, we were,” said Bernel. ”You going?” with a glance at the towel Gard had brought out on the chance of a dip.

”I'd thought of it, but your tides and currents here are so troublesome--”

”Oh, we know all about 'em. They're all right when you know.”

”I suppose so, but--” with a look at Nance, ”I'll clear out.”

”You're not coming?”

”Your sister wouldn't like it.”

”Nance?” with a look of surprise. ”She won't mind. Will you, Nance?”

Then it was her turn to hesitate, for bathing with Bernel was one thing, and with Mr. Gard quite another.

”You'll show me another time, Bernel,” said Gard, picking up his towel.

”I wouldn't like to spoil your fun now.”

”But you wouldn't. Would he, Nance?”

”I don't mind--if you'll give me the cave.”

”All the caves you want,” said Bernel, scornful at such unusual stickling on the part of his chum.

”Quite sure you don't mind?” asked Gard, doubtful still.