Michael's Crag

Chapter 8

SAFE AT LAST.

The night was long. The night was dark. Slowly the fog closed them in.

It grew rainier and more dismal. But on the summit of the crag Eustace

Le Neve stood aloft, and waved his arms, and shouted. He lit a match

and shaded it. The dull glare of it through the mist just faintly

reached the eyes of the anxious watchers on the beach below. From a

dozen lips there rose an answering shout. The pair on the crag half

heard its last echoes. Eustace put his hands to his mouth and cried

aloud once more, in stentorian tones, "All right. Cleer's here. We can

hold out till morning."

Trevennack alone heard the words. But he repeated them so instantly

that his wife felt sure it was true hearing, not insane hallucination.

The sea was gaining on them now. It had risen almost up to the face of

the cliffs. Reluctantly they turned along the path by the gully, and

mounting the precipice waited and watched till morning on the tor that

overlooks Michael's Crag from the Penmorgan headland.

Every now and again, through that livelong night, Trevennack whispered

in his wife's ear, "If only I chose to spread my wings, and launch

myself, I could fly across and carry her." And each time that brave

woman, holding his hand in her own and smoothing it gently, answered

in her soft voice, "But then the secret would be out, and Cleer's life

would be spoiled, and they'd call you a madman. Wait till morning,

dear Michael; do, do, wait till morning."

And Trevennack, struggling hard with the mad impulse in his heart,

replied with all his soul, "I will; I will; for Cleer's sake and

yours, I'll try to keep it down. I'll not be mad. I'll be strong and

restrain it."

For he knew he was insane, in his inmost soul, almost as well as he

knew his name was Michael the Archangel.

On the island, meanwhile, Eustace Le Neve and Cleer Trevennack sat

watching out the weary night, and longing for the dawn to make the way

back possible. At least, Cleer did, for as to Eustace, in spite of

rain and fog and cold and darkness, he was by no means insensible to

the unwonted pleasure of so long a tete-a-tete, in such romantic

circumstances, with the beautiful Cornish girl. To be sure the waves

roared, and the drizzle dripped, and the seabirds flapped all round

them. But many waters will not quench love. Cleer was by his side,

holding his hand in hers in the dark for pure company's sake, because

she was so frightened; and as the night wore on they talked at last of

many things. They were prisoners there for five mortal hours or so,

alone, together; and they might as well make the best of it by being

sociable with one another.

There could be no denying, however, that it was cold and damp and dark

and uncomfortable. The rain came beating down upon them, as they sat

there side by side on that exposed rock. The spray from the breakers

blew in with the night wind; the light breeze struck chill on their

wet clothes and faces. After awhile Eustace began a slow tour of

inspection over the crag, seeking some cave or rock shelter, some

projecting ledge of stone on the leeward side that might screen their

backs at least from the driving showers. Cleer couldn't be left alone;

she clung to his hand as he felt his way about the islet, with

uncertain steps, through the gloom and fog. Once he steadied himself

on a jutting piece of the rock as he supposed, when to his immense

surprise--wh'r'r'r--it rose from under his hand, with a shrill cry of

alarm, and fluttered wildly seaward. It was some sleeping gull, no

doubt, disturbed unexpectedly in its accustomed resting-place. Eustace

staggered and almost fell. Cleer supported him with her arm. He

accepted her aid gratefully. They stumbled on in the dark once more,

lighting now and again for a minute or two one of his six precious

matches--he had no more in his case--and exploring as well as they

might the whole broken surface of that fissured pinnacle. "I'm so glad

you smoke, Mr. Le Neve," Cleer said, simply, as he lit one. "For if

you didn't, you know, we'd have been left here all night in utter

darkness."

At last, in a nook formed by the weathered joints, Eustace found a

rugged niche, somewhat dryer than the rest, and laid Cleer gently down

in it, on a natural spring seat of tufted rock-plants. Then he settled

down beside her, with what cheerfulness he could muster up, and taking

off his wet coat, spread it on top across the cleft, like a tent roof,

to shelter them. It was no time, indeed, to stand upon ceremony. Cleer

recognized as much, and nestled close to his side, like a sensible

girl as she was, so as to keep warm by mere company; while Eustace,

still holding her hand, just to assure her of his presence, placed

himself in such an attitude, leaning before her and above her, as to

protect her as far as possible from the drizzling rainfall through the

gap in front of them. There they sat till morning, talking gradually

of many things, and growing more and more confidential, in spite of

cold and wet, as they learnt more and more, with each passing hour, of

each other's standpoint. There are some situations where you get to

know people better in a few half-hours together than you could get to

know them in months upon months of mere drawing-room acquaintance. And

this was one of them. Before morning dawned, Eustace Le Neve and Cleer

Trevennack felt just as if they had known one another quite well for

years. They were old and trusted friends already. Old friends--and

even something more than that. Though no word of love was spoken

between them, each knew of what the other was thinking. Eustace felt

Cleer loved him; Cleer felt Eustace loved her. And in spite of rain

and cold and fog and darkness they were almost happy--before dawn came

to interrupt their strange tete-a-tete on the islet.

As soon as day broke Eustace looked out from their eyrie on the

fissured peak, and down upon the troubled belt of water below. The sea

was now ebbing, and the passage between the rock and the mainland

though still full (for it was never dry even at spring-tide low water)

was fairly passable by this time over the natural bridge of stepping-

stones. He clambered down the side, giving his hand to Cleer from

ledge to ledge as he went. The fog had lifted a little, and on the

opposite headland they could just dimly descry the weary watchers

looking eagerly out for them. Eustace put his hands to his mouth, and

gave a loud halloo. The sound of the breakers was less deafening now;

his voice carried to the mainland. Trevennack, who had sat under a

tarpaulin through the livelong night, watching and waiting with

anxious heart for the morning, raised an answering shout, and waved

his hat in his hand frantically. St. Michael's Crag had not betrayed

its trust. That was the motto of the Trevennacks--"Stand fast, St.

Michael's!"--under the crest of the rocky islet, castled and mured,

flamboyant. Eustace reached the bottom of the rock, and, wading in the

water himself, or jumping into the deepest parts, helped Cleer across

the stepping-stones. Meanwhile, the party on the cliff had hurried

down by the gully path; and a minute later Cleer was in her mother's

arms, while Trevennack held her hand, inarticulate with joy, and bent

over her eagerly.

"Oh, mother," Cleer cried, in her simple girlish naivete, "Mr. Le

Neve's been so kind to me! I don't know how I should ever have got

through the night without him. It was so good of him to come. He's

been SUCH a help to me."

The father and mother both looked into her eyes--a single searching

glance--and understood perfectly. They grasped Le Neve's hand. Tears

rolled down their cheeks. Not a word was spoken, but in a certain

silent way all four understood one another.

"Where's Tyrrel?" Eustace asked.

And Mrs. Trevennack answered, "Carried home, severely hurt. He was

bruised on the rocks. But we hope not dangerously. The doctor's been

to see him, we hear, and finds no bones broken. Still, he's terribly

battered about, in those fearful waves, and it must be weeks, they

tell us, before he can quite recover."

But Cleer, as was natural, thought more of the man who had struggled

through and reached her than of the man who had failed in the attempt,

though he suffered all the more for it. This is a world of the

successful. In it, as in most other planets I have visited, people

make a deal more fuss over the smallest success than over the noblest

failure.

It was no moment for delay. Eustace turned on his way at once, and ran

up to Penmorgan. And the Trevennacks returned, very wet and cold, in

the dim gray dawn to their rooms at Gunwalloe.

As soon as they were alone--Cleer put safely to bed--Trevennack looked

at his wife. "Lucy," he said, slowly, in a disappointed tone, "after

this, of course, come what may, they must marry."

"They must," his wife answered. "There's no other way left. And

fortunately, dear, I could see from the very first, Cleer likes him,

and he likes her."

The father paused a moment. It wasn't quite the match he had hoped for

a Trevennack of Trevennack. Then he added, very fervently, "Thank God

it was HIM--not that other man, Tyrrel! Thank God, the first one fell

in the water and was hurt. What should we ever have done--oh, what

should we have done, Lucy, if she'd been cut off all night long on

that lonely crag face to face with the man who murdered our dear boy

Michael?"

Mrs. Trevennack drew a long breath. Then she spoke earnestly once

more. "Dear heart," she said, looking deep into his clear brown eyes,

"now remember, more than ever, Cleer's future is at stake. For Cleer's

sake, more than ever, keep a guard on yourself, Michael; watch word

and deed, do nothing foolish."

"You can trust me!" Trevennack answered, drawing himself up to his

full height, and looking proudly before him. "Cleer's future is at

stake. Cleer has a lover now. Till Cleer is married, I'll give you my

sacred promise no living soul shall ever know in any way she's an

archangel's daughter."