Michael's Crag

Chapter 6

PURE ACCIDENT.

During the next week or so, as chance would have it, Cleer Trevennack

fell in more than once on her walks with Eustace Le Neve and Walter

Tyrrel. They had picked up acquaintance in an irregular way, to be

sure; but Cleer hadn't happened to be close by when her father uttered

those strange words to his wife, "It was he who did it; it was he who

killed our boy"; nor did she notice particularly the marked abruptness

of Tyrrel's departure on that unfortunate occasion. So she had no such

objection to meeting the two young men as Trevennack himself not

unnaturally displayed; she regarded his evident avoidance of Walter

Tyrrel as merely one of "Papa's fancies." To Cleer, Papa's fancies

were mysterious but very familiar entities; and Tyrrel and Le Neve

were simply two interesting and intelligent young men--the squire of

the village and a friend on a visit to him. Indeed, to be quite

confidential, it was the visitor who occupied the larger share of

Cleer's attention. He was so good-looking and so nice. His open face

and pink and white complexion had attracted her fancy from the very

first; and the more she saw of him the more she liked him.

They met often--quite by accident, of course--on the moor and

elsewhere. Tyrrel, for his part, shrank somewhat timidly from the

sister of the boy, for his share in whose death he so bitterly

reproached himself; yet he couldn't quite drag himself off whenever he

found himself in Cleer's presence. She bound him as by a spell. He was

profoundly attracted to her. There was something about the pretty

Cornish girl so frank, so confiding, in one word, so magnetic, that

when once he came near her he couldn't tear himself away as he felt he

ought to. Yet he could see very well, none the less, it was for

Eustace Le Neve that she watched most eagerly, with the natural

interest of a budding girl in the man who takes her pure maiden fancy.

Tyrrel allowed with a sigh that this was well indeed; for how could he

ever dream, now he knew who she was, of marrying young Michael

Trevennack's sister?

One afternoon the two friends were returning from a long ramble across

the open moor, when, near a little knoll of bare and weathered rock

that rose from a circling belt of Cornish heath, they saw Cleer by

herself, propped against the huge boulders, with her eyes fixed

intently on a paper-covered novel. She looked up and smiled as they

approached; and the young men, turning aside from their ill-marked

path, came over and stood by her. They talked for awhile about the

ordinary nothings of society small-talk, till by degrees Cleer chanced

accidentally to bring the conversation round to something that had

happened to her mother and herself a year or two since in Malta. Le

Neve snatched at the word; for he was eager to learn all he could

about the Trevennacks' movements, so deeply had Cleer already

impressed her image on his susceptible nature.

"And when do you go back there?" he asked, somewhat anxiously. "I

suppose your father's leave is for a week or two only."

"Oh, dear, no; we don't go back at all, thank heaven," Cleer answered,

with a sunny smile. "I can't bear exile, Mr. Le Neve, and I never

cared one bit for living in Malta. But this year, fortunately, papa's

going to be transferred for a permanence to England; he's to have

charge of a department that has something or other to do with

provisioning the Channel Squadron; I don't quite understand what; but

anyhow, he'll have to be running about between Portsmouth and

Plymouth, and I don't know where else; and mamma and I will have to

take a house for ourselves in London."

Le Neve's face showed his pleasure. "That's well," he answered,

briskly. "Then you won't be quite lost! I mean, there'll be some

chance at least when you go away from here of one's seeing you

sometimes."

A bright red spot rose deep on Cleer's cheek through the dark olive-

brown skin. "How kind of you to say so," she answered, looking down.

"I'm sure mamma'll be very pleased, indeed, if you'll take the trouble

to call." Then, to hide her confusion, she went on hastily, "And are

YOU going to be in England, too? I thought I understood the other day

from your friend you had something to do with a railway in South

America."

"Oh, that's all over now," Le Neve answered, with a wave, well pleased

she should ask him about his whereabouts so cordially. "I was only

employed in the construction of the line, you know; I've nothing at

all to do with its maintenance and working, and now the track's laid,

my work there's finished. But as to stopping in England,--ah--that's

quite another thing. An engineer's, you know, is a roving life. He's

here to-day and there to-morrow. I must go, I suppose, wherever work

may take me. And there isn't much stirring in the markets just now in

the way of engineering."

"I hope you'll get something at home," Cleer said, simply, with a

blush, and then blamed herself for saying it. She blushed again at the

thought. She looked prettiest when she blushed. Walter Tyrrel, a

little behind, stood and admired her all the while. But Eustace was

flattered she should think of wanting him to remain in England.

"Thank you," he said, somewhat timidly, for her bashfulness made him a

trifle bashful in return. "I should like to very much--for more

reasons than one;" and he looked at her meaningly. "I'm getting tired,

in some ways, of life abroad. I'd much prefer to come back now and

settle down in England."

Cleer rose as he spoke. His frank admiration made her feel self-

conscious. She thought this conversation had gone quite far enough for

them both for the present. After all, she knew so little of him,

though he was really very nice, and he looked at her so kindly! But

perhaps it would be better to go and hunt up papa. "I think I ought to

be moving now," she said, with a delicious little flush on her smooth,

dark cheek. "My father'll be waiting for me." And she set her face

across the moor in the opposite direction from the gate of Penmorgan.

"We may come with you, mayn't we?" Eustace asked, with just an

undertone of wistfulness.

But Tyrrel darted a warning glance at him. He, at least, couldn't go

to confront once more that poor dead boy's father.

"I must hurry home," he said, feebly, consulting his watch with an

abstracted air. "It's getting so late. But don't let me prevent YOU

from accompanying Miss Trevennack."

Cleer shrank away, a little alarmed. She wasn't quite sure whether it

would be perfectly right for her to walk about alone on the moorland

with only ONE young man, though she wouldn't have minded the two, for

there is safety in numbers. "Oh, no," she said, half frightened, in

that composite tone which is at once an entreaty and a positive

command. "Don't mind me, Mr. Le Neve. I'm quite accustomed to

strolling by myself round the cliff. I wouldn't make you miss your

dinner for worlds. And besides, papa's not far off. He went away from

me, rambling."

The two young men, accepting their dismissal in the sense in which it

was intended, saluted her deferentially, and turned away on their own

road. But Cleer took the path to Michael's Crag, by the gully.

From the foot of the crag you can't see the summit. Its own shoulders

and the loose rocks of the foreground hide it. But Cleer was pretty

certain her father must be there; for he was mostly to be found, when

tide permitted it, perched up on the highest pinnacle of his namesake

skerry, looking out upon the waters with a pre-occupied glance from

that airy citadel. The waves in the narrow channel that separate the

crag from the opposite mainland were running high and boisterous, but

Cleer had a sure foot, and could leap, light as a gazelle, from rock

to rock. Not for nothing was she Michael Trevennack's daughter, well

trained from her babyhood to high and airy climbs. She chose an easy

spot where it was possible to spring across by a series of boulders,

arranged accidentally like stepping-stones; and in a minute she was

standing on the main crag itself, a huge beetling mass of detached

serpentine pushed boldly out as the advance-guard of the land into the

assailing waves, and tapering at its top into a pyramidal steeple.

The face of the crag was wet with spray in places; but Cleer didn't

mind spray; she was accustomed to the sea in all its moods and

tempers. She clambered up the steep side--a sheer wall of bare rock,

lightly clad here and there with sparse drapery of green sapphire, or

clumps of purple sea-aster, rooted firm in the crannies. Its front was

yellow with great patches of lichen, and on the peaks, overhead, the

gulls perched, chattering, or launched themselves in long curves upon

the evening air. Cleer paused half way up to draw breath and admire

the familiar scene. Often as she had gone there before, she could

never help gazing with enchanted eyes on those brilliantly colored

pinnacles, on that deep green sea, on those angry white breakers that

dashed in ceaseless assault against the solid black wall of rock all

round her. Then she started once more on her climb up the uncertain

path, a mere foothold in the crannies, clinging close with her tiny

hands as she went to every jutting corner or weather-worn rock, and

every woody stem of weather-beaten sea plants.

At last, panting and hot, she reached the sharp top, expecting to find

Trevennack at his accustomed post on the very tallest pinnacle of the

craggy little islet. But, to her immense surprise, her father wasn't

there. His absence disquieted her. Cleer stood up on the fissured mass

of orange-lichened rock that crowned the very summit, dispossessing

the gulls who flapped round her as she mounted it; then, shading her

eyes with her hand, she looked down in every direction to see if she

could descry that missing figure in some nook of the crag. He was

nowhere visible. "Father!" she cried aloud, at the top of her voice;

"father! father! father!" But the only answer to her cry was the sound

of the sea on the base, and the loud noise of the gulls, as they

screamed and fluttered in angry surprise over their accustomed

breeding-grounds.

Alarmed and irresolute, Cleer sat down on the rock, and facing

landwards for awhile, waved her handkerchief to and fro to attract, if

possible, her father's attention. Then she scanned the opposite

cliffs, beyond the gap or chasm that separated her from the mainland;

but she could nowhere see him. He must have forgotten her and gone

home to dinner alone, she fancied now, for it was nearly seven

o'clock. Nothing remained but to climb down again and follow him. It

was getting full late to be out by herself on the island. And tide was

coming in, and the surf was getting strong--Atlantic swell from the

gale at sea yesterday.

Painfully and toilsomely she clambered down the steep path, making her

foothold good, step by step, in the slippery crannies, rendered still

more dangerous in places by the sticky spray and the brine that dashed

over them from the seething channel. It was harder coming down, a good

deal, than going up, and she was accustomed to her father's hand to

guide her--to fit her light foot on the little ledges by the way, or

to lift her down over the steepest bits with unfailing tenderness. So

she found it rather difficult to descend by herself--both difficult

and tedious. At last, however, after one or two nasty slips, and a

false step or so on the way that ended in her grazing the tender skin

on those white little fingers, Cleer reached the base of the crag, and

stood face to face with the final problem of crossing the chasm that

divided the islet from the opposite mainland.

Then for the first time the truth was borne in upon her with a sudden

rush that she couldn't get back--she was imprisoned on the island. She

had crossed over at almost the last moment possible. The sea now quite

covered two or three of her stepping-stones; fierce surf broke over

the rest with each advancing billow, and rendered the task of jumping

from one to the other impracticable even for a strong and sure-footed

man, far more for a slight girl of Cleer's height and figure.

In a moment the little prisoner took in the full horror of the

situation. It was now about half tide, and seven o'clock in the

evening. High water would therefore fall between ten and eleven; and

it must be nearly two in the morning, she calculated hastily, before

the sea had gone down enough to let her cross over in safety. Even

then, in the dark, she dared hardly face those treacherous stepping-

stones. She must stop there till day broke, if she meant to get ashore

again without unnecessary hazard.

Cleer was a Trevennack, and therefore brave; but the notion of

stopping alone on that desolate island, thronged with gulls and

cormorants, in the open air, through all those long dark hours till

morning dawned, fairly frightened and appalled her. For a minute or

two she crouched and cowered in silence. Then, overcome by terror, she

climbed up once more to the first platform of rock, above the reach of

the spray, and shouted with all her might, "Father! father! father!"

But 'tis a lonely coast, that wild stretch by the Lizard. Not a soul

was within earshot. Cleer sat there still, or stood on top of the

crag, for many minutes together, shouting and waving her handkerchief

for dear life itself; but not a soul heard her. She might have died

there unnoticed; not a creature came near to help or deliver her. The

gulls and the cormorants alone stared at her and wondered.

Meanwhile, tide kept flowing with incredible rapidity. The gale in the

Atlantic had raised an unwonted swell; and though there was now little

wind, the breakers kept thundering in upon the firm, sandy beach with

a deafening roar that drowned Cleer's poor voice completely. To add to

her misfortunes, fog began to drift slowly with the breeze from

seaward. It was getting dark too, and the rocks were damp. Overhead

the gulls screamed loud as they flapped and circled above her.

In an agony of despair, Cleer sat down all unnerved on the topmost

crag. She began to cry to herself. It was all up now. She knew she

must stop there alone till morning.