Miss Penny and Graeme did most of the talking. Margaret was unusually
silent, pondering, perhaps, her friend's utterances of the early
morning, and still wondering at the strange turn of events that had so
unexpectedly thrown herself and John Graeme into such close
companionship that he could actually claim to be in charge of her, and
had proved it beyond question by making her buy a pair of shoes which
she considered anything but shapely.
Graeme understood and kept to his looking-glass promise.
His heart was dancing within him. It was impossible to keep the lilt
of it entirely out of his eyes. They were radiant with this
unlooked-for happiness.
It was Margaret's shadow that mingled with his own on the sunny
road--when it wasn't Miss Penny's. It was Margaret's pleated blue
skirt that swung beside him to a tune that set his pulses leaping.
Miss Penny's skirt was there too, indeed, but a thousand of it
flapping in a gale would not have quickened his pulse by half a beat.
And Miss Penny probably understood--some things, or parts of
things--or thought she did, and was extremely happy in that which was
vouchsafed to her. Oh, she knew, did Miss Penny! She had not, indeed,
had much--if put into a corner and made to confess to bare and
literal truth, not any--experience, that is personal and practical
experience, of such matters,--if, indeed, such matters are capable of
being brought to the test of such a word as practical. But she had
read much about them--in search of truth, and right and fitting books
to be admitted to the school library--and she knew all about it. And
here, unless she, Henrietta Penny, was very much mistaken, was a
veritable live love-affair budding and blossoming--at least she hoped
it would blossom--before her very eyes. Budding it undoubtedly was, on
one side at all events, and blossom it certainly should if she could
help it on; for he had ripply hair, and deep attractive eyes, and a
frank open face, and she liked him.
They were suddenly in the shade, threading a narrow cutting between
high gorse-topped banks of crumbly yellow rock. Then, without any
warning, the rock-walls fell away. They were out into the sunshine
again, and in front stretched a wavering rock path, the narrow crown
of a ridge whose sides sank sharply out of sight. From somewhere far
away below came the surge and rush of many waters.
"This is the Coupée," said Graeme, as the dogs raced across. "Over
there is Little Sark."
"It is grand!" said Margaret, gazing at the huge rock buttresses whose
loins came up through the white foam three hundred feet below.
"It's awful!" said Miss Penny. "You're never going across, Mr.
Graeme?" as he strolled on along the narrow ridge.
"Surely! Why not? It's perfectly safe. There was a wooden railing at
this side, but it fell over about a fortnight ago, and at present the
good folks of Little Sark and Big Sark are discussing who ought to put
up a new one. I happened to be sitting over there when it fell. A
party of visitors came down the cutting here, and one was just going
to lean on the railing, to look down into the gulf there, when he had
the sense to try it first with his foot and it went with a crash, and
they got a scare and went back to the hotel to eat lobsters. It was
really useless as protection, but it made one feel safer to have it
there."
"It's horrible," said Miss Penny emphatically.
"Safe as London Bridge, if you'll only believe it. It's a good four
feet wide. The school children used to trot over when it was not more
than two and a half."
"And none of them fell over?"
"Never a one. Why should they?"
"Meg, my dear," said Miss Penny, with a sudden flash of incongruity,"
this is truly a _very_ great change from Melgrave Square."
"It is," laughed Margaret. "Are you coming, Hennie?"
"I'll--I'll risk it if Mr. Graeme will personally conduct me. He's in
charge of us, you know."
"Certainly!" and he held out his hand to her, and then looked at
Margaret. "Will you please wait here till I come back for you?" And
catching, as he thought, a sign of mutiny in her face,--"Although it's
perfectly safe it's perhaps just as well to have company the first
time you cross."
"Very well," she said, and Miss Penny clung convulsively to the strong
unwavering hand while she gingerly trod the narrow way, and the dogs
raced half-way to meet them.
"Go _away_!" she shrieked, and the dogs turned on their pivots and
sped back.
"Now, you see!" he said, when she stood safe on the rounded shoulder
of Little Sark. "Where was the trouble?"
"It's perfectly easy, Meg," cried Miss Penny, uplifted with her
accomplishment.
He wondered whether she would vouchsafe him her hand or attempt the
passage alone. But she put her hand into his without hesitation, and
thenceforth and for ever the Coupée held for him a touch of sacred
glamour. For the soft hand throbbed in his, and every throb thrilled
right up into his heart and set it dancing to some such tune as that
which sang in David when he danced before the Ark. But his hand was
firm, and his head was steady, for that which he held in charge was
the dearest thing in life to him.
Three hundred blessed feet was the span of the Coupée. How fervently
he wished them three thousand--ay, three million! For every step
accorded him a throb, and heart-throbs such as these are among the
precious things of life.
Neither of them spoke one word. Common-places were very much out of
place, and the things that were in his heart he might not speak--yet.
"Didn't I say so?" cried Miss Penny, as they stepped ashore on Little
Sark. "It's as easy as winking."
"I never said it wasn't," said Margaret, with a deep breath. "But I
doubt if you'd have come across alone, my child."
"It was certainly pleasanter to have something to hold on to," said
Miss Penny.
And Graeme thought so too.