‘Sit down against that pillar,’ said Nance. ‘Don’t you be afraid; I won’t leave you, and don’t look up or down: look straight at me. How white you are!’
‘The gulf,’ he said, and closed his eyes again and shuddered.
‘Why,’ said Nance, ‘what a poor climber you must be! That was where my cousin Dick used to get out of the castle after Uncle Jonathan had shut the gate. I’ve been down there myself with him helping me. I wouldn’t try with you,’ she said, and laughed merrily.
The sound of her laughter was sincere and musical, and perhaps its beauty barbed the offence to Mr. Archer. The blood came into his face with a quick jet, and then left it paler than before. ‘It is a physical weakness,’ he said harshly, ‘and very droll, no doubt, but one that I can conquer on necessity. See, I am still shaking. Well, I advance to the battlements and look down. Show me your cousin’s path.’
‘He would go sure-foot along that little ledge,’ said Nance, pointing as she spoke; ‘then out through the breach and down by yonder buttress. It is easier coming back, of course, because you see where you are going. From the buttress foot a sheep-walk goes along the scarp—see, you can follow it from here in the dry grass. And now, sir,’ she added, with a touch of womanly pity, ‘I would come away from here if I were you, for indeed you are not fit.’
Sure enough Mr. Archer’s pallor and agitation had continued to increase; his cheeks were deathly, his clenched fingers trembled pitifully. ‘The weakness is physical,’ he sighed, and had nearly fallen. Nance led him from the spot, and he was no sooner back in the tower-stair, than he fell heavily against the wall and put his arm across his eyes. A cup of brandy had to be brought him before he could descend to breakfast; and the perfection of Nance’s dream was for the first time troubled.
Jonathan was waiting for them at table, with yellow, blood-shot eyes and a peculiar dusky complexion. He hardly waited till they found their seats, before, raising one hand, and stooping with his mouth above his plate, he put up a prayer for a blessing on the food and a spirit of gratitude in the eaters, and thereupon, and without more civility, fell to. But it was notable that he was no less speedily satisfied than he had been greedy to begin. He pushed his plate away and drummed upon the table.
‘These are silly prayers,’ said he, ‘that they teach us. Eat and be thankful, that’s no such wonder. Speak to me of starving—there’s the touch. You’re a man, they tell me, Mr. Archer, that has met with some reverses?’
‘I have met with many,’ replied Mr. Archer.
‘Ha!’ said Jonathan. ‘None reckons but the last. Now, see; I tried to make this girl here understand me.’