“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.”
“Uncle,” said Nance, “what should Mr. Archer care for your concerns? He hath troubles of his own, and came to be at peace, I think.”
“I tried to make her understand me,” repeated Jonathan doggedly; “and now I’ll try you. Do you think this world is fair?”
“Fair and false!” quoth Mr. Archer.
The old man laughed immoderately. “Good,” said he, “very good, but what I mean is this: do you know what it is to get up early and go to bed late, and never take so much as a holiday but four: and one of these your own marriage day, and the other three the funerals of folk you loved, and all that, to have a quiet old age in shelter, and bread for your old belly, and a bed to lay your crazy bones upon, with a clear conscience?”