“Now, what in the name of all that is wonderful, does Mr. Monk of Monkshurst mean by becoming so civil?”
This was the question the young man asked himself, as he strolled away seaward. He could not persuade himself that he had wronged Monk, that that gentleman was in reality an amiable person, instead of a domineering bully; no, that suggestion was contradicted by every expression of the man’s baleful and suspicious face. What, then, could be the explanation of his sudden access of courtesy?
An idea! an inspiration! As it flashed into his mind, the young man gave vent to a prolonged whistle. Possibly, Monk was—jealous!
The idea was a preposterous one, and almost amusing. It was not to be conceived, on the first blush of it, that jealousy would make a surly man civil, a savage man gentle; it would rather have the contrary effect, unless—here Brinkley grew thoughtful—unless his gloomy rival had some sinister design which he wished to cloak with politeness?
But jealous of little Matt! Brinkley laughed heartily, when he fully realized the absurdity of the notion.
He crossed the sand-hills, and came again to the path which he and Matt had followed the previous day. A smart breeze was coming in from the sou’-west, and the air was fresh and cool though sunny; but clouds were gathering to windward, and the weather was evidently broken. Reaching the cliffs, he descended them, and came down on the rocks beneath. A long jagged point ran out from the spot where he stood, and the water to leeward of the same was quite calm, though rising and falling in strong troubled swells. So bright and tempting did it look in that sheltered place, that he determined to have a swim.
He stripped leisurely, and, placing his clothes in a safe place, took a header off the rocks. It was clear at once that he was a powerful swimmer. Breasting the smooth swell, he struck out from shore, and when he had gone about a hundred yards, floated lazily on his back and surveyed the shore.
The cliffs were not very high, but their forms were finely picturesque. Here and there were still green creeks, fringed with purple weed; and large shadowy caves, hewn roughly in the side of the crags; and rocky islets, covered with slimy weed and awash with the lapping water. A little to the right of the spot from which he had dived, the cliff seemed hollowed out, forming a wide passage which the sea entered with a tramp and a rush and a roar.
Towards this passage Brinkley swam. He knew the danger of such places, for he had often explored them both in Cornwall and the West of Ireland; but he had confidence in his own natatory skill. Approaching the shore leisurely with strong, slow strokes, he paused outside the passage, and observed that the sea swell, entering the opening, rushed and quickened itself like a rapid shooting to the fall, turning at the base of the cliff into a cloud of thin prismatic spray. Suddenly, through the top of the spray, a cloud of rock pigeons emerged, winging their flight rapidly along the crags.