At first she had a ledge of four inches in width to rest her feet on, but the rock, though narrow, was solid, and by leaning her weight well on the ivy, and advancing on the tips of her feet, she succeeded, not without a flutter of heart, in passing to a broad patch of turf, where she was comparatively safe, and where, still clinging to the ivy, she drew a long breath.
The water, looked down on from above, immediately beneath her was blue; only in the shadows, where it did not reflect the light, was it bottle-green.
There was not a ripple on it. She had not dislodged a stone. She turned her eyes up the bank. She had no fear of the ropes failing her; they would not be sawn through, because they swung over friable earth, not jagged rock.
“Allons, avançons,” said Arminell, with a laugh. She was excited, pleased with herself—she had broken out of the circle of humdrum.
The ledge was wide, where she stood, and she held to the rope to keep her from giddiness, rather than to sustain her weight.
After a few further steps, she paused. The shelf failed altogether for three feet, but beyond the gap was a terrace matted with cistus and ablaze with flower. Arminell’s first impulse was to abandon her enterprise as hazardous beyond reason, but her second was to dare the further danger, and make a spring to the firm ground.
“This is the difference between me and my lady,” said Arminell. “She—and my lord likewise—will not risk a leap—moral, social, or religious.”
Then with a rush of impetuosity and impatience, she swung herself across the gap, and landed safely on the bed of cistus.
“Would Giles ever be permitted the unconventional?” asked Arminell. “What a petit-maître he will turn out.”
The Hon. Giles Inglett, her half-brother, aged ten, was, as already said, the only son of Lord Lamerton and heir-apparent to the barony.