“Many, you should understand, are mere travellers’ tales—lying fables—such as Sir John de Mandeville would make us believe about monsters, half man and half beast, and people walking about with their heads under their arms, and cities of marble, the windows of precious stones, and the streets paved with gold, and such like extravagances,” observed Stephen. “I much doubt also whether your father will readily accede to your wishes. Think how he would grieve should any of the many mishaps befall you which so often overtake those who voyage on the treacherous ocean.”
“My father knows that I must seek my fortune in some calling or other, and he would be well pleased were I to come back with a goodly store of the gold of Golconda to restore the impoverished fortunes of our house,” answered Roger, still looking eagerly towards the approaching ship.
“Day-dreams, my friend, day-dreams,—natural enough, but very unlikely to come true,” said Stephen in a somewhat sententious tone, such as he considered became one of his mature years. If the truth were to have been known, however, Master Stephen Battiscombe was apt to indulge in day-dreams himself, though of a different character—a judge’s wig and robes, or even a seat on the Woolsack, were not beyond his aspirations. He now added, “But we must stop talking here longer. See, the sun is already at his height in the heavens; an we delay the Colonel and Madam Pauline will be justly chiding us for being late to dinner.”
“I am ready,” answered Roger, still, however, lingering and watching the ship in the offing. “But tell me, what cause brought you to Eversden this morning?”
“I came over to ask you to return with me to Langton, that you might join us in making war on the young rooks, which have increased too greatly in our woods of late. Not finding you, I would fain, I own, have remained in the house to enjoy the society of sweet Mistress Alice, but Madame Pauline, cruelly insisting that she required her aid in the manufacture of some conserves, sent me out to search for you.”
“I am bound to be grateful to you for coming, whether willingly or not, to look for me, or I might have remained in my nest mayhap till the sun had sunk behind Beer Head out yonder,” said Roger, beginning to climb up the cliff. “I would gladly, however, remain till the ship comes near enough to let us get a better sight of her.”
To this, however, Stephen would not consent, for the reason he had already given, and Roger also well knew that his uncle, Colonel Tregellen, would be displeased should they not appear at the regular dinner-hour.
Roger Willoughby’s cosy nook, as he called it, was a small hollow in the cliff a few feet from the summit, surrounded by a thick growth of purple bramble, scented clematis, pink thorn, and other shrubs, which formed a complete shelter from all but southerly winds, and likewise concealed it from any one passing along the downs above. It was on a part of the Dorsetshire coast between Lyme and Bridport, almost in the centre of the extensive bay which has Portland Bill on its eastern side and the Start Point on the west. To the right could be seen Lowesdon Hill and Pillesdon Pen rising above the surrounding country, while to the left a line of precipitous cliffs extended in a bold sweep for several miles to the conical height of the Gilten Cap, visible to the mariner far away out at sea, while inland, beyond a range of smooth undulating downs, were fields of grass and corn, orchards and woods, amid which appeared here and there a church steeple, the roof of a farm-house or labourer’s cottage, or the tower or gable-end of some more pretentious residence.
Still, Roger accompanied Stephen Battiscombe with evident reluctance, and turned more than once to take another look at the approaching ship which had so attracted his attention.
“She must be purposing to come to an anchor close to the shore, and we may be able to go on board her,” he exclaimed.