Michaels Crag | Page 3

one, equally liked at once by men and women.
"Our cliffs are fine," Walter Tyrrel answered, grudgingly, in the tone of
one who, against his will, admits an adverse point he sees no chance of
gainsaying. "They're black, and repellant, and iron-bound, and
dangerous, but they're certainly magnificent. I don't deny it. Come and
see them, by all means. They're the only lions we have to show a
stranger in this part of Cornwall, so you'd better make the most of
them."
And he took, as if mechanically, the winding path that led down the
gap toward the frowning cove in the wall of cliff before them.
Eustace Le Neve was a little surprised at this unexpected course, for he
himself would naturally have made rather for the top of the promontory,
whence they were certain to obtain a much finer and more extensive
view; but he had only arrived at Penmorgan the evening before, so he
bowed at once to his companion's more mature experience of Cornish
scenery. They threaded their way through the gully, for it was little
more--a great water-worn rent in the dark serpentine rocks, with the sea
at its lower end--picking their path as they went along huge granite
boulders or across fallen stones, till they reached a small beach of firm
white sand, on whose even floor the waves were rolling in and curling
over magnificently. It was a curious place, Eustace thought, rather
dreary than beautiful. On either side rose black cliffs, towering sheer

into the air, and shutting out overhead all but a narrow cleft of murky
sky. Around, the sea dashed itself in angry white foam against broken
stacks and tiny weed-clad skerries. At the end of the first point a
solitary islet, just separated from the mainland by a channel of seething
water, jutted above into the waves, with hanging tresses of blue and
yellow seaweed. Tyrrel pointed to it with one hand. "That's Michael's
Crag," he said, laconically. "You've seen it before, no doubt, in half a
dozen pictures. It's shaped exactly like St. Michael's Mount in
miniature. A marine painter fellow down here's forever taking its
portrait."
Le Neve gazed around him with a certain slight shudder of unspoken
disapprobation. This place didn't suit his sunny nature. It was even
blacker and more dismal than the brown moorland above it. Tyrrel
caught the dissatisfaction in his companion's eye before Le Neve had
time to frame it in words.
"Well, you don't think much of it?" he said, inquiringly.
"I can't say I do," Le Neve answered, with apologetic frankness. "I
suppose South America has spoilt me for this sort of thing. But it's not
to my taste. I call it gloomy, without being even impressive."
"Gloomy," Tyrrel answered; "oh, yes, gloomy, certainly. But
impressive; well, yes. For myself, I think so. To me, it's all terribly,
unspeakably, ineffably impressive. I come here every day, and sit close
on the sands, and look out upon the sea by the edge of the breakers. It's
the only place on this awful coast one feels perfectly safe in. You can't
tumble over here, or...roll anything down to do harm to anybody."
A steep cliff path led up the sheer face of the rock to southward. It was
a difficult path, a mere foothold on the ledges; but its difficulty at once
attracted the engineer's attention. "Let's go up that way!" he said,
waving his hand toward it carelessly. "The view from on top there must
be infinitely finer."
"I believe it is," Tyrrel replied, in an unconcerned voice, like one who
retails vague hearsay evidence. "I haven't seen it myself since I was a

boy of thirteen. I never go along the top of the cliffs on any account."
Le Neve gazed down on him, astonished. "You BELIEVE it is!" he
exclaimed, unable to conceal his surprise and wonder. "You never go
up there! Why, Walter, how odd of you! I was reading up the
Guidebook this morning before breakfast, and it says the walk from this
point on the Penmorgan estate to Kynance Cove is the most
magnificent bit of wild cliff scenery anywhere in Cornwall."
"So I'm told," Tyrrel answered, unmoved. "And I remember, as a boy, I
thought it very fine. But that was long since. I never go by it."
"Why not?" Le Neve cried.
Tyrrel shrugged his shoulders and shook himself impatiently. "I don't
know." he answered, in a testy sort of voice. "I don't like the cliff top...
It's so dangerous, don't you know? So unsafe. So unstable. The rocks
go off so sheer, and stones topple over so easily."
Le Neve laughed a little laugh of half-disguised contempt. He was
moving over toward the path up the cliff side as they spoke. "Why, you
used to