One great pleasure they enjoyed together was bathing. The Homestead
possessed a little cove of its own under the rocks, where there was
a bathing-house, and full perfection of arrangement for young ladies'
aquatic enjoyment, in safety and absolute privacy. Rachel's vigorous
strength and health had been greatly promoted by her familiarity with
salt water, and Bessie was in ecstasies at the naiad performances they
shared together on the smooth bit of sandy shore, where they dabbled and
floated fearlessly. One morning, when they had been down very early to
be beforehand with the tide, which put a stop to their enjoyment long
before the breakfast hour, Bessie asked if they could not profit
by their leisure to climb round the edge of the cliff's instead of
returning by the direct path, and Rachel agreed, with the greater
pleasure, that it was an enterprise she had seldom performed.
Very beautiful, though adventurous, was the walk--now on the brow of the
steep cliff, looking down on the water or on little bays of shingle,
now through bits of thicket that held out brambles to entangle the long
tresses streaming on their shoulders; always in the brisk morning air,
that filled them with strength and spirit, laughing, joking, calling
to one another and to Conrade's little dog, that, like every other
creature, had attached itself to Bessie, and had followed her from
Myrtlewood that morning, to the vexation of Rachel, who had no love for
dogs in their early youth.
They were beyond the grounds of the Homestead, but had to go a little
further to get into the path, when they paused above a sort of dip or
amphitheatre of rock around a little bay, whilst Rachel began telling
of the smugglers' traditions that haunted the place--how much brandy and
silk had there been landed in the time of the great French war, and how
once, when hard pressed, a party of smugglers, taking a short cut in
the moonlight midnight across the Homestead gardens, had encountered an
escaped Guinea-pig, and no doubt taking it for the very rat without a
tail, in whose person Macbeth's witch was to do, and to do, and to do,
had been nearly scared out of their wits.
Her story was cut short by a cry of distress from the dog, and looking
down, they perceived that the poor fellow had been creeping about the
rocks, and had descended to the little cove, whence he was incapable
of climbing up again. They called encouragingly, and pretended to move
away, but he only moaned more despairingly, and leapt in vain.
"He has hurt his foot!" exclaimed Rachel; "I must go down after him.
Yes, Don, yes, poor fellow, I'm coming."
"My dear Curtia, don't leap into the gulf!"
"Oh, it's no great height, and the tide will soon fill up this place."