The Argosy — page 326: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

In the Mist. 309 she is true at heart, in spite of her little coquetries, and I have driven her from me—perhaps for ever! What shall I do? Do you think she will forgive me? I will ask her pardon on my knees “ “T hope you will do nothing so ridiculous,” I interrupted. ‘‘ It will be better policy to keep away for a few days, until she has had time to think it over, and then x “¢ And then, perhaps, I shall find that she has engaged herself to that fellow ”—he nodded towards Borlace woods—‘‘in a fit of pique. No ; I will not eat or sleep till my ring is on her finger again. She is gone to the Court to tea; I shall wait here till she returns, and it will be strange if I can’t win her pardon for a few hasty words. She knows that my temper, and not my heart, was to blame.” ‘You must learn to control that temper of yours,” I said gravely, as we shook hands, “or I fear it will lead you into terrible trouble some day.” I little thought when I uttered that prediction how soon it was destined to be fulfilled. | He turned from me without replying, and I left him standing with folded arms on Penravon Cliff, while I went on my way home, pon- dering, with a bachelor’s amused perplexity, on the strange incon- sistencies of ‘‘ the passion called love.” Five minutes’ walk brought me to the Vicarage—a low, square house of grey stone, facing the sea, while its back windows looked out over the broad purple moor. Between the house and the cliffs stood the church, a quaint, weather-stained granite building, said to be of six- teenth century architecture. In stormy weather its walls were ofter wet with spray, and in its crowded graveyard many a humble stone bore witness to the perils of those that ‘‘ go down to the sea in ships.” The most striking object in the view from my windows was the ancient Martello Tower on Penravon Cliff, locally known as the “ Smugglers’ Keep.” The vaults beneath had once been used as a Storing-place for contraband goods, and it was said that a subterranean passage connected them with the beach, but the entrance in the face of the cliff had probably long ago been blocked up by falls of rock. These slips were of constant occurrence, sometimes only consisting of loose stones and sand; but often great masses of rock, detached from the overhanging edge, went crashing and thundering to the beach. The narrow footpath, passing the churchyard gate, wound along Penravon Cliff, and dipped abruptly into the wooded hollow which sheltered the village—one of the most picturesque on the Cornish coast. Its steep, zigzag main street went straggling down to the water’s edge, where it terminated in a little jetty of rough boulders and dark beams dripping with seaweed. The houses were, for the most part, low stone cottages, with deep doorways and slated roofs, and gardens where myrtle and fuchsia flourished luxuriantly; but on the wooded slope above were dotted not a few white-walled villas, among which CONnNICLOOKS.EO