Rosalynd seemed not to notice. The muffled sound of a band mingled with excited voices floated up to them and when they reached level ground a glorious fair burst into view.
There were stalls with toys and sweetmeats, penny peep-shows, the usual story-tellers holding audiences agog with lurid tales. Despite himself Kydd felt a boyish thrill at the gaudy scenes, the village lads decorated with greenery and the lasses in their gay ribbons and gowns.
Then, preceded by terrified children, a bear lurched down the street, and round the corner a dragon breathing real fire progressed, opposed by brave boys baying at it with fishermen's foghorns. Titus ran forward. 'The gaberlunzie man!' he shouted. The cloaked performer was executing risky tricks with sulphur matches while a tumbler and juggler tried to distract him.
'To the green!' urged Rosalynd, touching Kydd's arm. 'There's always a play!' The village was a dense network of narrow streets and they emerged suddenly on to a tiny open area nearly overwhelmed by close-packed buildings. There, on an improvised stage, a seedy band of players declaimed to a rapt audience.
On the way back, Kydd paid twopence to a fiddler for a gay twosome reel danced by a masked youth and maiden, while the three each ate a filling Cornish pasty to keep hunger at bay. A quick visit by the Goosey Dancers ended the day and they wended their way back up the steep pathway.
They walked slowly, Titus going ahead. 'It's been so good to have visitors,' Rosalynd said quietly. 'We don't get many, you'll understand.'
Kydd murmured something and she gave him a quick glance. 'You may think us simple folk here, Mr Kydd, but we are blessed with many things.' She bent and picked a flower. 'Here—so many pass by this. It is the bridewort and is provided by nature to give us an infallible remedy against the headache.' She pressed it on him, her fingers cool. He lifted it, feeling her eyes on him as he smelt it. 'Mr Kydd, it's been such a lovely day—I do thank you.'
Renzi seemed strangely unmoved at the news of what he had missed. His notebook was clearly of compelling interest and Kydd left him to his aggregations. For himself, he could feel the sunshine and placidity working on him, and the trials of the recent past were fading. But something was unsettling him—the girl. Rosalynd was at odds with any other he had met and he was at a loss to know how to deal with her other- worldliness, her communing with nature, the innocence born of the seclusion of this place from the outer world . . . and her ethereal loveliness.
What about her was so different: an only daughter in a household of men? Her detachment from the usual cares and preoccupations of the world? He checked himself: this was no fit subject of concern for one about to be wed.
He declined her invitation to explore the village and buried himself in a book, then found, to his surprise, that he felt put out when she accepted his refusal without comment. On the next day when Titus came to extend her hesitant offer to accompany them on their visit to the fisher-folk he accepted instantly.
She was wearing a plain linen morning dress and bonnet, and carried a basket. 'This is so kind, Mr Kydd. I'm going to visit Mrs Minards. You see, we lost a boat in the big gale and her husband was not found, the poor soul.'
Kydd winced. If
'They have such a hard life, Mr Kydd, you have no idea. Hurry, please, Billy, Mr Kydd is waiting.'
It was the Landaviddy path again, but this time they stepped out purposefully. 'When something like this happens it's so difficult to know what to do.'
'That there's somebody in the world who knows an' understands will be comfort enough,' Kydd said warmly. She flashed him a look of gratitude.
It was a pretty village. The small harbour was central with its piers and little fishing-boats in rows on the mud. However, the nearer the fish quay they went, the meaner the cottages.
At the edge Rosalynd stopped to fasten on pattens, over-shoes that would protect her own from the fish- slime.
'Good mornin', Miss Rosalynd,' a buxom lady with a fishing basket hailed, looking curiously at Kydd.
'And a good morning to you, Mrs Rowett,' she called back gaily, with a wave.
They reached the open space in front of the Three Pilchards, and squeezed down a passage to the rickety cottages behind. A dull-eyed woman came to the door of one, then broke slowly into a tired smile. 'Why, Rosalynd, m' deary, there's no need to—'
'Nonsense, Mrs Minards. I'm only come to make sure there's enough to go round.' A child wandered in, lost and bewildered.
Kydd felt an intruder: the thin cobb walls, two rooms and pitiful furnishings spoke of a poverty he had never been witness to. The calm acceptance by this new widow of the sea's pitilessness and her future of charity shocked him.
After they left, Kydd asked Rosalynd, 'What will she do now, d'ye think?'
He was startled to hear a sob before she answered. 'To—to know your love will not ever return to you in life is the cruellest thing, Mr Kydd.'
They walked out to the brightness of the day and she said, with an effort, 'I suppose she will go wool-washing at Crumplehorn. It pays quite well although the work is dirty.'
At a loss, Kydd kept pace with her. She stopped suddenly and turned to him with a smile. 'Mr Kydd, I'm going to show you my most favourite place in Polperro. Come along!'
She hurried to the corner of the row of cottages and found a neat but narrow path winding up high in the rocks.
'Oh, do we have to?' Billy said.
'Yes, we do! Now, get along up there, if you please.'
Kydd, however, found sixpence for him to spend afterwards as he liked, which won him a firm friend.
When they had toiled up a short slope and reached a spur of rock they were rewarded with a dramatic view:
