Part 1, Chapter XXXIX.Fullerton’s Prophecy.In a place like Lawford, where every one knew more of his or her neighbours affairs than the individual could possibly know for him or herself, the encounter near Kilby Farm soon had its place as the chief item of news, and was dressed and garnished according to the taste of those who related it.The principal version was that, stung by a letter sent by Sage Portlock, Luke Ross had come down from town and purposely left the coach at Cross-lane, so that he could waylay and murder Cyril Mallow with a huge hedge-stake which was picked up afterwards near the place.For a short time the gossips were at fault for a reason, but they only had to wait patiently for a while, and then it was known throughout the place that Cyril Mallow was engaged to marry Sage—a matter so out of all reason to the muddled intellect of Humphrey Bone, the old schoolmaster, that he said it was enough to make widow Marly turn in her grave.Why, he did not explain. It could not have been from jealous disappointment, for widow Marly had had a very fair share of matrimonial life, having married at the early age of sixteen, and being led twice afterwards to the hymeneal altar before dying at a very good old age.“But it’s a wrong thing,” he said, at the King’s Head, during a course of potations—“a wrong thing; and no good will come. Two sorts, oil and water, and they won’t mix. Tell parson I say so, some of you, if you like. It’s his doing to get the girl’s money, and it’s a wrong thing.”In the midst of the many discussions in Lawford it was asked why Luke Ross was not to be prosecuted for assaulting the parson’s son.“Nice sort of fellow,” said Fullerton; “goes to learn to be a lawyer, and comes down here and breaks the law.”“Ah! it’s been a strange bad case,” said Smithson, the tailor.“Anybody seen owt of him since?” ventured Warton, the saddler.There was silence for a few moments, and then Tomlinson spoke.“I haven’t seen him down,” he said. “In fact, I know he has not been, for old Michael Ross has been up to see him and hear the rights of the case.”“Yes?” said two or three, eagerly.“Ah! he don’t say anything about the rights and wrongs; only that he doesn’t think Joseph Portlock’s girl behaved well to him.”“Oh! I don’t know,” said Fullerton. “What call had a girl like that to consider herself bound to a wandering man who couldn’t settle down like a Christian? I think she did quite right to give him up.”“And marry young Mallow?”“But they are not married yet, my boy,” said Fullerton, shaking his head; “and it’s my belief that they won’t be. He’s a flyaway, wild, scapegrace of a fellow. It’ll come to nought, but I do think young Ross ought to be punished same as any other man. Fair play and no favour for me.”“Very good sentiment, Mr Fullerton,” said Warton.“Make it your own motto, then, Mr Warton,” said Fullerton, proudly. “As I says to Michael Ross, when I was talking to him, yesterday—no, it was the day before yesterday—no, stop, itwasyesterday. ‘I believe in fair play,’ I said.“‘So do I, Mr Fullerton,’ he said; ‘but I don’t think my poor boy has got it here.’”“Did he say that?” said Warton.“Ay, that he did, and pst—here he is!”There was a murmur in the inn room where the principal Lawford tradesmen were assembled, as old Michael Ross, the tanner, came in, looking very keen and dark, and as if close application to his trade had heightened the colour of his skin.The old man seemed nervous, and as if he feared that he would not be counted welcome; but he soon found that if he would only discuss his son’s conduct no one would be looked upon as a more welcome addition to the weekly meeting.There was a pause for a few minutes, during which old Ross gave his orders to the landlord, and lit his pipe, smoking afterwards in quiet consciousness that he was being furtively glanced at by all assembled, and that it was only with the expectation of hearing more that they were so quiet of tongue.“Been having a run up to London, Master Ross, I hear,” said Warton, the saddler, at last.“Yes, Master Warton, yes; I’ve had a run up amongst the soot and smoke,” said Michael Ross.“And was strange and glad to get back again, I’ll be bound,” said Tomlinson, while Fullerton lay back in his armed Windsor chair, staring straight up at the ceiling, with the calm self-satisfaction of a man who knew all that was being asked.“Well, yes, neighbour,” said Michael Ross, thoughtfully, “I must own that I was glad to get back again. London’s a wearisome place, and the din and rattle of the streets is enough to muddle any man’s brains. It was quite a relief to turn down the narrow lane to my son’s chambers, and get out of the buzz and whirr. My bark mill’s nowt to it.”“Saw your son, did you?” said Warton. “How’s he getting on?”“Oh, he’s getting on right enough,” said the old man, proudly. “He’s getting on.”“Gotten to be a big loyer, eh?” said Smithson. “Why, Master Ross, sir, we shall hev to get him down here to take up our cases at County Court.”“Nay, nay, nay,” said old Ross, chuckling. “Not yet—not yet. Theres a deal to learn to get to be a big loyer; but my sons working away hard now he’s getting a bit over his trouble.”“Trouble?” said Fullerton, bringing his eyes down from the ceiling. “He hasn’t got into trouble, I hope?”“Nay, nay, only about the bit o’ trouble down here.”“Not going to hev him before the magistrates, are they, Master Ross?” said Warton.“Magistrates? What, my son?” said the old man, firing up. “Not they. He’d a deal better right to have some one else before them. My son never did no wrong.”“But they say he knocked young Cyril about with a hedge-stake,” said Smithson.“Tchah! Lies?” said the old man, angrily. “I dare say he hit him. So would I if I’d been a young man, and come back and found my young lady stole away like that. Yes, I’d ha’ done the same.”“Hah, yes,” said Tomlinson, thoughtfully, as if he were going back to past times. “It is hard on a man. But I don’t know, Master Ross; if a man’s got a bad tooth it’s best out, and it has saved your lad perhaps from many a sore and aching time in the future.”“I’m not going to say anything against some people we know, and I’m not going to say anything for them,” said the old tanner, warmly. “All I do say is, that I don’t think my son has had justice done him down here.”“Oh, don’t say that, Master Ross,” said Fullerton, importantly. “I’m sure the way in which he took our side over the school appointment was noble. He saw how unjust it was, and he drew back like a man.”“I don’t know—I don’t know,” said Michael Ross, with a dry chuckle. “I’m afraid there was something more than that at the bottom of it, though he never owned it to me.”“Ah, well,” said Fullerton; “it’s very evident that he won’t marry Sage Portlock. Poor girl, it’s a sad fall away.”“Yes,” said Tomlinson, smoothly, “it does seem strange.”“Well, for my part,” said Warton, “I wonder at Joseph Portlock, though I think it’s his missus as is most to blame. I don’t believe as young Cyril was much hurt.”“Not he,” chuckled Smithson. “And there he’s been for the past month, lying on the sofa, tended by those two women. I hear the parson’s been every day, and they do say, that as soon as he gets better—”“He’s better now,” said Warton.“Well, then,” chuckled Smithson, drawing one leg up under him upon his chair from force of habit; “suppose we say much better—they’re to be married.”“Well, it caps me,” said Warton; “I can’t understand what it means.”“Money,” said Fullerton. “Some people keep up their grand houses and gardeners and grape-vines, and get laying traps baited with pretty girls for young lords and people from London, and after all are not so well off as some who pay their twenty or thirty pound rent and have done with it. Joseph Portlock, I suppose, will leave all his money to those two girls some day, and it will be a nice bit. Pity he didn’t keep Miss Rue for the other boy, and then parson would have been happy.”“When’s Frank going back?” said Smithson, the tailor, for reasons of his own.“I’d know; ask him,” said Fullerton. “He’s always going over to Lewby, so I hear.”“Well,” said Warton, the saddler, “all I can say is, that if I was John Berry he shouldn’t be always coming over to my house.”“’Tain’t our business,” said Fullerton. “I should say, though, that Sage Portlock’ll have a nice bit o’ money.”“Ah, there’s a many things done in this life for the sake of money,” said Tomlinson, sententiously.“But it looks bad for a young fellow to be lying about on sofas all day long, coaxed and petted up by women, just because he has got a bit of a crack on the head. Doctor said to me, he said, when I asked him about the cut, he said, laughing all the while, ‘It isn’t as deep as a well, nor as wide as a church door,’ he said; ‘but ’twill serve—’twill serve.’”“What did he mean by that?” said Warton.“I don’t know,” said Fullerton, sharply. “I think it was some stuff or another that he’d read in a book. You know what a fellow he is for giving you bits out of books. Don’t you remember that night at the annual dinner? He said, when they were talking about old Mrs Hagley being a bit of a witch—”“Ah, to be sure,” said Smithson; “about the cellar.”“Yes,” continued Fullerton; “he said, ‘I can call spirits from the vasty deep. Landlord, go down to the cellar and bring up a bottle of the best French brandy.’”“Ah, he’s a queer fellow, is doctor,” said Warton. “They won’t live down here when they’re married, will they?”“Who?”“Young Cyril Mallow and Joseph Portlock’s girl.”“Oh, dear me, no,” said Tomlinson. “Young Cyril has got a post under government, and it’s settled that Miss Cynthia is to be married to Lord Artingale, and a house has been taken for young Cyril up in Kensington.”“Hullo, old fox,” cried Fullerton.“Yoicks, yoicks, yoicks, gone away,” shouted several, uproariously.“Come, out with it,” said Fullerton. “I’ll be bound to say you know all about it.”“Well,” said Tomlinson, with the calm reticence of one who felt himself quite at home in the matter, “I did hear a little about it.”“From Joseph Portlock’s wife, I’ll be bound,” said Fullerton. “She’s been at your place three times lately.”“I’m not going to mention any names,” said Tomlinson, with a sly, smooth, fat smile, “but I think I may venture to say that there’ll be a wedding somewhere within six months, and that those who are married will live in Kensington.”“Ay, parson knows how to play his cards,” said Warton. “I suppose the eldest girl will marry that stout gentleman, Perry-Morton. Parson manages things well. Fancy bagging Lord Artingale for a son-in-law. Why, all Gatley belongs to him, and he’s an uncommonly nice fellow too.”“Yes, his lordship’s all very well; but as to young Cyril and Miss Portlock, mark my words, no good’ll come of it,” said Fullerton, emphatically. “Mark my words: no good’ll come of it.”“I should be sorry if it did not turn out well, and so would my son be, I’m sure,” said the old tanner.“Why?” said Fullerton.“Because Sage Portlock is a nice, superior sort of girl,” said the old man, “and it is always grievous to see those you like come in for trouble.”“So it is,” said Fullerton, “but trouble will come. Here’s two clergyman’s sons, who ought to be the very model of what young men should be, and has any one of you a good word to say for them?”“Well, for my part,” said Smithson, “a man as can’t wear a honestly well-cut pair of trousers, made by a respectable tradesman, but must send to London for everything, can’t have much balance in his nature.”“Quite right,” said Warton. “Why, when old Mallow set up the carriage, young Cyril—no, it was Frank—must go up to London to buy the harness, and it had to come to me for repairs in less than a month.”“Well, for my part,” said Tomlinson, “I wish Sage Portlock health and happiness, and no disrespect to you, Master Ross, for every girl has a right to choose her own master for life.”“I wish her health and happiness, too,” said Fullerton, rising, “and I wish she may get them. Good night, gentlemen; I’m for home.”“Yes, it’s time for home,” said old Michael Ross, rising, and saying good night; and the two neighbours walked down the street together.“Married, eh?” said Fullerton, with a sneer. “Well, just as they like; but mark my words, Michael Ross, it means trouble.”“I hope not, I hope not,” said the old tanner, sadly, “for I liked Sage Portlock. She’s a very good girl.”“Bah! sir; nonsense! sir; women are not much good as a rule, and she’s a very bad specimen. But, mark my words, sir, trouble, and misery, and misfortune. It will never be a happy match.”And the prophet of evil went his way, leaving old Michael Ross to stand upon his own doorstep thinking.“Poor lass, I liked Sage; and though she has broken with my poor boy,” he said, “she’s not a bad girl at heart. Trouble, and misery, and misfortune—and all to come upon her poor weak head. Poor child—poor child. Luke will about break his heart.“Trouble, and misery, and misfortune,” he repeated, sadly. “I hope not, from my very heart, but I’m afraid Stephen Fullerton is right.”
In a place like Lawford, where every one knew more of his or her neighbours affairs than the individual could possibly know for him or herself, the encounter near Kilby Farm soon had its place as the chief item of news, and was dressed and garnished according to the taste of those who related it.
The principal version was that, stung by a letter sent by Sage Portlock, Luke Ross had come down from town and purposely left the coach at Cross-lane, so that he could waylay and murder Cyril Mallow with a huge hedge-stake which was picked up afterwards near the place.
For a short time the gossips were at fault for a reason, but they only had to wait patiently for a while, and then it was known throughout the place that Cyril Mallow was engaged to marry Sage—a matter so out of all reason to the muddled intellect of Humphrey Bone, the old schoolmaster, that he said it was enough to make widow Marly turn in her grave.
Why, he did not explain. It could not have been from jealous disappointment, for widow Marly had had a very fair share of matrimonial life, having married at the early age of sixteen, and being led twice afterwards to the hymeneal altar before dying at a very good old age.
“But it’s a wrong thing,” he said, at the King’s Head, during a course of potations—“a wrong thing; and no good will come. Two sorts, oil and water, and they won’t mix. Tell parson I say so, some of you, if you like. It’s his doing to get the girl’s money, and it’s a wrong thing.”
In the midst of the many discussions in Lawford it was asked why Luke Ross was not to be prosecuted for assaulting the parson’s son.
“Nice sort of fellow,” said Fullerton; “goes to learn to be a lawyer, and comes down here and breaks the law.”
“Ah! it’s been a strange bad case,” said Smithson, the tailor.
“Anybody seen owt of him since?” ventured Warton, the saddler.
There was silence for a few moments, and then Tomlinson spoke.
“I haven’t seen him down,” he said. “In fact, I know he has not been, for old Michael Ross has been up to see him and hear the rights of the case.”
“Yes?” said two or three, eagerly.
“Ah! he don’t say anything about the rights and wrongs; only that he doesn’t think Joseph Portlock’s girl behaved well to him.”
“Oh! I don’t know,” said Fullerton. “What call had a girl like that to consider herself bound to a wandering man who couldn’t settle down like a Christian? I think she did quite right to give him up.”
“And marry young Mallow?”
“But they are not married yet, my boy,” said Fullerton, shaking his head; “and it’s my belief that they won’t be. He’s a flyaway, wild, scapegrace of a fellow. It’ll come to nought, but I do think young Ross ought to be punished same as any other man. Fair play and no favour for me.”
“Very good sentiment, Mr Fullerton,” said Warton.
“Make it your own motto, then, Mr Warton,” said Fullerton, proudly. “As I says to Michael Ross, when I was talking to him, yesterday—no, it was the day before yesterday—no, stop, itwasyesterday. ‘I believe in fair play,’ I said.
“‘So do I, Mr Fullerton,’ he said; ‘but I don’t think my poor boy has got it here.’”
“Did he say that?” said Warton.
“Ay, that he did, and pst—here he is!”
There was a murmur in the inn room where the principal Lawford tradesmen were assembled, as old Michael Ross, the tanner, came in, looking very keen and dark, and as if close application to his trade had heightened the colour of his skin.
The old man seemed nervous, and as if he feared that he would not be counted welcome; but he soon found that if he would only discuss his son’s conduct no one would be looked upon as a more welcome addition to the weekly meeting.
There was a pause for a few minutes, during which old Ross gave his orders to the landlord, and lit his pipe, smoking afterwards in quiet consciousness that he was being furtively glanced at by all assembled, and that it was only with the expectation of hearing more that they were so quiet of tongue.
“Been having a run up to London, Master Ross, I hear,” said Warton, the saddler, at last.
“Yes, Master Warton, yes; I’ve had a run up amongst the soot and smoke,” said Michael Ross.
“And was strange and glad to get back again, I’ll be bound,” said Tomlinson, while Fullerton lay back in his armed Windsor chair, staring straight up at the ceiling, with the calm self-satisfaction of a man who knew all that was being asked.
“Well, yes, neighbour,” said Michael Ross, thoughtfully, “I must own that I was glad to get back again. London’s a wearisome place, and the din and rattle of the streets is enough to muddle any man’s brains. It was quite a relief to turn down the narrow lane to my son’s chambers, and get out of the buzz and whirr. My bark mill’s nowt to it.”
“Saw your son, did you?” said Warton. “How’s he getting on?”
“Oh, he’s getting on right enough,” said the old man, proudly. “He’s getting on.”
“Gotten to be a big loyer, eh?” said Smithson. “Why, Master Ross, sir, we shall hev to get him down here to take up our cases at County Court.”
“Nay, nay, nay,” said old Ross, chuckling. “Not yet—not yet. Theres a deal to learn to get to be a big loyer; but my sons working away hard now he’s getting a bit over his trouble.”
“Trouble?” said Fullerton, bringing his eyes down from the ceiling. “He hasn’t got into trouble, I hope?”
“Nay, nay, only about the bit o’ trouble down here.”
“Not going to hev him before the magistrates, are they, Master Ross?” said Warton.
“Magistrates? What, my son?” said the old man, firing up. “Not they. He’d a deal better right to have some one else before them. My son never did no wrong.”
“But they say he knocked young Cyril about with a hedge-stake,” said Smithson.
“Tchah! Lies?” said the old man, angrily. “I dare say he hit him. So would I if I’d been a young man, and come back and found my young lady stole away like that. Yes, I’d ha’ done the same.”
“Hah, yes,” said Tomlinson, thoughtfully, as if he were going back to past times. “It is hard on a man. But I don’t know, Master Ross; if a man’s got a bad tooth it’s best out, and it has saved your lad perhaps from many a sore and aching time in the future.”
“I’m not going to say anything against some people we know, and I’m not going to say anything for them,” said the old tanner, warmly. “All I do say is, that I don’t think my son has had justice done him down here.”
“Oh, don’t say that, Master Ross,” said Fullerton, importantly. “I’m sure the way in which he took our side over the school appointment was noble. He saw how unjust it was, and he drew back like a man.”
“I don’t know—I don’t know,” said Michael Ross, with a dry chuckle. “I’m afraid there was something more than that at the bottom of it, though he never owned it to me.”
“Ah, well,” said Fullerton; “it’s very evident that he won’t marry Sage Portlock. Poor girl, it’s a sad fall away.”
“Yes,” said Tomlinson, smoothly, “it does seem strange.”
“Well, for my part,” said Warton, “I wonder at Joseph Portlock, though I think it’s his missus as is most to blame. I don’t believe as young Cyril was much hurt.”
“Not he,” chuckled Smithson. “And there he’s been for the past month, lying on the sofa, tended by those two women. I hear the parson’s been every day, and they do say, that as soon as he gets better—”
“He’s better now,” said Warton.
“Well, then,” chuckled Smithson, drawing one leg up under him upon his chair from force of habit; “suppose we say much better—they’re to be married.”
“Well, it caps me,” said Warton; “I can’t understand what it means.”
“Money,” said Fullerton. “Some people keep up their grand houses and gardeners and grape-vines, and get laying traps baited with pretty girls for young lords and people from London, and after all are not so well off as some who pay their twenty or thirty pound rent and have done with it. Joseph Portlock, I suppose, will leave all his money to those two girls some day, and it will be a nice bit. Pity he didn’t keep Miss Rue for the other boy, and then parson would have been happy.”
“When’s Frank going back?” said Smithson, the tailor, for reasons of his own.
“I’d know; ask him,” said Fullerton. “He’s always going over to Lewby, so I hear.”
“Well,” said Warton, the saddler, “all I can say is, that if I was John Berry he shouldn’t be always coming over to my house.”
“’Tain’t our business,” said Fullerton. “I should say, though, that Sage Portlock’ll have a nice bit o’ money.”
“Ah, there’s a many things done in this life for the sake of money,” said Tomlinson, sententiously.
“But it looks bad for a young fellow to be lying about on sofas all day long, coaxed and petted up by women, just because he has got a bit of a crack on the head. Doctor said to me, he said, when I asked him about the cut, he said, laughing all the while, ‘It isn’t as deep as a well, nor as wide as a church door,’ he said; ‘but ’twill serve—’twill serve.’”
“What did he mean by that?” said Warton.
“I don’t know,” said Fullerton, sharply. “I think it was some stuff or another that he’d read in a book. You know what a fellow he is for giving you bits out of books. Don’t you remember that night at the annual dinner? He said, when they were talking about old Mrs Hagley being a bit of a witch—”
“Ah, to be sure,” said Smithson; “about the cellar.”
“Yes,” continued Fullerton; “he said, ‘I can call spirits from the vasty deep. Landlord, go down to the cellar and bring up a bottle of the best French brandy.’”
“Ah, he’s a queer fellow, is doctor,” said Warton. “They won’t live down here when they’re married, will they?”
“Who?”
“Young Cyril Mallow and Joseph Portlock’s girl.”
“Oh, dear me, no,” said Tomlinson. “Young Cyril has got a post under government, and it’s settled that Miss Cynthia is to be married to Lord Artingale, and a house has been taken for young Cyril up in Kensington.”
“Hullo, old fox,” cried Fullerton.
“Yoicks, yoicks, yoicks, gone away,” shouted several, uproariously.
“Come, out with it,” said Fullerton. “I’ll be bound to say you know all about it.”
“Well,” said Tomlinson, with the calm reticence of one who felt himself quite at home in the matter, “I did hear a little about it.”
“From Joseph Portlock’s wife, I’ll be bound,” said Fullerton. “She’s been at your place three times lately.”
“I’m not going to mention any names,” said Tomlinson, with a sly, smooth, fat smile, “but I think I may venture to say that there’ll be a wedding somewhere within six months, and that those who are married will live in Kensington.”
“Ay, parson knows how to play his cards,” said Warton. “I suppose the eldest girl will marry that stout gentleman, Perry-Morton. Parson manages things well. Fancy bagging Lord Artingale for a son-in-law. Why, all Gatley belongs to him, and he’s an uncommonly nice fellow too.”
“Yes, his lordship’s all very well; but as to young Cyril and Miss Portlock, mark my words, no good’ll come of it,” said Fullerton, emphatically. “Mark my words: no good’ll come of it.”
“I should be sorry if it did not turn out well, and so would my son be, I’m sure,” said the old tanner.
“Why?” said Fullerton.
“Because Sage Portlock is a nice, superior sort of girl,” said the old man, “and it is always grievous to see those you like come in for trouble.”
“So it is,” said Fullerton, “but trouble will come. Here’s two clergyman’s sons, who ought to be the very model of what young men should be, and has any one of you a good word to say for them?”
“Well, for my part,” said Smithson, “a man as can’t wear a honestly well-cut pair of trousers, made by a respectable tradesman, but must send to London for everything, can’t have much balance in his nature.”
“Quite right,” said Warton. “Why, when old Mallow set up the carriage, young Cyril—no, it was Frank—must go up to London to buy the harness, and it had to come to me for repairs in less than a month.”
“Well, for my part,” said Tomlinson, “I wish Sage Portlock health and happiness, and no disrespect to you, Master Ross, for every girl has a right to choose her own master for life.”
“I wish her health and happiness, too,” said Fullerton, rising, “and I wish she may get them. Good night, gentlemen; I’m for home.”
“Yes, it’s time for home,” said old Michael Ross, rising, and saying good night; and the two neighbours walked down the street together.
“Married, eh?” said Fullerton, with a sneer. “Well, just as they like; but mark my words, Michael Ross, it means trouble.”
“I hope not, I hope not,” said the old tanner, sadly, “for I liked Sage Portlock. She’s a very good girl.”
“Bah! sir; nonsense! sir; women are not much good as a rule, and she’s a very bad specimen. But, mark my words, sir, trouble, and misery, and misfortune. It will never be a happy match.”
And the prophet of evil went his way, leaving old Michael Ross to stand upon his own doorstep thinking.
“Poor lass, I liked Sage; and though she has broken with my poor boy,” he said, “she’s not a bad girl at heart. Trouble, and misery, and misfortune—and all to come upon her poor weak head. Poor child—poor child. Luke will about break his heart.
“Trouble, and misery, and misfortune,” he repeated, sadly. “I hope not, from my very heart, but I’m afraid Stephen Fullerton is right.”
Part 2, Chapter I.Part 2 — “Forsaking All Other.”After a Lapse.The Lawford people were disappointed, for the Rector thought it better, and the Portlocks made no objection, that the wedding should be as simple as possible, so there were no preparations to signify, only such as were made in a quiet way, and Luke Ross read one morning in the ‘Times’ that Cyril Mallow, second son of the Rev. Eli Mallow, had espoused Sage, daughter of the late Elias Portlock, Esq, of Melby, and niece of Joseph Portlock, Esq, the Hall, Kilby, Lawford. He had a letter afterwards from his father, giving him fuller information, and saying that Lord Artingale was at the wedding, and Cyril Mallow’s sisters were the bridesmaids, and that the young married people went off directly to Paris. That Frank Mallow had not gone back to Australia, and nobody knew when he would go. That Portlock the churchwarden had been very angry at havingEsquireput after his name in the announcements; that he was very friendly when he met the tanner in the market-place, and desired to be kindly remembered to Luke.The letter concluded with a hope that Luke would soon come down, but he was not to come unless he felt that he did not mind a bit; that they had a very pleasant little body for schoolmistress now, and that Humphrey Bone seemed just the same as ever, and that was all at present from Luke’s affectionate father, Michael Ross.Not quite all at present, for there was a postscript stating that the Rector was a good deal in trouble about his eldest girl, who seemed to be getting in a bad way, but all the same, both she and her sister were engaged to be married.Luke Ross put the letter away in a drawer with a sigh, and turned to his reading working as hard as man could work, for in this he found his only relief from the troubled thoughts that oppressed him, while the change that had taken place in him in a few months was almost startling.As the time went on the Rector, far from feeling lighter in his burdens now that he had Cyril comfortably settled down, had two new sources of trouble: in his son Frank, who had made the rectory, or the town house that had been taken and handsomely furnished, his home. He said that he was going back to Australia, but not yet. Perhaps he should take a wife back with him.The Rector’s other trouble was Julia, who had grown so pale and weak that at last, partly in obedience to Mr Perry-Morton’s desire, it was settled that Sir Emerton Riffley should be consulted, and that eminent and fashionable physician was asked to call.Sir Emerton did call, and after a long visit, as he saw his patient had no complaint to make, none to describe, he settled that it was want of tone.“There is a want of heart action, my dear madam,” he said, though there were times when poor Julia’s heart beat at a fearful rate.“But you don’t think—”“Oh, dear me, no! Oh, de-arno! A course of tonic medicine, a little alteration in diet, and a short stay at the seaside will quite restore us.”“Do you think Brighton?” said Mrs Mallow.“Excellent,” said Sir Emerton; “and it would benefit you as well.”“Or Bognor?”“Nothing could be better.”“Perhaps Hastings?”“My dear madam, if I had the choosing of a place for your daughter’s residence for the present, I should decidedly say Hastings,” replied the great physician, rising from the side table, where he had been writing out a prescription precisely the same as that which he had written for hundreds of other young ladies in his time; and then, after a very courtly smile and bow, he left the drawing-room. The Rector was summoned, and the next day the family was staying at the “Queen’s” Hotel.“There, Julia,” cried Cynthia, when they had been down a few days, “I think this is delicious, though we might just as well have stayed at Lawford. I don’t know, though; I like the seaside, and we shall be as free here as at home in the dear old woods.”Julia shuddered.“Oh, you foolish girl! There, don’t think of that again. Let’s enjoy ourselves while we can. The Perry-Mortons will be here soon.”“Are they coming down?” said Julia, with a look of dismay.“Yes. Harry’s aversion wrote to papa this morning, saying that they should be at Hastings on Saturday, so we’ve three whole days clear. What did Sage say in her letter?”“Very little,” replied Julia. “She said that Cyril had had some little trouble though at his office.”“I’m not surprised,” said Cynthia, “but I hope he won’t lose that.”“Hadn’t we better turn back, Cynthia?” said her sister, with an uneasy glance round. “There are no people here.”“That’s why I came,” said Cynthia, merrily. “I like getting away to where we can be free. Come along; I’ll help you down.”She held out her hand, but Julia did not take it, and after threading their way amongst the huge rocks anddébrisfallen from the cliffs at the eastern end of the town, they started onward, keeping close to the water where they could, but oftener upon the shingle beneath the towering cliffs, along whose giddy edges some children were playing, as if safe as the gulls that softly winged their way above their heads.“This is just what I like,” said Cynthia. “There, I’ve made one of my feet wet. Never mind; sea water does not give colds. Isn’t it a grand bit of coast, Julie? But, I say, suppose Bogey was to pop up now from behind one of those great pieces of rock. Oh, how stupid I am. Julie: darling sister, don’t faint.”“No, no. I am better,” exclaimed Julia, across whose face a spasm of dread had darted.“It was dreadfully silly of me, dear, but don’t you mind what I said. Why, Julie, we are as safe here as if we were in our own rooms. Nobody could come down those cliffs, and I feel sure that you will never see that creature again. There, be a woman. He could not tell that we were down here. Now, could he?”“Cynthia,” said Julia, after a few moments’ pause, and as she spoke she gazed straight out to sea, “shall you think me very weak and foolish if I tell you what I think?”“No, no, of course not,” said Cynthia, glancing furtively about, “only do try to be more firm.”“I do try,” said Julia, with a catching of the breath, “so hard—so very hard; but that man seems to be my fate, and I feel now that go where I may, or do what I may, he is always close at hand watching for me. Even now I expect to see him waiting by some of these rocks.”“Nonsense! foolish girl,” said Cynthia.“And that, strive as I will, he will some day take me away.”“What!” cried Cynthia, laughing merrily, “take you away!”“Yes, dear,” said her sister, solemnly. “I feel it. I am sure of it.”“But oh, what nonsense, Julie! You must not let him. You give way to such thoughts. How can you be so foolish?”“Is it foolish? I strive against the thoughts till I feel half mad, but I cannot get rid of them, and his words are ever ringing in my ears. Oh, Cynthia, sometimes I feel as if it is in vain to fight against my fate, and that I may as well be resigned.”“Oh, Julie, Julie, Julie!” cried the spirited little maiden. “What am I to do to you—what am I to say? Shall I whip you, or scold you, or have you sent to bed without any dinner? It is too dreadful, and you shall not give way like this. Why, for shame! I know somebody who is dying of love for you.”“Don’t name him, Cynthy dear; I detest the sight of him and his sisters.”“No, no, I mean dear Harry’s friend, Mr Magnus.”“Poor Mr Magnus!” said Julia, dreamily. “I am very glad he is well again.”“But he is not quite well yet, poor dear man. I think a short stay at Hastings would do him good,” said Cynthia, archly.“It was very brave and manly of him to do what he did,” said Julia, sadly. “I can never thank him enough.”“Hush I walk faster; let’s get beyond those rocks, Julie,” cried her sister, excitedly. “He’s coming now.”“Ah!”Julia’s breath came with a spasm of agony, and her features seemed rigid.“He hasn’t seen us yet,” whispered Cynthia, but with the same excitement in her voice. “Make haste.”They almost ran on now, till they were obliged to pause for breath.“Don’t look round,” whispered Cynthia, “whatever you do.”“And we are farther than ever from the town!” moaned Julia, as she clasped her hands.“Well, what does that matter?” cried Cynthia. “Why, Julie, how pale you look!”“Oh, pray come on faster—faster,” whispered Julia.“No, no, poor boy, I’ve led him dance enough. He may catch me now. Why, Julie,” she cried, “I declare I’ve frightened you. Oh, my dear sissy, I did not mean your Bogey: I meant mine. I wrote and told him we should be walking along here about four o’clock, but, of course, I never for a moment expected he would come.”Poor Julia held one hand across her eyes as she drew a long breath of relief, and holding by her sister’s arm she walked slowly on, with her eyes closed, for they were now on a smooth stretch of sand.“You must not be so ready to take alarm at nothing, dear. Oh, I say, Julie,” Cynthia added, piteously, “let’s turn back, or he won’t see us. No—yes. Hark! it’s all right; he has seen us. I can hear his step. Don’t look round, Julie,” she whispered, joyously. “Oh, dear, why it’s you, Harry. However did you come down?”“Train, to be sure,” cried the young man, heartily. “Why, you both look brown already. So glad to see you looking better, Julia.”“Well, it was very nice of you to come, Harry. But how’s poor Mr Magnus?”“Heaps better. I persuaded him to come down with me for a week. I left him at the hotel.”“Oh, you good boy,” whispered Cynthia; and then they strolled gently on till they were a long distance from the last houses in the town. The sun made the calm sea shimmer like damasked silver, and in the transparent pools the water was many-tinted with the reflections from the green and grey and yellow cliffs; and, as such people will, both Cynthia and Harry grew more and more selfish, taking it as a matter of course that Julia should grow fatigued and seat herself upon one of the rocks that had fallen from above, to be ground, and beaten, and polished smooth on one side, while the other was roughened with the limpets and acorn barnacles that crusted it like a rugged bark.In fact, they forgot Julia in the intense interest of their pursuit as they wandered on, for Cynthia had to be helped from rock to rock, as they went out as far as the water would allow, and she had to make daring jumps of a few inches over rushing, gurgling streams of water that ebbed and flowed amongst the stones. Then the tiny point of her pretty shoe was always poking itself inquiringly into crevices, out of which Harry had to fish red anemones or unusually large limpets or mussels. Thentheyhad a mania for gathering enough periwinkles for tea, Cynthia declaring that she would wriggle them out with a pin and eat them. But when about a dozen had been found, the search was given up for some other pursuit; perhaps it was a well-ground oyster-shell, all pearly, or a peculiar bit of seaweed; and once, close up under the cliffs where the path was very narrow, and the sea right in, the rocks were so rough and the way so awkward that Harry had to help little Cynthia very much—so much, that if a boat had been passing its occupants would have seen two handsome young faces in extremely close proximity. But no boat was passing to make Cynthia turn so scarlet as she did, hence the marvel; and they went on in their love-dream a little longer, thinking what a wonderfully bright and happy world this was, and how beautiful sea, sky, rock, and beach had become, glorified as they were by their young happy love, when Cynthia suddenly awoke.“Oh, Harry!” she exclaimed, with the tears in her eyes, “how cruel, to be sure. Poor Julie! Let’s make haste back.”“Oh, yes. She’ll be rested by now.”“I was so thoughtless,” half sobbed Cynthia.“She is so nervous, and she will be thinking she sees that dreadful man.”“Who is not likely to be here, my darling,” said Artingale, smiling.“No, but let’s make haste back,” cried Cynthia.Artingale seemed disposed to loiter, but Cynthia was in earnest, and they hurried back towards where they had left Julia seated on a rock, one of the many scattered about.It was time they did, for Artingale’s words just uttered were not the words of truth.
The Lawford people were disappointed, for the Rector thought it better, and the Portlocks made no objection, that the wedding should be as simple as possible, so there were no preparations to signify, only such as were made in a quiet way, and Luke Ross read one morning in the ‘Times’ that Cyril Mallow, second son of the Rev. Eli Mallow, had espoused Sage, daughter of the late Elias Portlock, Esq, of Melby, and niece of Joseph Portlock, Esq, the Hall, Kilby, Lawford. He had a letter afterwards from his father, giving him fuller information, and saying that Lord Artingale was at the wedding, and Cyril Mallow’s sisters were the bridesmaids, and that the young married people went off directly to Paris. That Frank Mallow had not gone back to Australia, and nobody knew when he would go. That Portlock the churchwarden had been very angry at havingEsquireput after his name in the announcements; that he was very friendly when he met the tanner in the market-place, and desired to be kindly remembered to Luke.
The letter concluded with a hope that Luke would soon come down, but he was not to come unless he felt that he did not mind a bit; that they had a very pleasant little body for schoolmistress now, and that Humphrey Bone seemed just the same as ever, and that was all at present from Luke’s affectionate father, Michael Ross.
Not quite all at present, for there was a postscript stating that the Rector was a good deal in trouble about his eldest girl, who seemed to be getting in a bad way, but all the same, both she and her sister were engaged to be married.
Luke Ross put the letter away in a drawer with a sigh, and turned to his reading working as hard as man could work, for in this he found his only relief from the troubled thoughts that oppressed him, while the change that had taken place in him in a few months was almost startling.
As the time went on the Rector, far from feeling lighter in his burdens now that he had Cyril comfortably settled down, had two new sources of trouble: in his son Frank, who had made the rectory, or the town house that had been taken and handsomely furnished, his home. He said that he was going back to Australia, but not yet. Perhaps he should take a wife back with him.
The Rector’s other trouble was Julia, who had grown so pale and weak that at last, partly in obedience to Mr Perry-Morton’s desire, it was settled that Sir Emerton Riffley should be consulted, and that eminent and fashionable physician was asked to call.
Sir Emerton did call, and after a long visit, as he saw his patient had no complaint to make, none to describe, he settled that it was want of tone.
“There is a want of heart action, my dear madam,” he said, though there were times when poor Julia’s heart beat at a fearful rate.
“But you don’t think—”
“Oh, dear me, no! Oh, de-arno! A course of tonic medicine, a little alteration in diet, and a short stay at the seaside will quite restore us.”
“Do you think Brighton?” said Mrs Mallow.
“Excellent,” said Sir Emerton; “and it would benefit you as well.”
“Or Bognor?”
“Nothing could be better.”
“Perhaps Hastings?”
“My dear madam, if I had the choosing of a place for your daughter’s residence for the present, I should decidedly say Hastings,” replied the great physician, rising from the side table, where he had been writing out a prescription precisely the same as that which he had written for hundreds of other young ladies in his time; and then, after a very courtly smile and bow, he left the drawing-room. The Rector was summoned, and the next day the family was staying at the “Queen’s” Hotel.
“There, Julia,” cried Cynthia, when they had been down a few days, “I think this is delicious, though we might just as well have stayed at Lawford. I don’t know, though; I like the seaside, and we shall be as free here as at home in the dear old woods.”
Julia shuddered.
“Oh, you foolish girl! There, don’t think of that again. Let’s enjoy ourselves while we can. The Perry-Mortons will be here soon.”
“Are they coming down?” said Julia, with a look of dismay.
“Yes. Harry’s aversion wrote to papa this morning, saying that they should be at Hastings on Saturday, so we’ve three whole days clear. What did Sage say in her letter?”
“Very little,” replied Julia. “She said that Cyril had had some little trouble though at his office.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Cynthia, “but I hope he won’t lose that.”
“Hadn’t we better turn back, Cynthia?” said her sister, with an uneasy glance round. “There are no people here.”
“That’s why I came,” said Cynthia, merrily. “I like getting away to where we can be free. Come along; I’ll help you down.”
She held out her hand, but Julia did not take it, and after threading their way amongst the huge rocks anddébrisfallen from the cliffs at the eastern end of the town, they started onward, keeping close to the water where they could, but oftener upon the shingle beneath the towering cliffs, along whose giddy edges some children were playing, as if safe as the gulls that softly winged their way above their heads.
“This is just what I like,” said Cynthia. “There, I’ve made one of my feet wet. Never mind; sea water does not give colds. Isn’t it a grand bit of coast, Julie? But, I say, suppose Bogey was to pop up now from behind one of those great pieces of rock. Oh, how stupid I am. Julie: darling sister, don’t faint.”
“No, no. I am better,” exclaimed Julia, across whose face a spasm of dread had darted.
“It was dreadfully silly of me, dear, but don’t you mind what I said. Why, Julie, we are as safe here as if we were in our own rooms. Nobody could come down those cliffs, and I feel sure that you will never see that creature again. There, be a woman. He could not tell that we were down here. Now, could he?”
“Cynthia,” said Julia, after a few moments’ pause, and as she spoke she gazed straight out to sea, “shall you think me very weak and foolish if I tell you what I think?”
“No, no, of course not,” said Cynthia, glancing furtively about, “only do try to be more firm.”
“I do try,” said Julia, with a catching of the breath, “so hard—so very hard; but that man seems to be my fate, and I feel now that go where I may, or do what I may, he is always close at hand watching for me. Even now I expect to see him waiting by some of these rocks.”
“Nonsense! foolish girl,” said Cynthia.
“And that, strive as I will, he will some day take me away.”
“What!” cried Cynthia, laughing merrily, “take you away!”
“Yes, dear,” said her sister, solemnly. “I feel it. I am sure of it.”
“But oh, what nonsense, Julie! You must not let him. You give way to such thoughts. How can you be so foolish?”
“Is it foolish? I strive against the thoughts till I feel half mad, but I cannot get rid of them, and his words are ever ringing in my ears. Oh, Cynthia, sometimes I feel as if it is in vain to fight against my fate, and that I may as well be resigned.”
“Oh, Julie, Julie, Julie!” cried the spirited little maiden. “What am I to do to you—what am I to say? Shall I whip you, or scold you, or have you sent to bed without any dinner? It is too dreadful, and you shall not give way like this. Why, for shame! I know somebody who is dying of love for you.”
“Don’t name him, Cynthy dear; I detest the sight of him and his sisters.”
“No, no, I mean dear Harry’s friend, Mr Magnus.”
“Poor Mr Magnus!” said Julia, dreamily. “I am very glad he is well again.”
“But he is not quite well yet, poor dear man. I think a short stay at Hastings would do him good,” said Cynthia, archly.
“It was very brave and manly of him to do what he did,” said Julia, sadly. “I can never thank him enough.”
“Hush I walk faster; let’s get beyond those rocks, Julie,” cried her sister, excitedly. “He’s coming now.”
“Ah!”
Julia’s breath came with a spasm of agony, and her features seemed rigid.
“He hasn’t seen us yet,” whispered Cynthia, but with the same excitement in her voice. “Make haste.”
They almost ran on now, till they were obliged to pause for breath.
“Don’t look round,” whispered Cynthia, “whatever you do.”
“And we are farther than ever from the town!” moaned Julia, as she clasped her hands.
“Well, what does that matter?” cried Cynthia. “Why, Julie, how pale you look!”
“Oh, pray come on faster—faster,” whispered Julia.
“No, no, poor boy, I’ve led him dance enough. He may catch me now. Why, Julie,” she cried, “I declare I’ve frightened you. Oh, my dear sissy, I did not mean your Bogey: I meant mine. I wrote and told him we should be walking along here about four o’clock, but, of course, I never for a moment expected he would come.”
Poor Julia held one hand across her eyes as she drew a long breath of relief, and holding by her sister’s arm she walked slowly on, with her eyes closed, for they were now on a smooth stretch of sand.
“You must not be so ready to take alarm at nothing, dear. Oh, I say, Julie,” Cynthia added, piteously, “let’s turn back, or he won’t see us. No—yes. Hark! it’s all right; he has seen us. I can hear his step. Don’t look round, Julie,” she whispered, joyously. “Oh, dear, why it’s you, Harry. However did you come down?”
“Train, to be sure,” cried the young man, heartily. “Why, you both look brown already. So glad to see you looking better, Julia.”
“Well, it was very nice of you to come, Harry. But how’s poor Mr Magnus?”
“Heaps better. I persuaded him to come down with me for a week. I left him at the hotel.”
“Oh, you good boy,” whispered Cynthia; and then they strolled gently on till they were a long distance from the last houses in the town. The sun made the calm sea shimmer like damasked silver, and in the transparent pools the water was many-tinted with the reflections from the green and grey and yellow cliffs; and, as such people will, both Cynthia and Harry grew more and more selfish, taking it as a matter of course that Julia should grow fatigued and seat herself upon one of the rocks that had fallen from above, to be ground, and beaten, and polished smooth on one side, while the other was roughened with the limpets and acorn barnacles that crusted it like a rugged bark.
In fact, they forgot Julia in the intense interest of their pursuit as they wandered on, for Cynthia had to be helped from rock to rock, as they went out as far as the water would allow, and she had to make daring jumps of a few inches over rushing, gurgling streams of water that ebbed and flowed amongst the stones. Then the tiny point of her pretty shoe was always poking itself inquiringly into crevices, out of which Harry had to fish red anemones or unusually large limpets or mussels. Thentheyhad a mania for gathering enough periwinkles for tea, Cynthia declaring that she would wriggle them out with a pin and eat them. But when about a dozen had been found, the search was given up for some other pursuit; perhaps it was a well-ground oyster-shell, all pearly, or a peculiar bit of seaweed; and once, close up under the cliffs where the path was very narrow, and the sea right in, the rocks were so rough and the way so awkward that Harry had to help little Cynthia very much—so much, that if a boat had been passing its occupants would have seen two handsome young faces in extremely close proximity. But no boat was passing to make Cynthia turn so scarlet as she did, hence the marvel; and they went on in their love-dream a little longer, thinking what a wonderfully bright and happy world this was, and how beautiful sea, sky, rock, and beach had become, glorified as they were by their young happy love, when Cynthia suddenly awoke.
“Oh, Harry!” she exclaimed, with the tears in her eyes, “how cruel, to be sure. Poor Julie! Let’s make haste back.”
“Oh, yes. She’ll be rested by now.”
“I was so thoughtless,” half sobbed Cynthia.
“She is so nervous, and she will be thinking she sees that dreadful man.”
“Who is not likely to be here, my darling,” said Artingale, smiling.
“No, but let’s make haste back,” cried Cynthia.
Artingale seemed disposed to loiter, but Cynthia was in earnest, and they hurried back towards where they had left Julia seated on a rock, one of the many scattered about.
It was time they did, for Artingale’s words just uttered were not the words of truth.
Part 2, Chapter II.The Stray Lamb.“Don’t be alarmed, Cynthia; these rocks are so much alike, and we wandered a good way.”“But I am alarmed, Harry; I am sure it was here.”“It does look like the place, certainly,” he said; “but there is another heap further on.”“No, no, this must be the stone. I remember that little pool of clear water, and the patch of seaweed. Oh, we ought not to have left her!”Artingale could not endorse those words, for he thought it very pleasant to have been alone with Cynthia for the past ten minutes—half an hour—hour—or two hours—he had not the slightest idea how long it had been; but the trouble and dread in her agitated young face were so marked that he began to throw off the good-humoured carelessness he felt disposed to show, and bestirred himself to find the missing girl.“Give me your hand, pet,” he said, “and let’s get on to the next pile. I am sure we shall find her there.”“No, no, Harry. The more I look the more I feel sure it was here we left her.”“Well, perhaps it was, little one,” he said, looking down into the earnest eyes, “and she has grown tired, and begun to walk back. We shall find her sitting down waiting for us.”Cynthia gave him her hand, and they ran for a short distance over the shingle; but it was too rough to go far save at a walk, and then, reaching another of the little wildernesses of masses of rock, the result of a fall from the towering cliffs, they searched about for a few minutes without result, and then walked a little way down towards the sea, so as to command a view back towards the battery and the works at the east end of the town.There was a man tramping along with a shrimping net over his shoulder, an old lady seated on the shingle under an umbrella, a girl with a yellow-covered book perched upon a stone, and about twenty yards out an elderly gentleman with his trousers tucked up, standing in the water reading a newspaper; not a soul besides on that unfrequented part.“Oh, Harry!” gasped Cynthia, who was ready to burst into tears.“Why, you little goose,” he said tenderly; “there’s nothing to be afraid of. She isn’t along here, that’s certain.”“And yet you say there’s nothing to be afraid of,” half sobbed Cynthia.“Why, of course not. She hasn’t gone back, or we should see her somewhere. We must have passed her. I know she must have gone close up to the cliff, so as to find a shady place. All along here is so much bigger and wilder than any one would think.”“She must have gone up on the cliff, Harry.”“Well, dear,” he said, laughing, “you and Julie are the nearest approach to little angels I ever knew, but even you two have no wings, and I don’t think Julie would get up the face of that cliff without.”“Oh, pray, Harry, don’t talk so, now,” she cried; “I’m afraid—I don’t know what to think.”“Don’t be afraid, little one,” he said, encouragingly, “we’ll find her directly.”“Is it possible that any of the cliff has fallen, and crushed her?” said Cynthia, piteously.He started, but spoke the next moment decisively.“No. Such a fall would have made a noise like thunder. Depend upon it she has changed her place, and we shall find her fast asleep: unless the Red Rover, or some other dashing pirate, has landed, and carried her off in his yacht.”“Oh, Harry, you make fun of it all,” cried Cynthia, with a stamp of her little foot, which crushed a tender, young, and unoffending mussel; “and I feel now quite a chill of horror lest that dreadful man—Oh, look, look, Harry! Who is that?”She grasped his arm convulsively, and pointed at a part of the cliff, about a couple of hundred yards farther away from the town, where a figure could be seen cautiously climbing from ledge to ledge along the face of the stones, and in a position where a false step or a slip must have meant his falling a battered and bleeding mass upon the shingle beneath.There was a fascination in the scene that held them breathless, and as Cynthia’s hand glided into his, and clung to him convulsively, Artingale felt the little palm grow wet and cold.It was a most daring proceeding, and such as none but the most reckless would have attempted; but the man seemed to be coolly climbing on, apparently without effort, though every here and there he had to cling to the face of the rock, and remain motionless, as if to gather breath.“By George!” exclaimed Artingale at last, as the man climbed nearer and nearer to where the grass was just visible on the topmost edge, “he’s a plucky fellow, Cynthy. I wouldn’t do that for a good deal.”“But, Harry—don’t you see—don’t you see?”“Only that he is close to the top, dear. There, don’t look if it makes you giddy. I’ll tell you. He’s close up now, and he has got hold of the grass and stuff. Now he’s over the top edge. He’s safe enough. And, yes—there, you can look up now. He’s all right, and out of sight.”“But, Harry, Harry,” panted Cynthia, “didn’t you see? It was that man.”“What man?”“The man who follows poor Julie.”“By Jove!” cried Artingale; and he started as if to try and follow the man up the cliff.“No, no,” cried Cynthia, clinging to him; “don’t leave me, Harry, don’t try to climb that dreadful cliff; come and find poor Julie. Oh, Harry, why did we go away?”For answer, Artingale ground his teeth, and hurried his companion along until they were in front of the rock on which they had left Julia seated.Mass after mass lay singly here; and nearer to the cliff huge pieces were piled one upon the other in confusion just as they had fallen from time to time on splitting off from the face of the precipice.Helping his companion over some of the rough blocks, and threading his way amongst others, Artingale uttered a cry of satisfaction.“Here she is, Cynthy!” he exclaimed; and then he stopped short in alarm, so strange and haggard did Julia appear.She was seated upon a piece of rock at the foot of a large shelly mass, her cheek resting on the stone, and her hands pressed to her face.“Julie, dear Julie!” cried her sister, springing to her side; and as Julia heard her voice she slowly lowered her hands, and displayed a countenance alternately flushed and deadly pale, while her eyes looked wild and strange.“Has he gone?” she whispered, giving a frightened glance round.“Oh, Julie, tell me, has that man been here—has he dared to speak to you?” cried Cynthia, passionately.“Yes; he came directly you had gone. He was there, there,” she whispered, pointing towards the cliff. “Take me away: please take me away.”Her words and looks were those of some frightened child, and on Artingale taking one of her hands she clung to him convulsively.“But, Julie dear, tell me,” cried Cynthia, whose face was flushed and angry; “tell me—”“No, no. Not now. Not now. Let us get back to the hotel. I dare not stay here.”Artingale and Cynthia exchanged glances, as they led the frightened girl out from amidst the piled-up rocks into the broad sunshine, and then slowly along the sandy portions of the beach, with the result that she gradually became more calm, but she checked at once the slightest effort made by her sister to gain any information. Even when, at a sign from Cynthia, Artingale drew back, she did not speak, but turned timidly and waited for him to come alongside.“Don’t leave me, Harry,” she said plaintively; so he joined them again, and walked with the sisters right up to the hotel, where Julia now seemed to have grown more herself; but there was that in her countenance which set Artingale thinking very deeply, and as soon as he had parted from the sisters, he went straight to James Magnus, whom he found in his room seated by the open window, and gazing out to sea.
“Don’t be alarmed, Cynthia; these rocks are so much alike, and we wandered a good way.”
“But I am alarmed, Harry; I am sure it was here.”
“It does look like the place, certainly,” he said; “but there is another heap further on.”
“No, no, this must be the stone. I remember that little pool of clear water, and the patch of seaweed. Oh, we ought not to have left her!”
Artingale could not endorse those words, for he thought it very pleasant to have been alone with Cynthia for the past ten minutes—half an hour—hour—or two hours—he had not the slightest idea how long it had been; but the trouble and dread in her agitated young face were so marked that he began to throw off the good-humoured carelessness he felt disposed to show, and bestirred himself to find the missing girl.
“Give me your hand, pet,” he said, “and let’s get on to the next pile. I am sure we shall find her there.”
“No, no, Harry. The more I look the more I feel sure it was here we left her.”
“Well, perhaps it was, little one,” he said, looking down into the earnest eyes, “and she has grown tired, and begun to walk back. We shall find her sitting down waiting for us.”
Cynthia gave him her hand, and they ran for a short distance over the shingle; but it was too rough to go far save at a walk, and then, reaching another of the little wildernesses of masses of rock, the result of a fall from the towering cliffs, they searched about for a few minutes without result, and then walked a little way down towards the sea, so as to command a view back towards the battery and the works at the east end of the town.
There was a man tramping along with a shrimping net over his shoulder, an old lady seated on the shingle under an umbrella, a girl with a yellow-covered book perched upon a stone, and about twenty yards out an elderly gentleman with his trousers tucked up, standing in the water reading a newspaper; not a soul besides on that unfrequented part.
“Oh, Harry!” gasped Cynthia, who was ready to burst into tears.
“Why, you little goose,” he said tenderly; “there’s nothing to be afraid of. She isn’t along here, that’s certain.”
“And yet you say there’s nothing to be afraid of,” half sobbed Cynthia.
“Why, of course not. She hasn’t gone back, or we should see her somewhere. We must have passed her. I know she must have gone close up to the cliff, so as to find a shady place. All along here is so much bigger and wilder than any one would think.”
“She must have gone up on the cliff, Harry.”
“Well, dear,” he said, laughing, “you and Julie are the nearest approach to little angels I ever knew, but even you two have no wings, and I don’t think Julie would get up the face of that cliff without.”
“Oh, pray, Harry, don’t talk so, now,” she cried; “I’m afraid—I don’t know what to think.”
“Don’t be afraid, little one,” he said, encouragingly, “we’ll find her directly.”
“Is it possible that any of the cliff has fallen, and crushed her?” said Cynthia, piteously.
He started, but spoke the next moment decisively.
“No. Such a fall would have made a noise like thunder. Depend upon it she has changed her place, and we shall find her fast asleep: unless the Red Rover, or some other dashing pirate, has landed, and carried her off in his yacht.”
“Oh, Harry, you make fun of it all,” cried Cynthia, with a stamp of her little foot, which crushed a tender, young, and unoffending mussel; “and I feel now quite a chill of horror lest that dreadful man—Oh, look, look, Harry! Who is that?”
She grasped his arm convulsively, and pointed at a part of the cliff, about a couple of hundred yards farther away from the town, where a figure could be seen cautiously climbing from ledge to ledge along the face of the stones, and in a position where a false step or a slip must have meant his falling a battered and bleeding mass upon the shingle beneath.
There was a fascination in the scene that held them breathless, and as Cynthia’s hand glided into his, and clung to him convulsively, Artingale felt the little palm grow wet and cold.
It was a most daring proceeding, and such as none but the most reckless would have attempted; but the man seemed to be coolly climbing on, apparently without effort, though every here and there he had to cling to the face of the rock, and remain motionless, as if to gather breath.
“By George!” exclaimed Artingale at last, as the man climbed nearer and nearer to where the grass was just visible on the topmost edge, “he’s a plucky fellow, Cynthy. I wouldn’t do that for a good deal.”
“But, Harry—don’t you see—don’t you see?”
“Only that he is close to the top, dear. There, don’t look if it makes you giddy. I’ll tell you. He’s close up now, and he has got hold of the grass and stuff. Now he’s over the top edge. He’s safe enough. And, yes—there, you can look up now. He’s all right, and out of sight.”
“But, Harry, Harry,” panted Cynthia, “didn’t you see? It was that man.”
“What man?”
“The man who follows poor Julie.”
“By Jove!” cried Artingale; and he started as if to try and follow the man up the cliff.
“No, no,” cried Cynthia, clinging to him; “don’t leave me, Harry, don’t try to climb that dreadful cliff; come and find poor Julie. Oh, Harry, why did we go away?”
For answer, Artingale ground his teeth, and hurried his companion along until they were in front of the rock on which they had left Julia seated.
Mass after mass lay singly here; and nearer to the cliff huge pieces were piled one upon the other in confusion just as they had fallen from time to time on splitting off from the face of the precipice.
Helping his companion over some of the rough blocks, and threading his way amongst others, Artingale uttered a cry of satisfaction.
“Here she is, Cynthy!” he exclaimed; and then he stopped short in alarm, so strange and haggard did Julia appear.
She was seated upon a piece of rock at the foot of a large shelly mass, her cheek resting on the stone, and her hands pressed to her face.
“Julie, dear Julie!” cried her sister, springing to her side; and as Julia heard her voice she slowly lowered her hands, and displayed a countenance alternately flushed and deadly pale, while her eyes looked wild and strange.
“Has he gone?” she whispered, giving a frightened glance round.
“Oh, Julie, tell me, has that man been here—has he dared to speak to you?” cried Cynthia, passionately.
“Yes; he came directly you had gone. He was there, there,” she whispered, pointing towards the cliff. “Take me away: please take me away.”
Her words and looks were those of some frightened child, and on Artingale taking one of her hands she clung to him convulsively.
“But, Julie dear, tell me,” cried Cynthia, whose face was flushed and angry; “tell me—”
“No, no. Not now. Not now. Let us get back to the hotel. I dare not stay here.”
Artingale and Cynthia exchanged glances, as they led the frightened girl out from amidst the piled-up rocks into the broad sunshine, and then slowly along the sandy portions of the beach, with the result that she gradually became more calm, but she checked at once the slightest effort made by her sister to gain any information. Even when, at a sign from Cynthia, Artingale drew back, she did not speak, but turned timidly and waited for him to come alongside.
“Don’t leave me, Harry,” she said plaintively; so he joined them again, and walked with the sisters right up to the hotel, where Julia now seemed to have grown more herself; but there was that in her countenance which set Artingale thinking very deeply, and as soon as he had parted from the sisters, he went straight to James Magnus, whom he found in his room seated by the open window, and gazing out to sea.
Part 2, Chapter III.Playing Detective.“I say, old fellow, I’ve got some news for you that ought to make you well in half-an-hour,” exclaimed Artingale.“What’s that?” said Magnus, eagerly.“That scoundrel who gave you the ugly cut on the head is down here.”“Down here!” cried Magnus, with his pale face flushing.“Yes; and he has seen and insulted Julia Mallow.”A deadly pallor came over the countenance of the artist once more, as he rose from his chair, and caught his friend by the shoulder.“Harry,” he said hoarsely, “you found out my secret when I thought it was hidden deeply away. You are right; your news does give me strength, and I shall live to kill that man.”“Well, old fellow, I would rather, for everybody’s sake, that you were not hung; but I don’t wonder at what you say, for I feel just now as if I could shove the beggar over the cliff. But set aside talking, we must act. What is to be done?”“Let us see Mr Mallow at once.”“Bah! He would hem and haw, and look rigid, and say we had better leave the matter to the police.”“Very well, then, in Heaven’s name let us speak to the police.”“What about, my dear fellow? What are we to say? Don’t you see that we are helpless. The man has kept outside the pale of the law; and besides, suppose we have him caught—if we can—think of the unpleasantexposé, and how painful it would be to both of those poor girls. No, we can’t do that. It would be horrible, my dear fellow. Suppose the scoundrel is trapped, and—I only say suppose—gets some sharp, unscrupulous lawyer to defend him. It would be painful in the extreme.”Magnus began to walk up and down the room, looking agitated.“What would you do?” he said at last.“Well,” said Artingale, after a pause, “I feel greatly disposed to take the law in my, or our, own hands.”“Why do you sayour?” asked Magnus, hoarsely.“Because I look upon it as your case as much as mine. Look here, old fellow, Cynthia and I both think you are the man who would make Julia happy, and if you don’t win her it is your own fault.”“And Perry-Morton?”“Hang Perry-Morton! Confound him for a contemptible, colourless bit of canvas—or, no, I ought to say brass, for the fellow has the impudence of a hundred. A man without a pretension to art in any way pretending to be a patron and connoisseur, and, above all, to be my brother-in-law. Hang the fellow! I hate him; Cynthia hates him; and we won’t have him at any price. No, dear boy, we want you, and if you don’t go in and win and wear Julia, why, it is your own fault.”Magnus turned to the window, and stood looking out dreamily.“Faint heart never won fair lady, Mag,” cried Artingale, merrily; “and how you, who have always been like a Mentor to this wandering Telemachus, can be such a coward about Julia, I can’t conceive. Not afraid of the brothers, are you?”“Pish! Absurd! How can she help her brothers!”“Well, then, what is it?” Magnus turned upon him slowly, and gazed at him fixedly.“Harry,” he said, “you love Cynthia?”“By George! yes, with all my heart,” cried the young man, enthusiastically.“Yes,” said Magnus, “I am sure you do. Then it should be the easier for you to think of a love where a man looks up so to the woman he worships that he would sooner suffer than cause her a moment’s pain, when, knowing that she does not—that she cannot return his affection—”“Hold hard. Now look here, my dear Magnus, don’t let sentiment take the bit in its teeth and bolt with you, or else we shall have a smash. Now I say, look here, old man, why cannot Julia return your love?”“It is impossible. She is engaged.”“Bah! what has such an engagement to do with it? I tell you I believe that poor little Julia is perfectly heart-whole, and that the flower of her affection—I say, that’s pretty, isn’t it?—I told you not to let sentiment bolt with you, and I am talking like a valentine! But seriously, old fellow, I am sure that Julia detests Perry-Morton.”“How can you be sure?” said Magnus, gloomily.“Very easily, my cynical old sage. Don’t sisters indulge in confidences, and when one of the confidential sisters has a young man, as people in the kitchen call it, doesn’t she confide things to him?”Magnus looked at him for a moment or two excitedly, but a gloom seemed to settle upon him directly after, and he shook his head.“No,” he said, “it is hopeless; but all the same, Harry, we must, as you say, put a stop to this annoyance. What do you propose?”“There are two courses open, as Parliamentary people say.”“Yes; go on. You are so slow; you torture me.”“Well, not to torture you then, my dear boy, one course is to get a private detective.”“No, no; absurd. I’d sooner employ the genuine article.”“The other is to make private detectives of ourselves, and quietly keep watch and ward over our treasures—eh? ‘Our treasures’ is good.”“Yes, that seems the wiser plan,” said Magnus, thoughtfully. “But it will be hard to manage.”“Where there’s a will there’s a way, my dear boy. You join with me, and we’ll manage it.”“You would not speak to Mr Mallow first?”“No, my boy, we must take the matter in our own hands.”“And if we find this fellow annoying—the—the ladies?” said Magnus, in a curiously hesitating way.Artingale set his teeth hard, and spoke through them.“The blackguard’s too big to treat like a black beetle. But let that rest, and remember the saying attributed to the celebrated Mrs Glasse of cookery fame—a saying, by the way, that I’m told is not to be found in her book—let us first catch our hare, which in this case is a fox, or rather I ought to say a wolf. We’ll decide afterwards how we will cook him.”Magnus nodded, and walked up and down the room in a quick, nervous fashion.“That’s right! that’s capital,” cried Artingale, merrily. “I thought my news would make that sluggish blood of yours begin to move. By George, there’s nothing like a genuine love to make a man of you.”“Or a woman,” said Magnus, gloomily.“Get out! Rubbish! Come, come, no retrograde movements: forward’s the word. Now the next thing is for the knight to meet the lady in whose defence he was wounded. I’ll manage a meeting, or Cynthy will, and if you don’t make good use of your time I’ll never forgive you. We’ll speak to the Rector after you have won a little on poor Julia. He’s a good fellow, and wants his girls to be happy. But by Jove, Magnus, there’s nothing like a rattling good crack on the head.”“Why?”“Excites sympathy. Young lady finds out your value. Why, my dear old boy, you look a hundred pounds better. Here, take your hat, and let’s go and have a ramble. The sea air and a bit of exercise will beat all the doctor’s tonics.”Magnus said nothing, but taking the cigar offered to him, he lit up, and the two young men strolled off together, along by the sea.“Show me the place where you left Miss Mallow,” said Magnus at last.“All right,” was the reply; “but wouldn’t it be better if we went up the cliff and walked along the edge? I want to see where that scoundrel came up; and we might meet him.”James Magnus looked intently in his friend’s countenance, and could not help noticing how hard and fixed the expression had become.“It would not tire you too much?” he said.“Oh no,” replied Magnus, hastily, “let us do as you say.”Artingale noted the flush that came into his companion’s face, and he could see that it was more due to excitement and returning health than to fever. And then, saying little but thinking a great deal of their plans, they strolled on and on, leaving town and castle behind, and having the glistening, ever-changing sea on one side, the undulating spread of well-wooded hills and valleys in the Sussex weald upon their left; but far as eye could reach no sign of human being.“These cliffs are much higher than I thought for,” said Artingale at last, as he stopped for a moment to gaze down at the beach. “How little the people look. See there, Mag, those stones lying below, you would not think they were as high as you? Some of them weigh tons.”“Was it on one of those you left Miss Mallow seated?” said Magnus, eagerly.“Oh no, quite half a mile farther on, more or less. I don’t know, though, seashore distances are deceitful. That was the pile, I think,” he continued, pointing, “there, below where you see that dark streak on the face of the cliff.”“I see,” said Magnus. “Come along.”“All right, but don’t walk so close to the edge. You know, of course, that a false step means death.”“Yes, I suppose so,” replied Magnus, going close to where the weathered cliff suddenly ceased and there was a perpendicular fall to the rough stones beneath. “It looks an awful depth,” he continued, gazing down as if fascinated.“Awful!” cried Artingale, “but hang it all, Mag, come away. You give a fellow the creeps. You are weak yet; suppose you turn giddy.”“No fear,” said Magnus, quietly; “but do you know, Harry, whenever I look over from a height I quite realise how it is that some people end their wretched lives by jumping down. There always seems to be a something drawing you.”“Yes, I dare say,” cried Artingale, with a shudder, “but if we are to play amateur detectives here goes to begin. Now then, young fellow, move on. It’s agin the law to jump off these here places.”He spoke laughingly, and in supposed imitation of a constable, as he took his friend by the wrist, and pulled him away from the giddy edge of the cliff. But the next moment he was serious.“Why, you wretched old humbug,” he cried, “what are you talking about? I’ve a good mind to go back.”“No, no, let’s go on,” said Magnus smiling, “I was only speaking scientifically.”“Indeed,” said Artingale, gruffly; “then don’t talk scientifically any more.”They walked on for some little distance in silence, Artingale keeping on the dangerous side, as if he doubted his friend’s strength of mind, and looking down from time to time for the spot where they had found Julia, and the head of the cliff where Jock Morrison had made his ascent.“What should we do if we met the fellow?” said Magnus suddenly.“I don’t know quite,” said Artingale, shortly. “Let’s find him first. Here, look here, Magnus, those are the stones! No, no, those—the grey blocks; and that is where the blackguard got up. By George, however did he manage it? The place is enough to make one shudder—Eh? What?”Magnus had laid his hand upon his friend’s shoulder, and was pointing to where, about fifty yards away, a figure was lying, apparently asleep on the short turf, not ten yards from the edge of the cliff; and in an instant Artingale had sprung forward, recognising as he did the man of whom they were in search.
“I say, old fellow, I’ve got some news for you that ought to make you well in half-an-hour,” exclaimed Artingale.
“What’s that?” said Magnus, eagerly.
“That scoundrel who gave you the ugly cut on the head is down here.”
“Down here!” cried Magnus, with his pale face flushing.
“Yes; and he has seen and insulted Julia Mallow.”
A deadly pallor came over the countenance of the artist once more, as he rose from his chair, and caught his friend by the shoulder.
“Harry,” he said hoarsely, “you found out my secret when I thought it was hidden deeply away. You are right; your news does give me strength, and I shall live to kill that man.”
“Well, old fellow, I would rather, for everybody’s sake, that you were not hung; but I don’t wonder at what you say, for I feel just now as if I could shove the beggar over the cliff. But set aside talking, we must act. What is to be done?”
“Let us see Mr Mallow at once.”
“Bah! He would hem and haw, and look rigid, and say we had better leave the matter to the police.”
“Very well, then, in Heaven’s name let us speak to the police.”
“What about, my dear fellow? What are we to say? Don’t you see that we are helpless. The man has kept outside the pale of the law; and besides, suppose we have him caught—if we can—think of the unpleasantexposé, and how painful it would be to both of those poor girls. No, we can’t do that. It would be horrible, my dear fellow. Suppose the scoundrel is trapped, and—I only say suppose—gets some sharp, unscrupulous lawyer to defend him. It would be painful in the extreme.”
Magnus began to walk up and down the room, looking agitated.
“What would you do?” he said at last.
“Well,” said Artingale, after a pause, “I feel greatly disposed to take the law in my, or our, own hands.”
“Why do you sayour?” asked Magnus, hoarsely.
“Because I look upon it as your case as much as mine. Look here, old fellow, Cynthia and I both think you are the man who would make Julia happy, and if you don’t win her it is your own fault.”
“And Perry-Morton?”
“Hang Perry-Morton! Confound him for a contemptible, colourless bit of canvas—or, no, I ought to say brass, for the fellow has the impudence of a hundred. A man without a pretension to art in any way pretending to be a patron and connoisseur, and, above all, to be my brother-in-law. Hang the fellow! I hate him; Cynthia hates him; and we won’t have him at any price. No, dear boy, we want you, and if you don’t go in and win and wear Julia, why, it is your own fault.”
Magnus turned to the window, and stood looking out dreamily.
“Faint heart never won fair lady, Mag,” cried Artingale, merrily; “and how you, who have always been like a Mentor to this wandering Telemachus, can be such a coward about Julia, I can’t conceive. Not afraid of the brothers, are you?”
“Pish! Absurd! How can she help her brothers!”
“Well, then, what is it?” Magnus turned upon him slowly, and gazed at him fixedly.
“Harry,” he said, “you love Cynthia?”
“By George! yes, with all my heart,” cried the young man, enthusiastically.
“Yes,” said Magnus, “I am sure you do. Then it should be the easier for you to think of a love where a man looks up so to the woman he worships that he would sooner suffer than cause her a moment’s pain, when, knowing that she does not—that she cannot return his affection—”
“Hold hard. Now look here, my dear Magnus, don’t let sentiment take the bit in its teeth and bolt with you, or else we shall have a smash. Now I say, look here, old man, why cannot Julia return your love?”
“It is impossible. She is engaged.”
“Bah! what has such an engagement to do with it? I tell you I believe that poor little Julia is perfectly heart-whole, and that the flower of her affection—I say, that’s pretty, isn’t it?—I told you not to let sentiment bolt with you, and I am talking like a valentine! But seriously, old fellow, I am sure that Julia detests Perry-Morton.”
“How can you be sure?” said Magnus, gloomily.
“Very easily, my cynical old sage. Don’t sisters indulge in confidences, and when one of the confidential sisters has a young man, as people in the kitchen call it, doesn’t she confide things to him?”
Magnus looked at him for a moment or two excitedly, but a gloom seemed to settle upon him directly after, and he shook his head.
“No,” he said, “it is hopeless; but all the same, Harry, we must, as you say, put a stop to this annoyance. What do you propose?”
“There are two courses open, as Parliamentary people say.”
“Yes; go on. You are so slow; you torture me.”
“Well, not to torture you then, my dear boy, one course is to get a private detective.”
“No, no; absurd. I’d sooner employ the genuine article.”
“The other is to make private detectives of ourselves, and quietly keep watch and ward over our treasures—eh? ‘Our treasures’ is good.”
“Yes, that seems the wiser plan,” said Magnus, thoughtfully. “But it will be hard to manage.”
“Where there’s a will there’s a way, my dear boy. You join with me, and we’ll manage it.”
“You would not speak to Mr Mallow first?”
“No, my boy, we must take the matter in our own hands.”
“And if we find this fellow annoying—the—the ladies?” said Magnus, in a curiously hesitating way.
Artingale set his teeth hard, and spoke through them.
“The blackguard’s too big to treat like a black beetle. But let that rest, and remember the saying attributed to the celebrated Mrs Glasse of cookery fame—a saying, by the way, that I’m told is not to be found in her book—let us first catch our hare, which in this case is a fox, or rather I ought to say a wolf. We’ll decide afterwards how we will cook him.”
Magnus nodded, and walked up and down the room in a quick, nervous fashion.
“That’s right! that’s capital,” cried Artingale, merrily. “I thought my news would make that sluggish blood of yours begin to move. By George, there’s nothing like a genuine love to make a man of you.”
“Or a woman,” said Magnus, gloomily.
“Get out! Rubbish! Come, come, no retrograde movements: forward’s the word. Now the next thing is for the knight to meet the lady in whose defence he was wounded. I’ll manage a meeting, or Cynthy will, and if you don’t make good use of your time I’ll never forgive you. We’ll speak to the Rector after you have won a little on poor Julia. He’s a good fellow, and wants his girls to be happy. But by Jove, Magnus, there’s nothing like a rattling good crack on the head.”
“Why?”
“Excites sympathy. Young lady finds out your value. Why, my dear old boy, you look a hundred pounds better. Here, take your hat, and let’s go and have a ramble. The sea air and a bit of exercise will beat all the doctor’s tonics.”
Magnus said nothing, but taking the cigar offered to him, he lit up, and the two young men strolled off together, along by the sea.
“Show me the place where you left Miss Mallow,” said Magnus at last.
“All right,” was the reply; “but wouldn’t it be better if we went up the cliff and walked along the edge? I want to see where that scoundrel came up; and we might meet him.”
James Magnus looked intently in his friend’s countenance, and could not help noticing how hard and fixed the expression had become.
“It would not tire you too much?” he said.
“Oh no,” replied Magnus, hastily, “let us do as you say.”
Artingale noted the flush that came into his companion’s face, and he could see that it was more due to excitement and returning health than to fever. And then, saying little but thinking a great deal of their plans, they strolled on and on, leaving town and castle behind, and having the glistening, ever-changing sea on one side, the undulating spread of well-wooded hills and valleys in the Sussex weald upon their left; but far as eye could reach no sign of human being.
“These cliffs are much higher than I thought for,” said Artingale at last, as he stopped for a moment to gaze down at the beach. “How little the people look. See there, Mag, those stones lying below, you would not think they were as high as you? Some of them weigh tons.”
“Was it on one of those you left Miss Mallow seated?” said Magnus, eagerly.
“Oh no, quite half a mile farther on, more or less. I don’t know, though, seashore distances are deceitful. That was the pile, I think,” he continued, pointing, “there, below where you see that dark streak on the face of the cliff.”
“I see,” said Magnus. “Come along.”
“All right, but don’t walk so close to the edge. You know, of course, that a false step means death.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” replied Magnus, going close to where the weathered cliff suddenly ceased and there was a perpendicular fall to the rough stones beneath. “It looks an awful depth,” he continued, gazing down as if fascinated.
“Awful!” cried Artingale, “but hang it all, Mag, come away. You give a fellow the creeps. You are weak yet; suppose you turn giddy.”
“No fear,” said Magnus, quietly; “but do you know, Harry, whenever I look over from a height I quite realise how it is that some people end their wretched lives by jumping down. There always seems to be a something drawing you.”
“Yes, I dare say,” cried Artingale, with a shudder, “but if we are to play amateur detectives here goes to begin. Now then, young fellow, move on. It’s agin the law to jump off these here places.”
He spoke laughingly, and in supposed imitation of a constable, as he took his friend by the wrist, and pulled him away from the giddy edge of the cliff. But the next moment he was serious.
“Why, you wretched old humbug,” he cried, “what are you talking about? I’ve a good mind to go back.”
“No, no, let’s go on,” said Magnus smiling, “I was only speaking scientifically.”
“Indeed,” said Artingale, gruffly; “then don’t talk scientifically any more.”
They walked on for some little distance in silence, Artingale keeping on the dangerous side, as if he doubted his friend’s strength of mind, and looking down from time to time for the spot where they had found Julia, and the head of the cliff where Jock Morrison had made his ascent.
“What should we do if we met the fellow?” said Magnus suddenly.
“I don’t know quite,” said Artingale, shortly. “Let’s find him first. Here, look here, Magnus, those are the stones! No, no, those—the grey blocks; and that is where the blackguard got up. By George, however did he manage it? The place is enough to make one shudder—Eh? What?”
Magnus had laid his hand upon his friend’s shoulder, and was pointing to where, about fifty yards away, a figure was lying, apparently asleep on the short turf, not ten yards from the edge of the cliff; and in an instant Artingale had sprung forward, recognising as he did the man of whom they were in search.