Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family

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 having Esquire put 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-ar no! 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 and débris fallen 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. Then they had 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.

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 unpleasant exposé, 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 say our?” 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?”