"I don't care much about the bears, so it's better to do what suits
other people. Besides, I had rather know what happens to her, and I
couldn't hear if I was in the Arctic regions." Sylvester sat up and
looked at him. It had never occurred to him to think that Lucian
suffered from solitude or want of sympathy, or indeed to think that his
life had been permanently saddened by his disappointment. He had always
believed the interests which he picturesquely symbolised as "white
bears" to be enough for the strong, healthy, active youth; and even his
faithfulness to Amethyst had seemed to Sylvester to spring more from a
sense of what was due to himself, than from involuntary yearning for
her.
"I suppose," Lucian went on, before he could speak, "that you meant--
her--in that poem of yours all the time."
"Well, yes," said Syl, half laughing, "I suppose I did."
"Its quite true," said Lucian, "I couldn't say all that; but there seems
nothing else to think of, and icebergs would make no difference at all."
"I didn't think, Lucy, that you would spend your life in looking for the
rainbow's end."
"I shall not. There are plenty of things to do. But, since I misjudged
her so, there can be no peace till she is happy. You see, at first, I
felt as if I could never get over knowing that I had been wrong, when
all the comfort I'd ever had in the matter, had been thinking that
giving her up was the only right thing to do. I went once that wretched
afternoon--right up to the Hall--and then I turned back, and thought I
wouldn't be made a fool of--when all the while I was making a fool of
myself."
"We were all infernal fools," said Sylvester. "Then," said Lucian, "I
remembered that it didn't matter so much about me, since I had found out
that she was--what I'd always thought her. I'm glad now it was all my
fault and not hers. Something in your poem put that into my head."
He gave a little smile as he spoke, and Sylvester noticed for the first
time how grave his face had grown. It had never been exactly lively,
but surely the weight on the straight, clearly-marked brows was new.
"I suppose I hadn't given her up really," he went on after a minute,
"because I seem to have to begin quite new. It's odd how hard it is to
believe that I'm going to settle down at Toppings. I feel as if
something must happen to prevent it. But it won't now. It will be all
right if she is happy--and good. So I mean what I said, Syl; I hope
you'll get her. I think I always knew you did love her, and that made
me shy off when you meant to be kind to me. Then it will be all right--
for her."
He sat up and looked out over the sunny sea. The ache at his heart was
hard to bear, all the harder perhaps that even now he had hardly found
the right words for it. There seemed so little to look forward to.
Sylvester, full of hopes and fears, interests and longings, with a
future from which Amethyst was not shut out, and able to rejoice even in
the suffering which brought to him so intense a life, could hardly
realise the passion that only made itself felt as want and loss.
"Let's walk on," said Lucian presently. "We had better look up some of
the _Pirate_ places by and by. We might get down to the beach now,
perhaps."
There was a little rough path, a mere sheep-track, leading off the
headland down a steep descent to the shore. The turf gave place to
jagged rocks and loose stones. Lucian went on with rapid, practised
tread, and presently turned off from the descent and followed the track
along the cliff side. The rocks grew more precipitous, and the track
narrower, the sea dashed up at their feet in great breakers of foam.
"You don't get dizzy, do you, Syl?" he called back; "this is rather a
nasty corner."
"No," said Syl. "I can look at the soap-suds."
"All right. Here's a splendid great wash-tub."
He turned round the rock, there was a little crash. Sylvester hurried
forward, but the path and Lucian had alike disappeared.
"All right, only a slip," he shouted from below, and, looking down, Syl
saw that he had caught by the rough projections of the rock, and was
holding himself on by hands and feet, above the jagged rocks and the
boiling sea. Sylvester threw himself on his face, and stretching out
his hand, caught Lucian's wrist.
"Can you pull yourself up a little nearer?" he said.
The sea roared in his ears, and foamed under his eyes, beneath Lucian's
upturned face.
"Let go; give me your hand," said Lucian.
Sylvester obeyed, and Lucian loosened the hold of his right hand from
the rock, and grasped Sylvester's, holding on to a firmer projection
with his left. Then he cautiously raised himself, not a very difficult
feat for so active a person--another moment, and he would be safe; but,
as he moved and strained upwards, to his horror Sylvester saw the face
beneath him whiten and change.
"I--can't--I'm hurt. Don't pull me," gasped Lucian.
Sylvester grasped the straining hand with all his strength, but his own
position was cramped and insecure, he could do no more than hold on. If
Lucian fainted! Lucian shut his eyes and moved his hand till it grasped
Sylvester's wrist, and gave him a firmer hold. Then he made another
attempt to lift himself up, and then--. He opened his eyes, his whole
face drawn with agony, and looked up at Sylvester. Sylvester held
himself firm with every force of body and soul, but the forces were
beginning to fail, the ground was slipping beneath him. Then--Lucian
unclasped his fingers, and slipped slowly down the rough face of the
rock, and fell backwards, not into the sea, but on to the rough,
slippery rocks, just above the foaming water, where he lay motionless on
his back.
Then Sylvester staggered up on to his feet, and, leaning his back
against the rock, steadied his limbs, which trembled with the strain he
had put upon them. Another moment, and, a pace or two further back, he
had let himself down from the path, and with risk and difficulty reached
the ledge of rock on which Lucian lay. It was so narrow and unsafe that
he could not get beside him, could not see his face, only his fair hair
shining in the sun, could but just reach forward and touch his lips and
brow. He called to him, but found his voice was only a sob, inaudible
to himself. Lucian lay motionless, and Sylvester looked round for any
chance of help. He saw that the tide was going down, and leaving more
and more rocks bare beneath him. The sea was smooth enough, the foaming
eddy was only caused by the hollowing of the rocks. The sky was blue
and bright; he could, as his nerves stilled a little, hear the lambs
bleat above his head. Then Lucian's head quivered under his hand, there
was a movement, and then a sharp cry of agonising pain--a sound which,
in a grown man's voice, Sylvester, a homebred man of peace, had never
heard before.
"Lucy--dear boy, I can't reach you. I am here. You are terribly hurt."
There was no answer, except that the cry was stifled into a moan, and
Lucian turned his face a little towards Sylvester's hand, pressing his
cold cheek against it.
Then Sylvester, clinging on to the shelving rock, shouted with all his
strength; and his shout was answered from the down above. What he
uttered in his outcry of hope he never knew; but there was an answer
back.
"All right! Hold on--we're coming round."
There was a dreadful pause, and then on the lower rocks, now bared by
the ebbing tide, three young men, in tourist garb, appeared, scrambling
round from behind, and came near enough for speech.
"What is it? A fall--are you both hurt? Good heavens! It's Riddell of
Cuthbert's! There's footing now--the tide's going out."
And in another minute Sylvester was pulled down from his dangerous perch
and held up, as he staggered for a moment with cramp and stiffness, by
the strong hands of three of his own scholars--youths whose faces at
lecture had never greatly interested him, but who seemed now very angels
of deliverance.
"Are you hurt, sir? Lean on me, Mr Riddell. We can soon get a boat up
to the rocks."
"Can we reach him? He fell over the cliff."
The footing was much less secure beneath the spot where Lucian lay, but
beneath again was a broad slab of rock now laid bare; and between them
all they managed to lift Lucian, now quite senseless, and lay him down
with his head on Sylvester's knee. Then two of the lads went off to get
a boat which could be brought up to a little strip of sand below at low
tide, and the other remained to give what help he could.
Lucian moved a little again presently, when some whiskey, which the
young men were carrying on their walking tour, had been put upon his
lips and temples. He knew Sylvester's voice and whispered--
"Are you safe, Syl?"
"Oh, yes. But you--can you say where you are hurt?"
"I'm glad I let go," murmured Lucian; while it came over Sylvester with
a flash of certainty that the clasping hand had not given way from
faintness, but had loosed its hold rather than risk pulling him over.
"I am--done for," gasped Lucian. "I am hurt--inside--I can't speak--
Mother--my love--and _her_."
He sank again into unconsciousness, and Howard, the young undergraduate,
put his arm round Sylvester to support him as he held Lucian's weight,
and put the whiskey-flask to his lips.
"Is he your brother?" he whispered.
"No; my friend, and he has given his life for mine. Oh, my God! Can
the boat get there?"
It came at last, and as they lifted Lucian into it, there was a sob of
pain that showed life at least. And life, Sylvester tried to feel,
meant hope.