“Quick, Master Richard, your hand!” shouted Humphrey.
And the saved had to turn saver, for the keeper had been drawn closer and closer to the edge by Richard’s efforts, and but for a sudden snatch, and the exercise of all his strength, the new owner of Penreife would have glided off the slippery grass into the darkness beneath.
“Safe,” muttered Humphrey, rising. “Give me your hand, Master Richard. I thought, when I followed you, you meant to leap off.”
“No, Humphrey,” said Richard, sadly, “I will not throw my worthless life away. It is such glimpses of death as that we have just seen that teach the value of life. Goodnight; don’t speak to me again.”
Humphrey obeyed, and followed him in silence to the house.
The next morning, as soon as the letters had been brought in, Richard took his—a single one—and, without a word to a soul, carried a small portmanteau to the stable-yard, waited while the horse was put to, and then had himself driven off.
As he passed the lodge a note was put into his hand by a boy. An hour later he was in the train, and the destination of that train was the big metropolis, where most men come who mean to begin afresh.
Correspondence.
It never struck Richard that some of his behaviour was verging on the Quixotic. His only thought now was that he was degraded from his high estate, and that the woman whom he had loved with all his heart—did love still—had turned from him in his poverty and distress.