“Well, one day that year I was strolling along the top of the cliff by Michael’s Crag, with my uncle beside me, who owned Penmorgan. I was but a boy then, and I walked by the edge more than once, very carelessly. My uncle knew the cliffs, though, and how dangerous they were; he knew men might any time be walking below, digging launces in the sand, or getting lobworms for their lines, or hunting serpentine to polish, or looking for sea-bird’s eggs among the half-way ledges. Time after time he called out to me, ‘Walter, my boy, take care; don’t go so near the edge, you’ll tumble over presently.’ And time after time I answered him back, like a boy that I was, ‘Oh, I’m all right, uncle. No fear about me. I can take care of myself. These cliffs don’t crumble. They’re a deal too solid.’
“At last, when he saw it was no good warning me that way any longer, he turned round to me rather sharply—he was a Tyrrel, you see, and conscientious, as we all of us are—it runs in the blood somehow—‘If you don’t mind for yourself, at least mind for others. Who can say who may be walking underneath those rocks? If you let a loose stone fall you may commit manslaughter.’
“I laughed, and thought ill of him. He was such a fidget! I was only a boy. I considered him absurdly and unnecessarily particular. He had stalked on a yard or two in front. I loitered behind, and out of pure boyish deviltry, as I was just above Michael’s Crag, I loosened some stones with my foot and showered them over deliberately. Oh, heavens, I feel it yet; how they rattled and rumbled!
“My uncle wasn’t looking. He walked on and left me behind. He didn’t see me push them. He didn’t see them fall. He didn’t hear them rattle. But as they reached the bottom I heard myself—or thought I heard—a vague cry below. A cry as of some one wounded. I was frightened at that; I didn’t dare to look down, but ran on to my uncle. Not till some hours after did I know the whole truth, for we walked along the cliffs all the way to Kynance, and then returned inland by the road to the Lizard.
“That afternoon, late, there was commotion at Penmorgan. The servants brought us word how a bit of the cliff near Michael’s Crag had foundered unawares, and struck two people who were walking below—a Mr. Trevennack, in lodgings at Gunwalloe, and his boy Michael. The father wasn’t much hurt, they said; but the son—oh, Eustace! the son was dangerously wounded.... I listened in terror.... He lived out the night, and died next morning.”
Tyrrel leaned back in agony as he spoke, and looked utterly crushed. It was an awful memory. Le Neve hardly knew what to say, the man’s remorse was so poignant. After all those years the boy’s thoughtless act seemed to weigh like a millstone round the grown man’s neck. Eustace held his peace, and felt for him. By and by Tyrrel went on again, rocking himself to and fro on his rough seat as he spoke. “For fifteen years,” he said, piteously, “I’ve borne this burden in my heart, and never told anybody. I tell it now first of all men to you. You’re the only soul on earth who shares my secret.”
“Then your uncle didn’t suspect it?” Eustace asked, all breathless.
Walter Tyrrel shook his head. “On the contrary,” he answered, “he said to me next day, ‘How glad I am Walter, my boy, I called you away from the cliff that moment! It was quite providential. For if you’d loosened a stone, and then this thing had happened, we’d both of us have believed it was YOU that did it?’ I was too frightened and appalled to tell him it WAS I. I thought they’d hang me. But from that day to this—Eustace, Eustace, believe me—I’ve never ceased to think of it! I’ve never forgiven myself!”
“Yet it was an accident after all,” Le Neve said, trying to comfort him.
“No, no; not quite. I should have been warned in time. I should have obeyed my uncle. But what would you have? It’s the luck of the Tyrrels.”