‘After all,’ he said to himself, summing up the experience of his days, ‘a man has but one power over his destiny—power to make an end of the struggle at his own time.’
He had ridden within a few yards of the cliff. His horse turned, and pulled landwards desperately, scenting danger.
‘Very well, Tarpan, we’ll have another stretch upon the turf.’
Another gallop, wilder than the last, across the undulating moor, a sudden turn seaward again, a plunge of the spurs deep into the quivering sides, and Tarpan is thundering over the turf like a mad thing, heedless where he goes, unconscious of the precipice before him, the rough rock-bound shore below, the wild breath of the air that meets his own panting breath, and almost strangles him.
Sir Nugent Bellingham waited dinner for his son-in-law, sorely indifferent whether he eat or fasted, but making a feeble show of customary hours, and household observances. Eight o’clock, nine o’clock, ten o’clock, and no sign of Churchill Penwyn. Sir Nugent went up to Viola’s room. It was empty, but he found his daughter in the room which had so lately been tenanted by the dead, found her weeping upon the pillow where that placid face had lain.
‘My dear, it is so wrong of you to give way like this.’
A stifled sob, and a kiss upon the father’s trembling lips.
‘Dear papa, you can never know how I loved her.’
‘Every one loved her, my dear. Do you think I do not feel her loss? I have seen so little of her since her marriage. If I had but known! I’m afraid I’ve been a bad father.’