“I ever loved?” suggested Ernest, for he was hesitating.
“I ever loved!” chimed in Jeremy; for the phrase expressed his sentiments exactly.
“Well, old chap, if you would come to the point a little more, and tell me who the deuce you are talking about——”
“Why, who should I be talking about? there is only one girl——”
“You ever loved?”
“I ever loved!”
“Well, in the name of the Holy Roman Empire, who is she?”
“Why, Eva Ceswick.”
Ernest whistled.
“I say, old chap,” he said, after a pause, “why didn't you tell me? I didn't even know that you knew her. Are you engaged to her, then?”
“Engaged! no.”
“Well, then, have you an understanding with her?”
“No, of course not.”
“Look here, old fellow, if you would just slew round a bit and tell me how the matter stands, we might get on a little.”
“It doesn't stand at all, but—I worship the ground she treads on; there!”
“Ah!” said Ernest, “that's awkward, for so do I—at least I think I do.”
Jeremy groaned, and Ernest groaned too, by way of company.
“Look here, old chap,” said the latter, “what is to be done? You should have told me, but you didn't, you see. If you had, I would have kept clear. Fact is, she bowled me over altogether, bowled me clean.”
“So she did me.”
“I'll tell you what, Jeremy, I'll go away and leave you to make the running. Not that I see that there is much good in either of us making the running, for we have nothing to marry on, and no more has she.”
“And we are only twenty-one. We can't marry at twenty-one,” put in Jeremy, “or we should have a large family by the time we're thirty. Fellows who marry at twenty-one always do.”
“She's twenty-one; she told me so.”
“She told me too,” said Jeremy, determined to show that Ernest was not the only person favoured with this exciting fact.
“Well, shall I clear? we can't jaw about it for ever.”
“No,” said Jeremy, slowly, and in a way that showed that it cost him an effort to say it, “that would not be fair; besides, I expect that the mischief is done; everybody gets fond of you, old fellow, men or women. No, you shan't go, and we won't get to loggerheads over it either. I'll tell you what we will do—we will toss up.”
This struck Ernest as a brilliant suggestion.
“Right you are,” he said, at once producing a shilling; “singles or threes?”
“Singles, of course; it's sooner over.”
Ernest poised the coin on his thumb.
“You call. But, I say, what are we tossing for? We can't draw lots for the girl like the fellows in Homer. We haven't captured her yet.”
This was obviously a point that required consideration. Jeremy scratched his head.
“How will this do?” he said. “The winner to have a month to make the running in, the loser not to interfere. If she won't have anything to say to him after a month, then the loser to have his fling. If she will, loser to keep away.”
“That will do. Stand clear; up you go.”
The shilling spun in the air.
“Tails!” howled Jeremy.
It lit on the beak of the astonished bittern and bounded off on to the floor, finally rolling under a box full of choice specimens of petrified bones of antediluvian animals that had been washed out of the cliffs. The box was lugged out of the way with difficulty, and the shilling disclosed.
“Heads it is!” said Ernest exultingly.
“I expected as much; just my luck. Well, shake hands, Ernest. We won't quarrel about the girl, please God.”
They shook hands heartily enough and parted; but from that time for many a long day there was an invisible something between them that had not been there before. Strong indeed must be the friendship of which the bonds do not slacken when the shadow of a woman's love falls upon it.
That afternoon Dorothy said that she wanted to go into Kesterwick to make some purchases, and Ernest offered to accompany her. They walked in silence as far as Titheburgh Abbey; indeed, they both suffered from a curious constraint that seemed effectually to check their usual brother-and-sister-like relations. Ernest was just beginning to feel the silence awkward when Dorothy stopped.
“What was that?” she said. “I thought I heard somebody cry out.”
They listened, and presently both heard a woman's voice calling for help. The sound seemed to come from the cliff on their left. They stepped to the edge and looked over. As may be remembered, some twenty feet from the top of the cliff, and fifty or more from the bottom, there was at this spot a sandy ledge, on which were deposited many of the remains washed out of the churchyard by the sea. Now, this particular spot was almost inaccessible without ladders, because, although it was easy enough to get down to its level, the cliff bulged out on either side of it, and gave for the space of some yards little or no hold for the hands or feet of the climber.
The first thing that caught Ernest's eyes when he looked over was a lady's foot and ankle, which appeared to be resting on a tiny piece of rock that projected from the surface of the cliff; the next was the imploring face of Eva Ceswick, who was sprawling in a most undignified position on the bulge of sandstone, with nothing more between her and eternity than the very unsatisfactory and insufficient knob of rock. It was evident that she could move neither one way or the other without being precipitated to the bottom of the cliff, to which she was apparently clinging by suction like a fly.
“Great God!” exclaimed Ernest. “Hold on, I will come to you.”
“I can't hold much longer.”
It was one thing to say that he would come, and another to do it. The sand gave scarcely any foothold; how was he to get enough purchase to pull Eva round the bulge? He looked at Dorothy in despair. Her quick mind had taken in the situation at a glance.
“You must get down there above her, Ernest, and lie flat, and stretch out your hand to her.”
“But there is nothing to hold to. When she puts her weight on to my hand we shall both go together.”
“No, I will hold your legs. Be quick, she is getting exhausted.”
It took Ernest but two seconds to reach the spot that Dorothy had pointed to, and to lay himself flat, or rather slanting,
