Chapter 4

TYRREL'S REMORSE.

The two young men walked back, without interchanging another word, to
the gate of the manor-house. Tyrrel opened it with a swing. Then, once
within his own grounds, and free from prying eyes, he sat down
forthwith upon a little craggy cliff that overhung the carriage-drive,
buried his face in his hands, and, to Le Neve's intense astonishment,
cried long and silently. He let himself go with a rush; that's the
Cornish nature. Eustace Le Neve sat by his side, not daring to speak,
but in mute sympathy with his sorrow. For many minutes neither uttered
a sound. At last Tyrrel looked up, and in an agony of remorse, turned
round to his companion. "Of course you understand," he said.

And Eustace answered reverently, "Yes, I think I understand. Having
come so near doing the same thing myself, I sympathize with you."

Tyrrel paused a moment again. His face was like marble. Then he added,
in a tone of the profoundest anguish, "Till this minute, Eustace, I've
never told anybody. And if it hadn't been forced out of me by that
poor man's tortured and broken-hearted face, I wouldn't have told you
now. But could I look at him to-day and not break down before him?"

"How did it all happen?" Le Neve asked, leaning forward and clasping
his friend's arm with a brotherly gesture.

Tyrrel answered with a deep sigh, "Like this. I'll make a clean breast
of it all at last. I've bottled it up too long. I'll tell you now,
Eustace.

"Nearly sixteen years ago I was staying down here at Penmorgan with my
uncle. The Trevennacks, as I learned afterward, were in lodgings at
Gunwalloe. But, so far as I can remember at present, I never even saw
them. To the best of my belief I never set eyes on Michael Trevennack
himself before this very morning. If I'd known who he was, you may be
pretty sure I'd have cut off my right hand before I'd allowed myself
to speak to him.

"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