He had been standing on the brink of the cliff as he had stood many a time before—­as he stood now.  That cliff had been the tragedy of his ruined life.  And yet he loved it, had never known any fear of it.  But she had been afraid for his sake.  He had seen the fear leap into her eyes.  And the memory of it came to him now as a revelation.  He had found the way of escape at last!

The sea was crooning behind him over the half-buried rocks.  He stood again on the brink with his poor worn face turned to the sky.  He had come to the end of his reasoning.  The tired brain had ceased to grapple with the cruel problem that had so tortured it.  He knew now what he would do to help Dicky.  And somehow the doing did not seem hard to him, somehow he did not feel afraid.

One step back and the cliff fell away behind him.  Yet for a space he went neither forward nor back.  It was as though he waited for a word of command, some signal for release.  The first star was gleaming very far away like a lamp lighted in a distant city.  His eyes found it and dwelt upon it with a wistful wonder.  He had always loved the stars.

He was not angry or troubled any more.  All resentment, all turmoil, had died out of his heart for ever.  That strange peace had closed about him again, and the falling night held no terrors.  Rather it seemed to spread wings of comfort above him.  And always the crooning of the sea was like a voice that softly called him.

It came very suddenly at the last—­the sign for which he waited.  Someone had begun to mount the cliff-path, and—­though he was out of sight—­he heard a low, summoning whistle in the darkness.  It was Dicky’s whistle.  He knew it well.  Dicky was coming to look for him.

For a second every pulse—­every nerve—­leaped to answer that call.  For a second he stood tense while that surging power within him sprang upwards, and in sheer amazing fire of sacrifice consumed the earthly impulse.

Then it was over.  His arms went wide to the night.  Without a cry, without a tremor, he flung himself backwards over the grassy edge.

The crooning sea and the overhanging cliff muffled the sound of his fall.  And no one heard or saw—­save God Who seeth all.

CHAPTER VIII

THE MESSAGE

From the day that Juliet relinquished her perpetual vigil, the improvement in Vera Fielding was almost uninterrupted.  She recovered her strength very slowly, but her progress was marked by a happy certainty that none who saw her could question.  She still leaned upon Juliet, but it was her husband alone who could call that deep content into her eyes which was gradually finding a permanent abiding-place in her heart.  The nearness of death had done for them what no circumstance of life had ever accomplished.  They had drawn very close together in its shadow, and as they gradually left it behind the tie still held them in a bond that had become sacred to them both.  It was as if they had never really known each other till now.