And I said—Is this the sky, all grey and silver-suited?And I said—Is this the sea, that lies so pale and wan?I have dreamed, as I remember—give me time, I was reputedOnce to have a steady courage—now, I fear, 'tis gone!Requiescat in Pace.
And I said—Is this the sky, all grey and silver-suited?And I said—Is this the sea, that lies so pale and wan?I have dreamed, as I remember—give me time, I was reputedOnce to have a steady courage—now, I fear, 'tis gone!
Requiescat in Pace.
Claud sat somewhat despondently at Mr. Fowler's side in the tall dog-cart as they spun along the lanes from Stanton back to Lower House. Their errand had been to convey some of the Allonbys' luggage to the station, and see the family off to London.
They were gone; and the two gentlemen who had just seen the last of them were both silent, for different reasons: Claud, because he was resenting the indifference of Wynifred's manner, and Henry, because he was secretly angry with Claud. He did not understand so much beating about the bush. Naturally Mr. Cranmer could not afford to marry an entirely portionless wife; very well, then he ought to have packed his portmanteau and taken his departure long ago, instead of following Miss Allonby hither and thither, engaging her in conversation whenever he could secure her attention, and generally behaving as though seriously attracted—risking the girl's happiness, Mr. Fowler called it. To be sure the conversations seemed usually to end in a wrangle; there was nothing tender in them. Wynifred's serenity of aspect was unruffled when Claud approached, and she never appeared to regret him when he departed in dudgeon. A secret wonder as to whether she could have refused him suggested itself, but was rejected as unlikely. Still the master of Lower House was not accustomed to see young people on such odd terms together; and it vexed him.
The last fortnight of the young artist's stay at Edge had been full of excitement; for Osmond had made full confession to the Misses Willoughby of his love and his imprudent declaration. The good ladies passed through more violent phases of feeling than had been theirs for years. Astonishment, fright, excitement, a vague triumph in the subjugation of the tall, handsome young man had struggled for the mastery in their hearts. Finally they had called in Mr. Fowler to arbitrate.
He came to the conclusion which Osmond felt certain that he would, namely: that Elsa could not yet know her own mind. She must be left for a year, at least, to gain some knowledge of society; he would not hear of her binding herself by any promise.
As to young Allonby, he had personally no objection in the world to him. He both liked and respected him, though unable to help feeling sorry that he had so prematurely disclosed his love to the girl. He would gladly see him engaged to her as soon as ever he could show that it was in his power to maintain her in the position to which she was born. But, on descending to practical details, it seemed to poor Osmond that it might be years before he could claim to be the possessor even of a clear five hundred a-year, unencumbered by sisters. Wynifred sympathized with him so deeply as to make her preoccupied during all her last days at Edge. Claud Cranmer's vagaries could not be so important as her darling brother's happiness. Though the engagement was not allowed, yet the attitude of the Misses Willoughby was anything but hostile. Osmond was a favorite with all, and Miss Ellen was privately determined that if, when Elsa was twenty-one, want of money should be the only barrier to their happiness, she should consent to the marriage, and make them a yearly allowance, with the understanding that all came to them at the death of the sisters. But first it was only just that Osmond should be for a time on probation, that they might see of what stuff he was made; and communication could be kept up by means of a correspondence between Elsa and Jacqueline, who had struck up something of a friendship, as girls will.
It was now finally settled that Elsa should go to London in November, spend a month or two with Lady Mabel, and then a short time with the Ortons. In London she would naturally meet the Allonbys, and this delightful consideration went far to dry the passionate tears she shed on the departure of her lover.
During the fortnight which had elapsed since the picnic, there had been an ominous calm on the part of Godfrey. His two or three hours' detention on the cliffs had given him a wholesome awe of Osmond, and each day afterwards he had been so meek that everyone was beginning to hope that he was not so black as he was painted.
Osmond, to show he bore no malice, had taken pains to have the boy included in all their expeditions; so that he remarked one day to Elsa:
"Allonby's not half a bad fellow, and I'm hanged if I ever lift a finger to help him to marry a wretched little sneak like you. If you'd been anything like decently behaved to me, I'd have settled some of my fortune on you, but now I'd sooner give him ten thousand down to let you alone. I should like him to know what sort you are; but the jolliest fellows are fools when they're in love."
"What money have you got that I haven't, I should like to know?" Elsa had retorted, unwisely. "I am the eldest—I ought to have the most."
"Jupiter! D'you mean to say the old girls have never told you that our papa left me all the cash? Quite the right thing, too. What's a girl to do with money? Only brings a set of crawling fortune-hunters round her. But, if you'd been anything like, I'd have settled something handsome on you when I come of age; as it is, you won't get one penny out of me."
"I don't believe a word you say!"
"All right; but you'd better be careful how you cheek me. I'm going to pay you out for all the lies you told Allonby about me. I haven't forgotten. You just keep your weather-eye open, my lady. You'll get something you won't fancy, I can tell you."
From this menace, Elsa went straight to her Aunt Ellen, to ask if it was true that all her father's fortune was left to Godfrey. In great concern at her having been told, Miss Ellen was obliged to own that it was so, though she still concealed the fact that flagrant injustice had been done, the money so bequeathed having all come to Colonel Brabourne through his first wife. This part of the story, however, was gleefully supplied by Godfrey, who had been lying in ambush outside the door to jeer at her as she came out.
"Well, ain't it true? Eh? I don't tell so many crackers as you, you see. And the joke of it is that all the money came from your mother, and now my mother's son has got it. My! weren't the old aunts in a state, too? You should hear my Uncle Fred on the subject! But if your mother was like these old cats I'm sure my papa must have been jolly glad to be quit of her!"
Elsa darted at him with a cry of rage, but he saved himself by flight. If anything had been wanting to fill the cup of her hatred to the brim, here it was. Had it not been for this child, she would have been rich—very rich. She would have been able to marry Osmond, to have a large fine house in London, to have her gowns cut like Lady Mabel's, and to possess necklaces, lace, jewels, and all things beautiful in profusion.
He had stolen her fortune, insulted her mother, humiliated herself. The violence of her wrath and rancour were beyond all limits, and she had never been taught self control. She loathed Godfrey; the very sight of him choked her; she could scarcely swallow food when he was at the table; yet she had no thought of appealing to her aunts. She had never received sympathy in all her life—why should she expect it now?
Such was the state of things at Edge Willoughby. The stagnant days of yore, when existence merely flowed quietly on from hour to hour, were no more. The spell was broken, the prince had kissed and wakened the sleeping beauty—human passion had rushed in upon the passionless calm, the tide of life from the outer world was flowing, flowing in the fresh breeze.
Partly on all these changes was Mr. Cranmer meditating as they drove back to Lower House in the dulness of an autumn afternoon.
The weather was threatening, the sea of that strange, thick, lurid tinge, which suggests a disturbance somewhere under the surface. The gulls skimmed low, with strange cries, over the sluggish heaving water. He thought of the hot bright day of the picnic, when the young gulls were not yet flown, and when their wild laughter echoed along the nest-riddled cliff walls.
A melancholy feeling was upon him, that the year was broken and gone, that there would be no more fair weather, no more violet and amber and crimson in the west.
To-morrow he was to leave the valley and go north to shoot over a friend's moor in Scotland. It was the best thing he could do, he told himself. There would be plenty of society, such different society from that he had known of late. There would be women of his set, women who spoke the social shibboleths he knew. There would be bleak moorland and dark grey rock, which would not seem so horribly at variance with cold weather as did this Valley of Avilion; for the whole party, taking their cue from Osmond, had been wont to speak of Edge always as Avilion.
At Ardnacruan he felt certain that he would regain his normal serenity, his cheerful from-day-to-day enjoyment of life; but this afternoon all influences seemed combined to make him experience that nameless feeling of misery and loss which the Germans callkatzenjammer. The first verse of "James Lee's Wife" was saying itself over and over in his head, and he could not forget it. The mare's feet, in their even trot, kept time to it, the rolling of the wheels formed a sad, monotonous accompaniment.
"Ah, love, but a day,And the world has changed!The sun's awayAnd the bird estranged.The wind has droppedAnd the sky's deranged,Summer has stopped."
"Ah, love, but a day,And the world has changed!The sun's awayAnd the bird estranged.The wind has droppedAnd the sky's deranged,Summer has stopped."
He wished he had had the sense to leave the place a day before instead of a day after the Allonbys. He knew that he had been due at Ardnacruan on Tuesday, and to-day was Thursday. Why on earth had he been so idiotic, so weak, so altogether contemptible?
Well, it was over now, and he meant for the future to possess his soul, untroubled by any distressing emotions; and, meanwhile, the thoughts of Wynifred, as she sat in the train, steaming towards London, were almost exactly a reproduction of his own.
Every turn of the lanes through which they drove brought back to Claud a memory of something which had taken place during the past summer. Here was a view they had admired together—here the quaint old gateway, half-way down the hill which Wynifred had sketched, the lane sloping so abruptly that the back legs of her camp-stool had to be artificially supported. In that field Hilda and Jac had laid out tea, and the whole party had enjoyed a warm discussion on the subject of family shibboleths. It began by Hilda's remarking that poor old Osmond could hardly be looked upon as a war-horse any longer; and, on being pressed to unravel this dark saying, she had explained with some confusion, thatwar-horsehad been Jac's translation ofhors de combatat a very early age, and that they had always used it since, which led on to various other specimens from nursery dictionaries, and much amusing nonsense. It was all past now.
In Claud's mind was a bitter thought which has countless times occurred to most of us, that the past is absolutely irreclaimable. We can never have our good minute again; it is gone. He knew the mood would pass, but that did not lessen the suffering while it lasted. Would he ever regret the days that were gone, with a regret that should be lifelong—was it possible that an hour might dawn in the far future when he should be prepared to give all to have that time again, that he might yield to the impulses of his heart, and speak as he felt?
"It will come, I suspect, at the end of life,When you sit alone and review the past."
"It will come, I suspect, at the end of life,When you sit alone and review the past."
What nonsense!
As the dog-cart shot in through the gates of Lower House, he shook himself, and roused from his morbid reverie.
"How conversational we have both been!" he said, with a laugh.
"Yes," said Henry, gazing round with a sad expression in his kind eyes. "We miss those merry girls."
"They seem to enjoy life," observed Claud.
"Yes, indeed; and what makes it so fascinating is the assurance one always has of there being a solid foundation under all that fun. Many girls with twice their social advantages have not one half their fresh enjoyment."
"I believe you are right," was the answer, with a sigh which did not escape the other.
"We must not moralise," said the master of Lower House, briskly. "The day is dull, but don't let us follow its example. Would you care to walk to Edge Willoughby, take tea, and make your adieux?"
"Thanks—yes—I think I should. They have been most hospitable."
"Take a mackintosh," said Mr. Fowler, who had been surveying the threatening horizon; "we are going to have a bad night, I believe."
As he spoke, a ray of sunset light, darting through a rift in the watery sky, fell on a gleaming white sail some distance out at sea. It recalled to Claud his walk home to Poole with Wynifred.
"A yacht, a cutter," said his companion, with anxious interest. "She will never be able to make Lyme harbor to-night."
They watched the flashing thing for a minute or two in silence; then the rainy gleam faded from the sea, and the sail became again invisible.
They set off for Edge Willoughby, a short ten minutes walk.
Each now made an effort to converse, but with poor success. As they passed at the foot of a hill, crowned and flanked with arches, there was a rustling noise, and out into the path before them lightly sprang Elsa.
Claud had never seen her look more beautiful or more strange. Something in her expression arrested his eye.
Since her friendship with the Allonby girls, her whole wardrobe had become regenerated, and the beautiful proportions of her fine figure were no longer obscured by ill-fitting monstrosities. Her dress was dark blue, so was her hat, and she had knotted a soft crimson shawl over her chest. The buffetting wind had lent a magnificent glow to her skin, her eyes were shining—she had altogether an excited look, as though her feelings had been strongly worked upon.
"Why, where have you been, Elsa?" asked her godfather, as they greeted her.
"Out for a ramble," she answered, evasively.
"And what direction did your rambles take?"
"Oh, I went here and there. Are you coming to see my aunts?"
"We are; we will walk with you as far as the house. Where's Godfrey?"
She looked up at him—an odd, half defiant look.
"At home, I suppose," she said.
They had not gone far when suddenly, violently, down came the rain, and Claud hurriedly covering the girl in his mackintosh, they all took to their heels, and ran to the friendly shelter of the house.
Walked up and down, and still walked up and down,And I walked after, and one could not hearA word the other said, for wind and seaThat raged and beat and thundered in the night.Brothers and a Sermon.
Walked up and down, and still walked up and down,And I walked after, and one could not hearA word the other said, for wind and seaThat raged and beat and thundered in the night.
Brothers and a Sermon.
The door was flung wide open by Jane Gollop, who had been anxiously on the alert.
"Miss Elaine! Well, to be sure! It's a good thing, that it is, as you happened to meet Mr. Fowler! Why—you ain't got wet, not hardly a drop, more you 'ave. But where's Master Godfrey?"
"I don't know," said Elsa, shortly.
"You don't know," said Jane, in accents of astonishment. "Why, where did you leave him?"
"Hasn't he come in?" asked the girl, in a hard kind of way; and, as she spoke, loosening her hat, she went to the mirror which hung against the wall of the hall, and passed her hand lightly through the soft masses of her hair, slightly dampened by the drenching shower. It was such a new trait in her—this attention to appearances—that Mr. Fowler gazed at her in sheer astonishment. Her beauty as she stood there was simply wonderful. Claud, eyeing her with all his might, was at a loss for a reason why he was not in love with her. Her style was not a common one among English girls—it was too sumptuous, too splendid. Though absolutely a blonde, the lashes which shaded her eyes were dark as night. Her complexion was a miracle of warmth and creamy fairness; and now that the final charm had come—that conscious life had permeated her being—the slowness of her movements, the comparative rarity of her speech, were charms of a most fascinating description. She was just beginning to understand what power was hers. It seemed as if the thought expressed itself in the faint smile, the regal grace with which the hand was lifted to the golden coronal of hair. She was absolutely exquisite, and yet Claud's only thought concerning her was an inward foreboding of the mischief she would work in London.
"Did you and Godfrey go out together?" asked Mr. Fowler at length.
The shadow fell over the lovely face again.
"Yes," she answered shortly.
"And where did you part company?" he went on, somewhat anxiously.
"I—I don't know, quite—I forget."
"I expect they've a bin quarrelling again, sir," observed Jane, with severity. "I do not know how it is as Miss Elaine can never get on with her brother at all. I'm sure I never see nothing to complain so about—a bit wild and rude, as most young gentlemen is, but——"
"Godfrey behaves exceedingly ill," said Mr. Fowler, shortly. "Did you have a quarrel, Elsa?"
"Yes, we did. I will never go out with him again, as long as I live," said Elsa, quietly.
"And you parted company?"
"Yes. I ran away from him. My aunts have no right to send him out with me." Her face worked, and tears sprang to her eyes. "He insults my mother," she said, with a sob.
Her god-father's brow grew darker.
"Never mind, Elsa," he said, in a voice of much feeling. "Let us hope he will grow better as he grows older; he is but a little chap."
"I wish I need never set eyes on him again, as long as I live," she said, in a low voice, audible to him alone.
"Hush, child! But now, the fact remains that the storm is awful, and that, as far as I can make out, the boy is out in it. What is to be done? Come and let us tell the aunts."
They entered the dining-room, where tea was already spread out in tempting guise. The Misses Willoughby turned to greet their guests, and Miss Charlotte in some anxiety demanded,
"Where is Godfrey?"
Her perturbation was great when the situation was explained.
"My dear Mr. Fowler! That young child—so delicate too! Out in this storm of rain! He will never find his way home, it will be dark directly! What shall I do? Penton must be sent after him. Elsa, tell me at once where you left him."
The crimson color mounted to Elsa's brow.
"I—I don't exactly remember—I wasn't taking much notice," she faltered.
"But which direction did you take? At least you can inform me of that. I am sure it is hard to believe that any girl of your age could be so foolish; speak!"
"We went along the Quarry Road," said Elsa, slowly, her eyes fixed on Claud, who stood looking at the ground.
"And where then?"
"We were going to Hooken for blackberries, but I thought it looked like rain, so I turned back."
"And Godfrey did not accompany you?"
A pause.
"No."
"He must have gone on to Brent," said Miss Charlotte, with conviction.
Brent was the tiny fishing-village which lay in a curve of the cliff between Edge Valley and Stanton.
"Does Godfrey know his way to Brent?" asked Mr. Fowler of Elsa.
"Oh, yes—he often goes there—to the 'Welcome Traveller,'" she answered.
"I think he is most probably there now," said he, turning to Miss Charlotte, "and, if so, you may be easy, they will not send him home in this tempest."
"But he is very wilful, he may insist on trying to come home, and, if so, he will be lost, he could never stand against the wind across the top of Hooken," said Miss Charlotte, full of apprehension.
Her attachment to Godfrey was a forcible illustration of the capriciousness of love. There had been every reason why she should dislike him, she had been fully prepared to do so. She had never seen one single trait in him to induce her to alter this preconceived opinion; he had openly derided her and set her authority at naught ever since their first meeting, yet she was fond of him.
Her looks testified the deepest concern. As the scream of the storm-wind dashed against the window of the warm, comfortable room, she shivered.
"Elsa," she cried, "how dared you leave that child out by himself? You are not to be trusted in the least! Where did you leave him—answer me—was it on the cliffs?"
"No!" cried Elsa, sharply, "it was not. He would not be likely to go by the cliffs, it is twice as long, you know it is. He went along the Quarry Road, I tell you. He is gone to Brent."
"Make yourself easy, Miss Charlotte," said Mr. Fowler, "he is not likely to try the cliff road home in weather like this. He will come by the quarries, if they let him come at all. How long had you parted from him when we met you, Elsa?"
"Oh, more than an hour, I should think."
"There, you see! He is as safely sheltered as we are by now!"
Miss Charlotte went restlessly to the window.
"I am anxious; he is so delicate, and so rash," she said. "I shall send Penton out along the Quarry Road."
"I will walk to Brent and back for you, Miss Willoughby," said Claud, in his quiet way.
"My dear fellow," said Henry Fowler, "you will scarcely keep your feet."
"Oh, nonsense about that. I'm all right—I have my mackintosh here. I enjoy a good sou'-wester."
"I'll come with you," said Henry at once.
Of course the ladies protested, but the gentlemen were firm; and, having first taken something to keep the cold out, they started forth into all the excitement of a furious gale on the Devonshire coast.
Once fairly out in it, Claud felt that he would not have missed it for worlds. There was such a stimulus in the seething motion of the atmosphere, such a weird fascination in the screaming of the blast and the hoarse roaring of the distant ocean.
"This is rather a wild-goose chase," yelled Henry in his companion's ear.
"Never mind; what's the odds so long as we can set their minds at rest," bawled Claud in return.
"Naught comes to no harm—the young imp is all right enough," howled Henry; and then, having strained their vocal chords to the utmost, any further attempt at conversation was given up as impossible.
They passed the narrow gorge where the mouth of the quarries lay and where the limekilns cast a weird gloom upon the night. The streaming rain hissed and fizzed as it fell upon the glowing surface, and, altogether, Claud thought, the whole scene was something like the last act of theWalküre—he almost felt as if he could hear the passionate shiver of Wagnerian violins in the rush of the mighty tempest.
In the low, sheltered road, they could just manage to keep their feet. Every now and then they paused, and shouted Godfrey's name at the utmost pitch of their voices; but they heard no response; and at last staggered down the little stony high street of Brent, without having met a single soul.
Usually the narrow street was musical with the murmur of the stream that flowed down its midst. To-night the storm-fiend overpowered all such gentle sounds. Claud, blindly stumbling in the dark, managed to go over his ankles in running water, but quickly regained his footing, and was right glad when the lights of the "Welcome, Traveller," streamed out upon the gloom.
They swung open the door. The bar was deserted, and Mr. Fowler's call only brought a female servant from the kitchen. Every soul in the town, she told them, was down at the quay—the word to haul up the boats had been cried through the village at dusk, and now the gale had come, and the fishing smacks had not come in.
Claud remembered how they had sat on the cliff black berrying only two days before, and watched the fishermen start, how the boats with their graceful red brown sails had danced and dipped on the sparkling blue water, alive with diamond reflections of the broad sun.
And now—the cruel, crawling foam, the black abyss of howling destruction, and the frantic wives assembled on the quay, watching "for those who will never come back to the town."
The inn servant was positive that Master Brabourne had not been in Brent that afternoon or evening, but Mr. Fowler, not quite relying on the accuracy of her statement, determined to make his way down to the shore.
The village was congested with excitement, as they approached they could dimly descry a dark crowd and tossing lanterns, and could hear the terrific thunder of the billows as they burst upon the beach. Then, suddenly, as they hurried on, up through the murky night rushed a rocket, a streak of vivid light, that struck on the heart like the cry of a human voice for help. Another—another—it was clear that some frantic feeling agitated the swaying crowd. As Claud dashed forward, he uttered a short exclamation.
"The yacht!"
"Good God, yes, it must be!" cried Henry Fowler in horror.
In a moment they were down in the thick of it all, seizing the arm of one of the weatherbeaten fellows present, and asking what was amiss?
It was the yacht, as Claud had divined, and, when her exact situation had been explained to him, he felt his heart fail at the thought of her deadly peril, at the (to him) new sensation of standing within a few yards of a band of living human beings hovering over the wide spread jaws of death.
Brent lay in a break of the chalk cliffs which was more then half-a-mile in width. Through this tunnel the unbroken might of the wind rushed with terrific force, sweeping vehemently inland up the flat river-valley, and seeming to carry the whole sea in its train. The very violence of each wave, as it broke, made the bystanders stagger back a few paces; the tide was rolling in with a rapidity which seemed miraculous; already it had driven them back almost as far as the market-place, and it was not yet high water.
There was but one hope for the strange vessel. Change of tide had been known to bring change of wind; therein lay her solitary chance. If, with the ebb, the wind shifted its quarter and kept her off shore, the sea was not too heavy for her to live in; but if no change took place—if the waves continued to roll in for another hour as they were rolling now, with that screaming blast lashing them on as though the Eumenides were behind them, no change of tide could avail—no ebb could save the cutter from being driven on the sunken coast-rocks, and from being steadily beaten to pieces.
Was there a chance? Would it happen, this change of wind for which everyone was waiting in such an agony of expectation? In breathless horror the young man watched, parting, as he did so, with a few delusions he had previously cherished respecting the Devonshire climate. He had held a vague belief that storm and tempest were the portion only of "wild Tintagel on the Cornish coast," and that here, among the warm red cliffs, no roaring billows lifted their heads. He had now to hear how, once upon a time, the inhabitants of Brent built themselves a harbor and a pier, and how in one night the sea tore them up, dashed them to pieces, and bore the fragments far inland; and of how the Spanish wrecks were hurled so frequently on the coast that the fisher-folk intermarried with the refugees, which union resulted in the lovely, dark-haired, blue-eyed race whose beauty had so struck Lady Mabel Wynch-Frère.
Meanwhile, the lifeboat's crew stood with their boat all ready to launch, if they could see the smallest hope of making any way in such a sea. One old mariner watched the scarcely discernible movements of the yacht with a telescope. She was under jib and trysail only, the intention of the crew being evidently, if it were possible, to work her to windward, and so keep her off shore.
"Them aboard of her knows what to dû," said the old salt, with approbation. "They ain't going daown without showing a bit o' fight first."
"Why on earth don't they take in all their canvas?" cried the inexperienced Claud.
"If they did, they'd come straight in, stem on, and be aground in five minutes or less," was the response.
It was difficult, however, to see of what possible use any amount of knowledge of navigation could be to the fated craft. Slowly she was being borne to her doom by the remorseless gale. She pitched and rolled every moment nearer and still nearer to the coast—to the low sunken rocks which would grind her to powder, and where no lifeboat could reach her.
The women prayed aloud, with sobs and shrieks of sympathy. To Claud it was like a chapter in a novel, a scene in a play. He had never before seen real people—people in whose midst he stood—go mad with pity and terror. He had never before heard women cry out, as these did, straight to the Great Father in their need.
"Oh, Lord Christ, save 'em! Have mercy on 'em, poor souls!" screamed an old fishwife at his side, bent with age and infirmity.
It seemed as if he could hardly do better than silently echo her prayer:
"God save all poor souls lost in the dark!"
The moments of suspense lengthened. The knot of spectators held their breath. It would be high water directly, and the gale was still driving in the frantic sea, boiling and eddying. The night was cleft by the momentary gleam of another rocket sent up from the yacht. Though evidently terribly distressed, she did not seem disabled, and rose from crest to crest of the mountainous rollers with a marvellous lightness. It was easy to see that she surprised all the old salts who were watching her. As she rolled nearer, her proportions were dimly to be seen. In the gloom she seemed like a great quivering white bird, palpitating and throbbing as if alive and sentient.
"Eh, what a beauty, what a beauty! What a cruel shame if she is lost," gasped one of the men in tones of real anguish.
Then, suddenly, from further along the crowd came a shout faintly heard above the storm. Claud could not distinguish the words, but a vague sense of atmospheric change came over him. A manifest sensation ran through the assembly; and it seemed as if there were a momentary cessation of the blinding gusts of spray which had drenched him.
A fresh stillness fell on the crowd, broken only by the sobbing whistling of the wind, which faltered, died down, burst forth again, and then seemed to go wailing off over the sea.
What had happened? Claud steadied his nerves and looked round bewildered. Surely that wave which broke was not so high as the last. It seemed at first as though the ocean had become a whirlpool, as though conflicting currents were sucking and eddying among the coast-rocks till the force of the tide was broken and divided. He turned to look for Henry Fowler, but could not see him. Moving further along the wet track left by one of the highest billows on the road, still clutching his cap with both hands, he found him presently superintending the lifeboat men, who were making a start at last.
There was a faint cheer as the boat was launched, and the receding wave carried her down, down, with that ghastly sucking noise which sounds as though the deep thirsted for its prey. Claud held his breath. He thought the next wave would break over her; but no! The crew bent to their oars, and up she rose, in full sight of the eager multitude, then again disappeared, only to be seen once more on the summit of a further crest. And now there was no question but that the wind was shifting. Silence fell on the watchers; silence which lasted long. Breathlessly they eyed the dim white yacht, which now did not seem to approach nearer the coast.
In the long interval, memory returned to Mr. Cranmer, memory of the purpose for which he had come there. Where was Godfrey? Nowhere to be seen. Making his way up to Mr. Fowler, he remarked:
"Don't you see anything of the boy?"
Henry gave a start of recollection, and cast his eyes vaguely over the crowd. A few minutes' search sufficed to show that Godfrey was not there. By the light of a friendly lantern he looked at his watch. It was past ten o'clock, and the thought of the anxiety at Edge Willoughby smote his conscience.
"We must leave this," he said, reluctantly, "and go back over the top of the cliff. It does not rain now, and thank God, the wind is falling."
"Will the yacht live?" asked Claud.
"Yes, please God, she'll do now," answered Henry. "But I daresay the crew will come ashore; they have all been very near death; perhaps they don't know, as well as I do, how near."
"Do you know the way over the cliff?"
"Know it? I think so. I could walk blindfold over most of the land near here," returned the other, drily.
"I do wonder what can have become of the child," said Claud, dubiously.
"Little cur!" said the ordinary gentle Henry, viciously. "I am not at all sorry if he has a fair good fright; it may read him a lesson."
Unwillingly they turned from the scene of interest, and began their scramble up the chalky slopes, rendered as slippery as ice by the heavy rains. Neither had dined that night, and both were feeling exhausted after the tension of the last few hours. They walked silently forward, each filled with vague forbodings respecting Godfrey.
The wind was still what, inland, would be called a gale, too high to make conversation possible. Overhead, rifts in the night-black clouds were beginning to appear; the waning moon must be by now above the horizon, for the jagged edges of the vapors were silver.
Claud was deeply meditating over his night's experience; it seemed years since he parted from Wynifred that afternoon. How much had happened since!
His foot struck against something as he walked. Being tired, he was walking carelessly, and, as the grass was intensely slippery, he came down on his hands and knees, making use of a forcible expression.
Thus brought into the near neighborhood of the object which caused his fall, he discovered that it was neither a stick nor a stone, but a book—a book lying out on the cliff, and reduced to a pulp by the torrents of rain which had soaked it.
"I say, Fowler, what's this?" he said eagerly, regaining his feet, the whole of the front of his person plastered with a whitish slime. "Here's a book! Does that help us—eh?"
Mr. Fowler turned quickly.
"Let me look," he said.
To look was easier than to see, by that light; but, by applying the dark lantern which, they carried, they saw it was a book they knew—a copy of the "Idylls of the King," which Osmond had given to Elsa, and which was hardly ever out of her hands.
"Strange!" ejaculated Henry, "very strange! She said they had not been on the cliffs—did she not say so, Cranmer?"
"Undoubtedly."
"She must have left it yesterday."
"We were all at Heriton Castle yesterday."
"Well—some time. Anyhow, it is her book—here is the name blotted and blurred, in the title-page. Let us search round here a little," he added, his voice betraying a sudden, nameless uneasiness.
The search was fruitless. They called till the rocks re-echoed, but in vain. Up and down they walked, in and out among the drenched brambles, slipping hither and thither in the chalky mire. At last they gave it up.
"We must go back and tell them we cannot find him," said Henry, wearily.
Standing side by side on the summit of the heights, they paused, and gazed, as if by mutual consent, seawards.
A pale silver glow came stealing as they looked across the heaving waters. The full dark clouds parted, and through the rift appeared a reach of clear dark sky. Wider and wider grew the star-powdered space, till at last the waning, misshapen-looking moon emerged, veiled only by a passing scud of vapor.
Below them the turbid billows caught the light and glittered; and, among them, riding proudly and in safety, was the beautiful yacht, like a white swan brooding over the tumultuous sea, which was still running high enough to make the noble little vessel roll and pitch considerably at her anchor.
I? what I answered? As I liveI never fancied such a thingAs answer possible to give!What says the body, when they springSome monstrous torture engine's wholeWeight on it? No more says the soul.Count Gismond.
I? what I answered? As I liveI never fancied such a thingAs answer possible to give!What says the body, when they springSome monstrous torture engine's wholeWeight on it? No more says the soul.
Count Gismond.
In the breezy glitter of the sunshiny morning, a crowd stood on the curving beach of Edge Valley in a state of perplexity something resembling a pack of hounds at fault.
Day had dawned, full of light and motion. Billowy masses of white cumulus clouds sailed rapidly over the deep blue sky. The thick turbid sea rolled in, casting up mire and dirt from its depths. News had come to Brent that the fishing-smacks had found a refuge in Lyme harbour, and gay chatter filled the streets, as the happy wives and mothers ran to and fro, laughing as they thought on their terrors of the previous night.
Joy had come in the morning to all but the inhabitants of Edge Willoughby. Godfrey was still missing, and there was no news of him.
Mr. Fowler feared there could be but one solution of the mystery. The boy must have dared the cliff-path, and made a false step, or been swept off bodily by the gale. The sea, which had spared the yacht, most probably had drowned this heir to a great fortune.
The strangest part of the affair was the callousness shown by Elsa. It almost seemed as if she were simply relieved by the absence of her brother, and careless as to its cause. She had, however, come down to the shore with her godfather, and stood, like one half dazed, among the villagers, answering with painful hesitation the questions put to her as to where she had last seen Godfrey.
The yacht was brought up about half a mile off shore, and an examination of her by telescope had proved her to be a very smart and well-found vessel—a most perfect specimen of her kind. She was painted quite white, with a gold streak running round her, and she was flying a black distinguishing flag, upon which appeared a white swan with outspread wings, and an ensign which appeared to be foreign. The crew could be seen busy about the deck, repairing damages to paint and gear from the gale overnight. Just as Henry had dispatched two search-parties, one along the cliffs, the other along the shore, it was seen that a gig was leaving the yacht's side, and approaching with rapid strokes, pulled by two men, and a third steering. Mr. Fowler waited, knowing that most probably some injury had been sustained during the gale of the previous night, and that he might be able to make an offer of help.
As soon as the keel touched the shingle, the man in the stern-sheets stood up, and asked if there were an inn in the village. His English was fair, but his accent virulently German. Being answered in the affirmative, he next proceeded, somewhat to the astonishment of the crowd, to ask if there were a magistrate living near.
"I am a Justice of the Peace," said Mr. Fowler, amid a general sensation.
The man touched his cap. His master, Mr. Percivale, would be very glad of a few moments' conversation, if the gentleman's leisure served. He had a statement to make if the Justice could wait, he would be on shore in twenty minutes.
Henry, wondering greatly as to the statement he was to hear, inquired how much water the yacht drew, and, on being informed, explained that, if Mr. Percivale chose, he could steer her right in, within a few feet of the shore, owing to the peculiarly sudden shelve of the bay.
The man touched his cap again, and, having raised the popular feeling to fever heat by a scarcely intelligible hint that he believed there was murder in the case, pushed off, and rowed back to the yacht as fast as he had come.
The crowd on the beach had increased. Most of the villagers had seen the boat leave the yacht, and hurried down in great eagerness to know what was going forward.
Doubtful as to what course to pursue, Mr. Fowler stood irresolute in their midst, Elsa, Miss Emily Willoughby, Miss Charlotte Willoughby, and Claud Cranmer at his side.
Suddenly a sound of wheels was heard grinding sharply on the sea-road. Involuntarily all heads were turned in this new direction, and it was seen that one of the Stanton station-flies had come to a stand-still just opposite the assembled people, and that a lady and gentleman were hastily alighting.
On hearing that the name of the owner of the yacht was Percivale, Mr. Cranmer roused himself from the reverie into which he had fallen. This, then, was the Swan, the mysterious yacht of which everyone had been talking all the summer, and whose owner was so obstinately uncommunicative and unsociable. The idea of meeting the hero of the hour brought a certain excitement with it; but these thoughts were put to flight by the sudden arrival on the scene of the two new actors. In a flash he recognised Frederick Orton, whom he had occasionally seen in company with Colonel Wynch-Frère at Sandown; and this, of course, was his wife. Whence had they sprung? They were believed to be in Homburg; and Claud felt a strange sinking of the heart as he realised in what an unfortunate moment they appeared.
Ottilie sprang vehemently from the carriage, looking round her with flashing eyes. Evidently she was greatly excited. Moving hastily towards the group, she suddenly stopped short, asking, in her fine contralto voice:
"Is Miss Charlotte Willoughby here?"
With an assenting murmur, the throng divided right and left, and she moved on again, till she stood within a few inches of the lady in question. Her husband, after a word to the driver, followed her.
"Miss Willoughby, I am Mrs. Frederick Orton," she said, every word of her deep utterance distinctly audible to everyone present. "We are just arrived from the Continent, and, in consequence of complaints of unkind treatment received in letters from our nephew, we travelled straight down here. We have been up to the house, seen your eldest sister, and been by her informed that the boy is missing since yesterday. Where is he?" She raised her magnificent voice slightly, and it seemed to pierce through Henry Fowler's brain. "Where is he? What have you done with him? Bring him back to me, instantly."
Silence.
The brisk wave broke splashing and foaming along the beach. The white fleecy cloud drew off from the sun which it had momentarily obscured.
Miss Charlotte helplessly confronted her antagonist for a moment, and then burst into tears. All Edge Valley held its breath. That Miss Charlotte Willoughby could weep was a hypothesis too wild ever to have been hazarded among them.
Frederick Orton, in his faultless summer travelling attire, a look of anxiety on his weak, handsome face, stood scanning the group, bowing slightly to Claud, whom he vaguely recognised, and then letting his eye wander to Elsa.
There his gaze rivetted itself with a strange fascination. The girl was too like her father, Valentine Brabourne, for him to be ignorant of her identity; he partly hated her for it. Her beauty, too, took him utterly by surprise. He had heard that she was pretty, but for this unique and superb fairness he was quite unprepared.
His wife, after waiting a minute, or two repeated her question.
"What have you done with Godfrey?" she cried.
Mr. Fowler stepped forward, raising his hat, and meeting her scornful eye steadily.
"Who are you?" the eye seemed to demand. He answered, with his accustomed gentleness:
"My name is Fowler, madam, and I am at present engaged in the same pursuit as yourself—a search-for Godfrey. The Misses Willoughby will have told you how he and his sister went out for a walk together yesterday, and missed each other——"
She pounced upon his words.
"His sister! Yes, his sister! Where is she?"
Sweeping half round, she confronted Elsa on the instant. The two pairs of eyes met—the scorching dark ones, the radiant grey. In each pair, as it rested, on the other, was a menace. It was war to the knife between Ottilie Orton and her niece from that moment.
"So that is his sister," faltered Godfrey's aunt at length. "Do you know," cried she, suddenly finding voice again—"do you know that you are—yes, you are directly responsible for whatever may have happened to Godfrey. I know, Elaine Brabourne, more than you imagine."
A moment of horror, cold sickly horror, crept for one dark instant into Claud's brain as he saw the ashy pallor which overspread Elsa's lace. She seemed to reel where she stood.
"No," she panted, incoherently, "no, it is not true! I never did——"
Her godfather grasped her shoulder with a firm hold.
"Do not attempt to answer Mrs. Orton," he said, in a voice which sounded unlike his own. "She is over-tired—excited. Presently she will regret her words."
"Insolence!" said Ottilie, flinging a look at him. "Frederick, will you hear me spoken to like this?"
"I think it would be—a—wiser to say no more at present," returned her husband, hesitatingly. "Had we not better have a little more light thrown on the subject first?"
"More light? What more light do you want than that girl's ashy, guilty face, and the authority of this letter of Godfrey's?" she rejoined, vehemently. "Did he not say——"
"Madam, if you have any accusation to lodge, I must desire you to choose a more fitting occasion," said Mr. Fowler, peremptorily. "Here, in the presence of these people, in your present state of agitation, you are hardly able to speak dispassionately. As no one yet knows of what they are accused, your charges are, so far, fired into the air. Mr. Orton, what do you wish me to do?"
"Why, find the boy, I suppose. There'll be the devil to pay if he doesn't turn up," observed Mr. Orton; adding, as if to waive any unpleasant impression his speech might leave: "Why, Jove, there's a yacht coming right in shore. Won't she be aground?"
"Nay, she's right enough. The bay's deep enough to float one of more than her tonnage," returned Mr. Fowler; and for the moment everyone's attention was given to the movements of theSwan.
The sun streamed down on her dazzling white decks. Nothing more inviting, more exquisite, could be imagined. The curve of her bows was the perfection of grace; the polished brass of her binnacle and fittings gave back every beam that fell upon them.
Half reclining over the rail aft was a young man with folded arms and face intent upon the manoeuvres of his crew. His head was slightly raised, and, as the yacht luffed up gently to the breeze, his profile was turned to the gazers on shore.
It was precisely such a profile as might be one's ideal of a Sir Percivale—half Viking, half saint; not a Greek profile, for it was cut sharply inwards below the brow, the nose springing out with a slightly aquiline curve. The chin was oval, not square, as far as could be seen, but it was partially obscured by a short pointed golden moustache and beard, just inclining to red. The shape of the head, indicated strongly against the light beyond, showed both grace and power. His pose was full of ease and unconsciousness. He seemed hardly aware of the group on the beach, but kept his eyes fixed on his men, giving every now and then an order in German. At last the chain cable rattled out, and the dainty little vessel swung round, head to wind. Her owner roused himself, and stood upright, showing a stature of over six feet.
He wore a white flannel shirt and trousers, a short crimson sash being knotted round his waist. Very leisurely he put on his white peaked cap, then took a dark blue serge yachting coat and slipped his arms into it, moving slowly forward meanwhile to the gangway. A wooden contrivance, forming a kind of bridge, with a handrail, was pushed out by the crew; and one of the longshoremen pressed eagerly forward to make it firm.
Mr. Percivale stepped upon it, and walked, still with that impassive, pre-occupied air, forward towards the waiting crowd.
Now it could be seen that his eyes were bright and vivid, of the very deepest blue—that blue called the violet, which shows darkly from a distance. His hair, with a distinct shade of red in its lustre, was a mass of small soft curls, close to the head. His complexion was fair and clear, just touched with tan, but naturally pale; his features excessively finely cut.
"A man of mark, to know next time you saw," quoted Claud inwardly, as the stranger paused.
The dark blue eyes roved over the crowd but for one swift instant. Then, suddenly, they met the glance of a pair of passionate grey ones—eyes which spoke, which seemed to cry aloud for sympathy—eyes set in such a face as the owner of theSwanhad never yet looked on. As the two glances met, they became rivetted, each on the other. There was a pause, which to Elsa seemed to last for hours, but which in reality occupied only a few seconds; then Mr. Fowler went forward and asked,
"You are the owner of theSwan?"
"Yes; and you, if I rightly understood Bergman, are a Justice of the Peace?"
"I am. Fowler is my name."
"I really do not know," said the stranger, his eyes again wandering towards Elsa in the background, "whether you are the proper person with whom to lodge my information, but perhaps you will kindly arrange all that for me. I merely felt that I could not leave the neighborhood without telling you what my men found this morning on the cliffs."
The silence, the breathless hush which had fallen on all present was almost horrible; the very sea, the noisy breeze seemed subdued for the moment. Mr. Fowler's face stiffened.
"We were lying midway between Brent and this place early this morning," went on the stranger who, to judge by his speech, was certainly English, "and my crew were examining the cliff with the glasses, when their attention was caught by something lying on the grass. It was a dark object, and after watching it for some time, one of the men declared that it moved. At last they asked my permission to go and examine the spot, which I willingly gave. They scaled the cliff——"
"Then what they saw was not at thefootof the cliff?" burst in Claud, breathlessly.
"No. It was on the summit. It was the dead body of a boy."
Elsa gave a wild cry and threw up her arms.
Mr. Fowler caught her to him, holding her golden head against his breast, stroking down her hair, murmuring to her with parched lips. Mrs. Orton never moved; she stood like a pale Nemesis, her eyes fixed on the trembling girl; and down from the breezy heights came the wind, singing and whistling, making all the poppies dance among the stubble, and the bright clouds dash over the vivid sky in racy succession.
"Go home, Elsa darling—let Mr. Cranmer take you home," whispered Henry.
"No! no! I want to hear everything!" she cried, in anguish.
The stranger's eyes dilated with a wonderful pity as he looked at her.
"I am sorry to give her such pain," he said, at length slowly, in his gentle voice.
"Go on," said Henry, hoarsely. "Go on—what did your men do?"
"They satisfied themselves that the boy was dead—that he had been dead many hours. When they were sure of this, they left the body as they found it, thinking perhaps they had better not meddle with it. The cause of death was apparently hemorrhage of the lungs, but it had been brought on, they guessed, by a violent blow on the back. The body, when they found it, was lying in what looked like an attempt by some very unskilful hands, to hollow out a hole and cover it with bramble branches, as one branch lay under the corpse. The gale had of course blown away anything which might have concealed the ghastly secret. About thirty feet from the spot was a large stain of blood, partly obliterated by rain."
"Murder will out," said Mrs. Orton, slowly, fixing her burning eyes on Elsa. Theatrical as her manner was, it scarcely seemed too emphatic at this fearful crisis. "Yes! no wonder she cowers! No wonder she is transfixed with horror! I say," she went on, raising her voice a little—only a little, yet every accent penetrated to the very outskirts of the crowd. "I say that Elaine Brabourne is her brother's murderer."