"... tried in a crucibleTo what 'speeches like gold' were reducible,And found that the bravest prove copper."
"... tried in a crucibleTo what 'speeches like gold' were reducible,And found that the bravest prove copper."
It seems a necessity, more or less, to judge human nature from one's own standpoint; and not only the bent of his mind, but the circumstances of his life, had held Percivale always aloof from the hurrying rush of modern society, from intrigue, or deceptions, or, in fact, from what is called knowledge of the world in any form.
Hence the statuesque simplicity of his expression. Meanness, passion, competition were words of which he understood the meaning but had never felt the force. His face was like Thorwaldsen's sculptures—chivalrous, calm, steadfast.
The reddish gold of his soft hair and short beard, the deep violet blue of his deep-set eyes, and the delicate character of his profile were all in harmony with this idea. He was artistic and picturesque with the unconsciousness of a by-gone age, not with the studied straining after effect which obtains to-day.
He did not feel Elsa's eyes as they studied him so intently and so ignorantly. Not one of the characteristics above indicated was visible to the girl; she only wondered how he could be so handsome and so interesting with that strange-colored hair; and how old he was; and what he thought of her; and whether he would be able to cleave through the terrible net of horror and suspicion and fear which was drawing so closely round her.
At last he raised his head, met her fixed regard, and, meeting it, smiled.
"You have told me just what I wanted—what I hoped to hear," said he. "Now I must take leave for the present. I shall come up the first thing to-morrow morning to report progress."
The prideOf the day—my Swan—that a first fleck's fallOn her wonder of white must unswan, undo!The Worst of It.
The prideOf the day—my Swan—that a first fleck's fallOn her wonder of white must unswan, undo!
The Worst of It.
It was evening when Percivale left Edge Willoughby, and walked slowly down the terrace, accompanied by dear little Miss Fanny, who had undertaken to show him the stile leading to the foot-path which was the nearest way to the quarries.
Jackie, the chough, was strutting along the gravel in much self-importance, his body all sideways, his bright eye fixed on the stranger, and uttering his unmusical cry of, "Jack-ee! Jack-ee!"
The young man paused, bent down, and caressed the bird, spite of the formidable-looking orange beak.
"What a queer old chap!" he said.
"Yes, he is quite a pet. Elsa is very fond of him," said Miss Fanny, seizing as eagerly as he had done on any topic of conversation which was not too heavily charged with emotion to be possible.
Of the terrible issues so near at hand neither dared to speak. As if nothing more unusual than an afternoon call had transpired, Percivale asked of Jacky's age and extraction, learned that he was a Cornishman by birth, and of eccentric disposition, and so travelled safely along the wide gravel-walk, on one side of which the garden rose abruptly up, whilst on the other it sloped as suddenly down, losing itself in a maze of chrysanthemums, gooseberry-bushes, potatoes, and scarlet-runners, till a tall thorn hedge intervened to separate the garden from the cornfield, where the "mows" lay scattered about in every direction, dispersed and driven by the tempest of last night.
So they gained the stile, and here Miss Fanny paused.
"If you go down the hill by the foot-path, you will come out on the main road," she said, pointing with her dear little fat finger.
"Thank you. Mr. Cranmer will meet me somewhere on the road—he said he would. I—I shall see you again as soon as—directly—as I said to your sister," stammered the young man, in an unfinished, fragmentary way.
He took her hand, with the graceful gravity which characterized all his greetings of women.
"Thank you," he said again, and, lifting his cap, vaulted over the stile, and walked rapidly down the foot-path.
Miss Fanny gazed after him through a mist of tears, which she presently wiped away from her fresh cheeks, and trotted back to the terrace with an expression not devoid of hope.
Her pigeons flew round her; they knew that it was past feeding-time. The gleaming wings flashed and circled in the light, and presently the gravel was covered with the pretty, strutting things, nodding their sheeny necks, and chuckling softly to each other.
"Jack-ee! Jack-ee!" screamed the chough, discordantly, rushing in among their ranks, and routing them.
"Jackie! Come here, you naughty bird!" cried Miss Fanny, interposing for the protection of her pets. "There! there! Go along, do! Go along, do!... I really don't know how it is—I do feel that I place such confidence in that young man! Quite a stranger, too! Very odd! But I feel as though a special Providence had sent that yacht our way to-day. It seems as though it had been sent purposely—it really does. Somehow, to-night, I feel as if help were near. No power can restore poor dear Godfrey, that's true; but we may save Elsa, I do hope and trust."
Claud was leaning over the low stone wall of the highroad, when a touch on the shoulder roused him, and, looking up, he met Percivale's collected gaze.
"Now, quick!" was all Percivale said; and, in a moment, both young men were hurrying along the Quarry Road as fast as their legs would carry them.
They only spoke once; and then it was Claud who broke the silence.
"Fowler thinks it hopeless—that you are altogether on a wrong track," he said.
"We shall see," was the response, in a tense voice which told of highly-strung nerves.
Claud thought of his last journey along that road, staggering blindly in darkness and rain, with the screaming wind and thundering sea in his ears. Last night! Could it be only last night? A thousand years seemed to have elapsed since then. Life, just now, seemed made up of crisis; and he railed at himself for being hatefully heartless, because he could not help a certain feeling of excitement, which was almost like pleasure, in anticipating thedénouementof the affair.
A growing admiration for the strange owner of theSwanwas his dominant sensation. There was a light of purpose in Percivale's eye, an air of conviction about his whole manner, which could not fail to influence his companion.
The feelings of both young men were at a high pitch as they paused before the door of Mrs. Parker's somewhat remote cottage, and knocked. The woman opened the door and looked at her visitors in astonishment. One glance at her was enough to gauge her character in an instant. She was what country people call a "poor thing." Her expression was that of meek folly, and she wore a perpetual air of apology. Her red-rimmed, indefinite eyes suggested a perennial flow of tears, ready at the shortest notice, and her weak fingers fumbled at her untidy throat in fruitless efforts to hold together a dilapidated brown silk handkerchief which had become unfastened.
"Good evening, gentlemen," she said, "what can I do for you?"
Her air was mildly surprised.
"We called in," said Claud, who was not unknown to her, "to ask if you've heard the awful news about the discovery on the cliffs this morning?"
"Lord, no! She had heard never a word of it—nobody never took no trouble to look in and tell her any bit o' news as might be going; she might as well be dead and buried, for all the comfort she ever got out ofherlife," grumbled she, plaintively.
Even at this juncture, Claud could not refrain from a cynical reflection on womanhood, as, in the person of the widow Parker, it calmly reckoned the news of a murder among the comforts of life.
"Your son Saul—where is he? Doesn't he bring you the news?" asked he.
"Lord no! not he! he mostly forgets it all on the way home, he don't keep nothing in his head for more than three minutes at a stretch. An' he ain't been outside the place to-day, for I've had a awful night with him," whined Mrs. Parker, sitting down on a chair and lifting a coal-black pocket-handkerchief to her eyes.
"What, another fit?" asked Claud.
"He was out last night in all that gale, if you'll believe me, sir. What he was after passes me, an' I set an' set awaitin' for him, and a-putting out my bit o' fire by opening the door, when the wind come in fit to blind yer, an' at last in he come, with every thread on him drippin' wet, and what he'd been after Lord knows, for not a word would he say but to call for his supper, and afore he'd 'ardly swallowed three mouthfuls he was took——"
"Took?" put in Percivale, sharply.
The widow paused, with her last pair of tears unwiped on her cheeks, and stared at him.
"With a fit, sir—he suffers from fits, my poor boy do," she said. "Epiplexythe doctor do call it, and, whatever it is, it's a nasty thing to suffer with. It makes him sorft, poor lad, and the other chaps laughs at him, and it's very hard on him, for you see, now he's growin' up, he feels it. I ain't a Devonshire woman myself—I'm from London, I am, and I do say these Devonshire lads are a sight deal too rough and rude. When they was all little together, I could cuff them as hurt him, but they're too big for that now."
There was no stopping her tongue. Poor soul! she led a lonely life, for her peevishness alienated her neighbors, who did not approve of the censure their manners and customs met with at her hands. She never could talk for five minutes to anyone without insisting on her London origin; and, as a result, it was but rarely that she could get an audience at all.
The flood-gates of her eloquence were now opened, and she poured forth a lengthy string of grievances.
"It's terrible hard on a woman like me, as never was strong at the best of times, to be left a widder with a boy like that on my hands! He's a head taller than 'is mother, and strong—bless yer! He could knock either o' you gentlemen down and think nothing of it, and you may think if he's easy to manage when he's took with his fits!"
"You should send him away," said Claud, gravely. "Have you never thought that, if he is so strong, he might do somebody some harm in a fit of temper?"
The woman looked attentive.
"Well," she said, "I can't say I've ever give it much of a thought; but maybe you're right. But oh!" with a fresh access of tears, "I do call it hard to separate a poor widder from 'er only son! I do call it hard!" She set herself afresh to wipe her eyes, with shaking hands, reiterating her inconsistent complainings about the difficulties of managing Saul, and the cruelty of suggesting a separation; when suddenly, ceasing her whining and looking up, she said, "But you ain't told me the bit o' news, yet, have yer?"
"You haven't given us much chance, my good woman," said Mr. Percivale. "The news is that young Mr. Godfrey Brabourne was found dead out on the cliffs this morning."
As the words left his lips, a shuffling, thudding sound was heard, a door at the back of the little room was pushed open, and there stood Saul, leaning against the wall, attired merely in his shirt and trousers, the former open at the throat. His feet were bare, his thick yellow hair was matted, his cheeks were rosy and flushed; altogether he wore the look of having just that moment awakened from sleep.
His great eyes, of Devon blue, looked out from beneath the tangled waves of hair with a shy smile. He recognised Claud, but, when his gaze fell on Percivale, his whole face changed. A look of fear and repulsion came over him—he uttered a hoarse cry or rather bellow, and, turning away, darted down a small dark passage and was lost to view.
"There now! Did you ever!" cried his parent, indignantly. "Lord! what a fool the lad is! That's for nothing in life but because he seen you—" addressing Percivale, "and now he's gone to his hole, and nothing'll bring him out again perhaps for five or six hours, and nothing on him but his shirt and breeches! Oh, dear, dear, he'll kill me afore long, I'm blest if he won't!"
"What do you mean by his hole?" asked Percivale.
"It's a wood-shed as he's very partial to, an' hides all his treasures an' rubbish in there, out o' my reach. For it's very dark in there, and I can't get in very well, at least 'twouldn't be no use if I could, because I couldn't drive him out. I can't do nothing with him, when he's contrairy, and that's the truth, gentlemen."
"But is it impossible to get into the woodshed?" continued Percivale, holding her to her point with a patience that made Claud marvel.
"No, sir, but he's piled up the wood till you can only crawl in, and then as likely as not he'll hit you over the head," returned Mrs. Parker, encouragingly; "and it's that dark you can't see nothing when youarein, so it's no sense to try, as I can see."
"Why on earth don't you nail the place up when he's out, so that hecan'tget in?" cried Claud, irritated beyond measure at her stupidity.
"Well, I can't say I ever thought o' that," naively admitted the poor woman.
"You are afraid Saul will take a chill if he stays there now?" interrogated Percivale.
"I'm dead certain he will, sir!"
"Very well, I'll go and fetch him out for you."
"It ain't a bit o' use, sir," she cried, eagerly, "he'll never stir for you. He's mortal feared o' strange folks."
"Never fear, I shall manage him," was the placid reply. "Give me a candle, will you?"
He took the light in his hand, and followed the woman through the gloomy back regions of the little cottage to the wood-shed, the doorway of which was, as she had stated, barricaded with logs, in a sort of arch, so that only the lower half of it was practicable.
"Saul! Are you in there?" cried his mother, shrilly.
An idiotic gurgle of laughter, and a slight rustling, assured them of the fact.
"If I push over this barricade, shall I hurt him?" asked Percivale.
"No, sir, no—there's plenty of space beyond."
"Here goes then," he answered; and placing his shoulder to the logs, handing the light to Claud, and getting a firm hold with his feet, he gave a vigorous heave, and the logs rolled clattering down, and about the shed.
There was a scream from Saul, so loud and piercing that both young men thought he must be hurt. Snatching the candle, Percivale hurried in, over the prostrate defences. Saul was standing back against the wall, as far as he could get away, niched into a corner, his face hidden in his arms.
"Come, Saul, my boy—come out of this dark place," said the intruder, in kindly tones. "Come—look at me—what is there to be afraid of?"
The boy removed his screening arm from before his eyes with the pretty coquetry of a shy baby. He had apparently forgotten his rage, for he laughed—a low, chuckling laugh—and fixed his look appealingly on the stranger.
"What made you run away—eh?" asked Percivale, gently.
But no answer could be extorted from Saul. He would only laugh, hide his face, and peep again, with coy looks, from under his long lashes.
Percivale flashed a look round him, and decided on making a venture to arouse some consciousness. By the light of the candle he held, every line of the lad's face was distinctly visible. Outside, Mrs. Parker was talking too volubly to Claud to hear what he might say.
"Saul," he said, "where is Master Godfrey?"
For a moment a spasm of terror crossed the beautiful face—a look which somehow suggested the dim return of intelligence once possessed; for it seemed evident that Saul had not always been absolutely idiotic, but that what brain he had had gradually been destroyed by epilepsy. His eyes dwelt with a look of speculation on those of his questioner, and his lips parted as if an answer were forced from him.
"Out there!" he whispered.
"What, out on the cliffs?"
He nodded.
"Is he dead—is Master Godfrey dead?" said Percivale, still keeping his eyes fixed on his by a strong effort of will.
Saul nodded again.
"Dead," he said, "quite dead! Naughty boy!"
East, west,North, south I looked. The lie was deadAnd damned, and Truth stood up instead.Count Gismond.
East, west,North, south I looked. The lie was deadAnd damned, and Truth stood up instead.
Count Gismond.
Henry Fowler came out of the stables with heavy gait, and face from which the genial curves had fled. To-night you saw him in all his native plainness,—his leaden-colored eyes, unredeemed by the steady beam of cheery benevolence which usually dwelt there—his roughly-cut, ill-formed features, unsoftened by the suggestion of kindly peace which was their wonted expression.
Figuratively speaking, he was smitten to the earth—humbled, abased, as he had never dreamed he could be. No room was in his mind for doubt. He saw, as he imagined, only too plainly, the whole of the tragedy on the cliffs—saw Elsa's very attitude and expression as, goaded to fury by the impudence of the boy, she had dealt him a wild, blind blow, the outcome of weeks and weeks of pent-up rage and dislike.
Had she only told him, at once! Had she, on meeting him and Claud in the lane, only seized him, clung to him, cried for help and dragged him to the rescue, even though too late. But no! Her first impulse had been to hide what she had done. It was so fatally of a piece with his idea of her character. What to do—how to face the Misses Willoughby he could not tell.
Once before—more than twenty years ago now—his life had been laid in ruins at his feet by the news of Alice Willoughby's engagement to Colonel Brabourne. Now, by Alice's child, this second bitter blow descended on the head of him who had borne the first so well and uncomplainingly.
His one interest in life centred in Elsa Brabourne. The morning's intelligence had seemed to paralyse him. Like a man smitten suddenly in the face, he was left breathless—unable to rally or to fix on any plan of action.
He was just returned from Philmouth, where he had been to interview the coroner and to make what arrangements were necessary. But, now that it was done, he could not remember whether he had done it or not. The whole drive there and back was a confused blur in his mind—he wondered whether he had managed to conduct himself rationally, to explain himself adequately. Before his eyes, as plainly as if he saw it still, was the picture of a child's pallid face, peaked and grey with death, dashed here and there with blood, and in its expression horridly, fatally resembling Elsa.
Turn where he would, he saw it, with the lips discolored, the large eyes wide open, the little childish hands clenched in the agony of the sudden fruitless wrestle with death.
"If she saw it," he repeated to himself, "if she saw it, would it not have sent her mad? So young as she is—she has never seen death! Oh, merciful God, is it possible she could have looked at him and kept her reason?"
It was dark: the moon had not yet risen above the black hillside, and in the stables everything was very still. George the groom moved to and fro with a stable lantern in the harness-room above, and the shaft of light which gleamed down the staircase was the only light there was. George knew his master was in trouble, and longed to comfort him. Mr. Fowler was one of those who are always liked, and always well served by their inferiors. Everything about his house and estate was in excellent order. He never raised his voice, but his commands were always instantly obeyed.
Here, in the stable, everything was trim and fresh, smelling of new-mown hay. Dart, the pretty little black mare, knowing that her master was somewhere near, turned her head wistfully to seek him. But he saw and heard nothing of his surroundings. In fancy, he was standing on the cliff, in the wind and sunshine, looking down upon a child's corpse.
He felt as though he must suffocate.
Rousing himself, he groped towards the door, pushed it open, and let the night air fan him. The rush of the brook through the garden sounded in his ears. Down, away across the valley, was the dark water in the bay, the hulk of the yacht dimly discernible through the faint mist. A wild idea crossed his mind as to whether it might not be possible to take Elsa secretly on board of theSwan, weigh anchor in the night, and carry away the girl to some other land, where a home might be made for her. A moment's reflection served to show the absurdity of such a scheme, and he laughed bitterly to himself as he realised the impossibility of casting such a record behind in the girl's life, and starting fresh again.
Oh, to be able to go back for twenty-four hours! to be again, if but for one minute, the happy man he was when he walked at Claud's side through the storm to Brent. If the intervening minutes could be wiped out, as one wipes a child's sum from a slate, with a wet sponge!
No use, no use, to cry out against the inevitable. Somehow or another, this horror which had come upon him must be lived through. He must not only bear it, but help others to bear it too.
Slowly emerging from the stable, he shut the door behind him with a click; and, as he did so, he became aware of a sound of hurrying footsteps, of some one coming fast over the wooden bridge which spanned the brook, and making for the house with all speed.
It was Claud, and there was in his manner such unusual velocity and vehemence that Mr. Fowler started forward, and ran hastily after him.
They met in the hall. Claud had just flung the door wide, and was making the rafters ring with cries of, "Fowler! Fowler, I say!" when the owner of the name rushed in with white face and eager eyes, expecting he knew not what.
Claud was in such a state as his host had never before witnessed; his hat was off, his cheeks glowing, his collar and tie awry, his usually immaculate hair all a standing mass of fluff, blown hither and thither by the wind, and his quiet eyes like two stars in their brilliancy and excitement.
"Cranmer, my good fellow, what is it?" faltered Henry.
"What is it? Why, the best news you ever heard in all your life! That extraordinary fellow Percivale has done the whole thing! There's not a doubt of it. Saul Parker was the assailant of Allonby and the murderer of poor little Godfrey! The whole thing is as clear as daylight!" Henry put out a hand uncertainly, as if to feel for the support of the wall. Claud darted to him, took the hand, and placed it on his own shoulder instead. "Look up, old man," he said, unable to keep his lips from smiles, his eyes from dancing. "All this is true as Gospel that I'm telling you."
Henry cleared his throat once or twice. Then—
"It can't be," he said, huskily, "it can't be. It's preposterous. What proof have you?"
"The proof of Saul's coat and waistcoat soaked in blood—the proof of Godfrey's pocket-handkerchief steeped also in blood, rolled into a ball in the pocket of his jacket; and, last of all, what do you think, my friend? The proof of Mrs. Clapp's pudding-basin, tied up in the original and genuine blue handkerchief!"
The face of agitation which Mr. Fowler turned to the speaker was pitiful to see.
"You—you mean this," he said speaking thickly, like a drunken man; "you would never jest on such a subject—eh, lad?"
"Jest? Is it likely? Do I look as if I were jesting? I can tell you I don't feel so. I couldn't put on that pace for a jest. My throat is as sore as if I were sickening for scarlet fever, and my heart feels as if it would burst through my ribs. I ran—all the way—from Parker's cottage—to tell you about it."
Henry was grasping him by both shoulders now, and clinging to him as if the floor were unsteady beneath his feet.
"You ran to tell me," he repeated, mechanically—"to tell me—what? Claud, if this is true, it means life to me—life to those good women yonder—it meanssalvationfor her, for my poor little girl, for Elsa!"
His forehead sank on his outstretched arm, and his broad shoulders quivered.
Claud softly patted his back, his own bright face all alight with unselfish gladness.
"It's all true," he said, "true beyond your power to disbelieve. That Percivale is a wonderful fellow. Once he struck the scent, he stuck to it like a sleuth-hound. Every bit of evidence tallies exactly. The whole thing is as clear as daylight. All I marvel at now is that Saul Parker has been allowed to be at large for so long—how it was that nobody insisted on his being shut up."
"But I never knew he was really dangerous," said Henry. "Such a thing as a murderous attack, I mean—I knew that lately he had taken to throwing stones, and I told him the other day that I should flog him if I found it out again. He has sense enough to know what he is not to do—that is what makes him so difficult to deal with. But that he should attempt murder!"
"I remember him so well, in the Battishills' kitchen, the day he nearly did for poor Allonby," said Claud. "He must have hidden his pudding-basin, after eating the contents, somewhere in a hedge, and walked, calmly smiling, up to the farm, immediately after his first attempt at slaughter. Ugh! It's a grisly thought, isn't it, that we all have been walking calmly about all this summer with such a sword of Damocles over our heads. Why, those girls—the Miss Allonbys—he might have attacked them at any moment; they were all strangers."
"Yes, but they had spoken to him, and been kind to him. Poor Godfrey owes his fate to his own malignity, I am afraid," said Henry, turning away with a heavy sigh. He passed his hand over his brow as if to clear it, and then, lifting his eyes to Claud's, smiled for the first time in many hours. "I feel as if you had waked me out of a nightmare," he said—"a horror that was overwhelming—that shut out everything, even hope ... and God. Now that it is over, I wonder how I could have brought myself to believe such a thing of her." He spoke slowly, and at intervals, as each thought occurred to him. "Poor child! poor slandered child! Claud, she must know it to-night. We must save her so many hours of suffering—we must tell her now. Where is Mr. Percivale?"
"He is gone there—straight—to Edge. I parted from him at the cross-roads, and ran up here for you."
"He has every right to be first," faltered Henry. "Will anything I can do for Elsa ever atone for the wrong of my unjust suspicion? God pardon me! I wassureshe was guilty."
"You had strong grounds."
"I never dreamed of connecting it in any way with poor Allonby's disaster. I never thought of it in connection with anything else at all. It simply seemed to flare out upon me like a conflagration, blotting out everything else in the world. It numbed my faculties."
"I know it did. Never mind, now,. It is all right, the darkness is over past, the horror is slain. Come, shall we go to Edge?"
"Yes, Claud. God bless you, my boy—you thought of me—you would not go on without me. We must be close friends after this, all our lives."
"We shall—I hope and believe."
The young man set the door wide. The lamp from the hall streamed out into the quiet night. The soft rustling of the trees mingled with the rushing of the falling brook. Walking down the grassy slope, they came upon the bridge. A silent, solitary figure stood upon it, leaning upon the parapet and gazing down upon the unseen but vocal waters as they hurried past.
"Percivale!" said Claud, with a start.
"Yes." He roused himself, and answered as tranquilly as if that day had passed in the most ordinary routine. "I thought it was unfair to steal a march upon you both, so I followed you here, and waited."
"Then you have not been to Edge?"
"Not yet."
Without another word they set off walking as fast as they could. Henry longed for words to thank and bless the young man at his side; but the tongue does not always obey the will, and he found none.
The dew was heavy on the pastures; the last remnants of wind were dropping down to sleep. Life and the world seemed now as full of repose as this morning they had been instinct with tragedy, and with rapid, terrifying motion. No glimmer in any of the cottages, no moon to light the rich purple recesses of darkness which enveloped the sea. Henry led the way among the winding foot-paths—a way which he could have trodden blindfold—the others followed in complete silence.
As they neared the house, a solitary light appeared,—it was in Miss Ellen's window.
Henry threw some pebbles up at the glass, and presently the pane was opened, and the invalid appeared. She was still quite dressed.
"Let us in, Miss Ellen," said Mr. Fowler, in subdued accents. "Let us in—we could not rest till morning. Mr. Percivale has news for you."
"One moment—I will send some one down to you."
She disappeared, and for several silent minutes they waited in the porch. A great bush of lemon-scented verbena grew there. Claud used to pull a leaf of it and crush it in his hand whenever he came in or out. Now, in the still night, the strong fragrance reeked from it, and to each of the three men waiting there, that scent always afterwards recalled that scene.
The bolts were drawn at last, and there stood Jane Gollop, in night attire of the most wondrous aspect.
"Come in, gentlemen," said she, in subdued accents and a husky voice which told of bitter weeping. "You must come upstairs into Miss Willoughby's room, if you wish to see her; as you know, she can't come down to you. Will you kindly tread very softly, please?"
"I'll wait down here for you two," whispered Claud.
"No, no, my boy. Come up with me," returned Mr. Fowler, firmly.
In single file they followed Jane up the staircase, in a silence broken only by the ticking of the great clock on the stairs.
Miss Ellen sat upright on her sofa, awaiting them. As they entered, she held up a warning finger, and said, "Hush!"
Following the direction of her eyes, they noticed that a screen had been drawn round the bed, hiding it from view. They waited, and so silent were they, that from behind this screen a low, regular breathing was audible.
Miss Willoughby looked at her visitors with a sort of defiance—a noble defiance—on her worn face. Her eyes were luminous and steadfast.
"I don't know what is your errand here to-night," she said, speaking scarcely above a whisper,—"something very important, I feel sure; but, before any of you speak one word, I have something to say, and something to show you. Henry Fowler, I believe we are wronging Elaine."
He started, and turned towards her.
"Yes; I feel sure we are wronging her—so sure, that it amounts, with me, to a moral conviction of her innocence. I want to tell you, all three, before a word has been said—before anything is proved either way—that I am confident that my niece is altogether innocent. I would say the same if a jury had condemned her to death. She had no share in this crime. I am glad you are all here—I will take your opinion. Henry, fold back the screen, as noiselessly as possible, and tell me, all of you, if that sleep is the sleep of conscious guilt."
In a dead silence Henry went forward, and moved away the screen.
Stretched on the bed lay Elsa, all her golden shower of hair loose, and streaming over the pillows. She wore a pale blue wrapper, and Miss Ellen had thrown a shawl across her feet to prevent her taking a chill. The girl's whole attitude was that of weariness, and profound, healthy, natural repose. The soft, warm rose of sleep was on each cheek, the black-fringed lids hid the large eyes, the breathing was as regular as that of an infant, and the expression exquisitely sweet.
He looked,Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earthAnd ocean's liquid mass beneath him layIn gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touched,And in their silent faces did he readUnutterable love....No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request;Rapt with still communion that transcendsThe imperfect offices of prayer and praise,His mind was a thanksgiving to the PowerThat made him; it was blessedness and love!The Excursion.
He looked,Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earthAnd ocean's liquid mass beneath him layIn gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touched,And in their silent faces did he readUnutterable love....No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request;Rapt with still communion that transcendsThe imperfect offices of prayer and praise,His mind was a thanksgiving to the PowerThat made him; it was blessedness and love!
The Excursion.
Spell-bound, the three gentlemen stood looking at the sleeping girl, till the pause was broken by Miss Ellen.
"Well?" she said, "what do you think?"
Henry Fowler opened his lips to speak, but closed them again, with a glance at Percivale.
The glance was unheeded, the young man was standing with a look on his face which, for some inexplicable reason, made Henry's heart leap in his side. So might Adam have looked on Eve when first he saw her sleeping—a look of intense admiration, mixed with a reverence that was almost worship. He seems to have forgotten everything but the fact that he stood there, by a wonderful chance, gazing at this consecrated girlish slumber.
Claud, who stood next him, at last put out his hand, and lightly touched his arm. He started.
"Will you tell Miss Willoughby?" whispered Claud.
He shook his head.
"Let Mr. Fowler tell her," he replied, gently.
"You have not answered my question—do you believe in her innocence?" said Miss Ellen, appealing to all three.
"We know she is innocent, dear Miss Ellen. Mr. Percivale has proved it."
It was too much; she uttered a cry, and, at the cry, Elsa started from sleep, and sat upright, pushing back her cloudy hair, and in speechless bewilderment at finding herself in her aunt's room, still half dressed, and in presence of three gentlemen. The lovely crimson flooded her face as she tried to collect her thoughts, and to rise.
A scene of some confusion ensued.
Miss Ellen, in her agitation, was trying to ask for an explanation, with her voice dissolved in tears. Elsa, springing from the bed, moved towards her, still half-awake, vaguely troubled—foreseeing some fresh catastrophe; and then Mr. Fowler caught her in his arms, kissing her and somewhat incoherently imploring her to forgive him, while Percivale stood at a little distance, speaking only with his eyes. And those eyes set the girl's heart throbbing and raised a wild tumult in her. So by degrees everything was explained, nobody exactly knew how; but, in the course of half-an-hour, Elsa knew that she was saved, and that she owed her salvation solely to him who stood before her, with his head lowered, and the lamplight gilding the soft, downy, curling mass of his hair. They did not stay long. It was he who hurried them away, that they might not break in too far on the girl's rest.
Miss Willoughby could hardly let him go. Something about this young man's whole appearance and manner appealed wonderfully to her sympathies. She held his hand long in hers, looking at him with eyes swimming in grateful tears.
"You know," he said, with a smile, "you will insist on so greatly exaggerating what I have done; it was quite simple and obvious; I merely set on foot an investigation."
"It may have been simple and obvious, but it never occurred to anybody but you," said Claud, bluntly.
"No; because you were all biassed. I told you so. I am very sorry for that poor mother—for Mrs. Parker. I shall go to her early next morning. It was pitiful to see her. She was so utterly without the least suspicion of what I was driving at, that I felt like a traitor, worming myself into her confidence. Good-night, Miss Brabourne. You will sleep again, I hope."
"I don't know, I don't feel the least bit sleepy," said Elsa, feverishly; "and it is nearly morning now, you know."
Henry started.
"Is it so late? I had no idea. Come, we must be off at once."
Outside, the blackness of the night was just decreasing. The clouds which had gathered in the evening were rolling away, leaving gaps full of pallid stars. A chill cold pierced the limbs, and the heavy dew of autumn bathed all the vegetation.
"You will come home with us, of course?" said Mr. Fowler to Percivale.
"No, thanks, I can't. I must go aboard mySwan. The men are waiting for me on the shore."
"All this time? Are you sure?"
"Quite sure. Good-night."
"Nay, nay; we'll see you down to the beach. Your crew may have grown tired of waiting, in which case you must come to Lower House."
They walked on for some time indulging in desultory conversation, when suddenly Henry remarked to Claud,
"Poor Allonby ought to know of this."
Percivale turned towards him, and looked searchingly at him. It was light enough for them to see each other's faces now.
"There is no engagement between Mr. Allonby and Miss Brabourne?" he asked.
"No, none. I see more than ever now how wise I was to refuse to allow it. He is a good fellow, but she did not really care for him—she does not know what love means—she had never met a young man till this summer. I told him he must give her time. Personally I like him. He has no money and has no prospects, but I do not think he is a fortune-hunter. Let her go through the fire of a year in London, and find out what her tastes and inclinations really are."
Percivale listened to all this with a rivetted attention, but made no reply; and now they were on the beach, their steps crunching upon the shingle.
A seaman stood, with his broad back turned to them, looking out over the smooth, leaden expanse of sea. In the boat a second man was fast asleep. Out in the bay, a lamp glimmered, showing the graceful shadowy outline of the yacht.
"Müller!" said Percivale.
The man turned at once. His master addressed him in German, in a glad voice which left little doubt as to the tidings he was relating. A broad grin gradually broke over the man's face, and he waved his cap ecstatically, shouting hurrah! Then he ran to rouse his companion, who was soon acquainted with the joyful news, and a grand shaking of hands all round took place. Then Percivale, taking leave of Henry and Claud, stepped into the boat, and the keel grated on the beach as it slipped into the chill, steely colored waters. The two on the beach stood together, watching as the oars dipped, and the waves broke softly. It was a sight worth watching, for a marvellous change was coming over the world, a change so mysterious, so exciting, so full of beauty, that they began to wonder, as all of us have wondered in our time, why they were not oftener awake to see the breaking of the day.
A scarlet flush was rimming the east, and a glow began to creep over the dull sea. Further and further it spread, while everything around took clear and definite form. The cliffs, the landslip, the coastguard station, the shore, all grew out gradually and yet rapidly from the darkness, and every moment the color waxed more bright, and the sky, which had seemed so dense, became translucent and dark blue, while one by one the pale stars went out, extinguished by the rosy-fingered Eos.
A cold fresh breeze whistled by, and Claud shivered as it passed. It reminded him of the sad sighing of old Tithonus, left helpless in the cold regions of the dark, whilst Aurora, warm and blooming, sprang up to meet the sun. Unconsciously to himself, he wished that Wynifred Allonby stood by him to watch that dawn—she would have understood. He could not talk of Tithonus to Henry Fowler. His eye roamed over
"The ever silent spaces of the East,Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn."
"The ever silent spaces of the East,Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn."
Ah! what was that which shivered like a silver arrow through the dull haze that brooded over the sluggish waters? The mist had become transparent, golden, luminous—such a glory as might any moment break away to disclose the New Jerusalem coming down out of the heaven of heavens.
And now the whole sea was one mass of pearly and rose and amber light, which had not as yet faded into "the light of common day." All was illusion—the infancy of day, the time of fairy-tales, like that childhood of the world when wonders happened, and "Ilion, like a mist, rose into towers."
A slight exclamation from Henry broke his musing, and made him turn his head.
TheSwanlay motionless, her whiteness warmed and softened by the still mysterious light, till it looked almost like the plumage of the bird whose name she bore. The radiance gleamed on the motionless sails, and shimmered on the sea all round her.
Close to the prow stood Percivale. He had taken off his coat, and looked all white as he stood in the glow. Lifting his hat, he waved it to the watchers on the shore, with a gesture like that of one victorious, and, as he did so, up darted the sun with a leap above the sea, and its first ray shot straight across the sparkling water, to rest on his fair head like a benediction.
But most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love.Maud.
But most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love.
Maud.
There was a deep silence between Fowler and Claud as they walked homewards in that dewy autumn dawn. Every moment increased the beauty of the scene through which they walked—the little brooks which continually crossed their path rushed vehemently, swollen with the heavy rain which had fallen on the night of the storm. A balmy feeling was in the still air—a full, ripe feeling of autumn, and even now the beams of the sun were warm. It was going to be a hot day, such a day as shooters love amongst the stubble—such a day as swells the blackberry to a luscious bulk and flavor. Autumn in her warmth and beauty and her panoply of varying moods; not summer back again. She, as Claud had divined, was gone for this year, not to return again; she had died shrieking, in the storm that drove theSwaninto Brent Bay, and the wild sou'-wester had sung her obsequies.
Is there anything more wonderful in nature than the rich moisture with which an English autumn night will deluge every spray and every leaf and every grass-blade? The pastures this morning were hoary with pearly drops, the beeches and ashes literally drenched with wet, which showered itself on the heads of the two as a light bird clung to the bough and set it swaying. Already the sun was drawing it up like steam from the contented land, making a mist which hid the windings of the valley from their view.
It pleased Claud to imagine that the old earth was at her toilette—had just emerged, dripping, from her matutinal tub. This conceit reminded him of his own tub, for which he had a strong hankering. He did not feel sleepy; a bath and a cigar were all that he desired.
What a strange night it had been!
This particular summer had brought him more new sensations, more experiences than all the rest of his life put together. He felt as if it had altered him, somehow. He was not the same person who had been stopped as he drove along the Philmouth Road by a girl with scared face and streaming hair. Circumstances over which he, apparently, had very little control had forced him to remain here in this valley, and for the space of one summer, look at life from a totally new point of view. He was wondering whether it would last. For the first time he had met men and women who, his inferiors in social standing, were yet his equals in breeding and manners—a man like Henry Fowler, probably a son of the soil, the descendant of generations of farmers, who in chivalry and in purity of mind would put many a Lord Harry of his acquaintance to shame; girls like the Allonbys, who worked for their living, yet in delicacy and refinement—ay, and looks too,—equalled all and surpassed most of the women who formed the "set" he moved in.
He had always imagined himself a leveller at heart, one who ignored social distinctions. Now he had been given opportunity to put his theories into practice; and he found, as most people do, that theory and practice are different in some mysterious way. A struggle was going on in his mind, a struggle of which he was hardly conscious, and of which, had he put it into words, he would have been heartily ashamed. The point at issue was a small one, but, like the proverbial straw, it showed which way the current flowed.
Should he, when in town, call on the Allonbys? That was the point that vexed his mind—the point that was never quite out of sight, even in all the congested excitement of the last two days. As he walked up the meadow footpath to-day, towards Lower House, it was his fixed intention to call upon them; but would that intention hold a month hence, as he strolled down Portland Place towards the parental mansion? That was the trouble. Was this fancy which possessed him now—this fancy for a life in the country, with only a small income and the society of one woman, a fancy only? Or was it something more? Would it wash? Such was the slangy but forcible way in which he expressed it. He could not be sure. His mind was so tossed and disturbed that he felt as though, either way he decided, he must infallibly regret it.
The idea of never seeing Wynifred again was anything but pleasant; the idea of having her always at his side was too vague to be wholly comforting. He believed he should like a middle course—her society when he felt inclined for it, now and then, but no binding down in the matter. And yet he felt dimly that this idea could not be worked, exactly, and this for more than one reason. First, because he felt sure that, if he ever saw her at all, his feelings with regard to her could not remain stationary. He must grow to want her either less or more. Secondly, because his notions of honor were strict, and he felt that, if he, an earl's son, sought out the Allonbys, and appeared bent on the society of Wynifred in particular, it might be unpleasant for her, if nothing came of it.
And then, suddenly, arose the reflection that all this reasoning was based on the supposition that Miss Allonby would have him if she could; a point on which, when he came to consider it, he felt by no means certain.
This was humiliating. As they came to the wicket-gate of Lower House, he finally decidednotto call at Mansfield Road. He was not going to be made a fool of.
And, even as he made this resolution, arose the wild desire to go and narrate to Wynifred in person the tragic details of the past forty-eight hours. She would appreciate it so.... How her mind would seize on every point, how she would listen to him with that expression of eager interest which he could always awaken on any other subject but that of himself.
This brought his mind to the memory of their conversation about Elaine that afternoon in the boat. He remembered her guarded answers and the unfair way in which he had pressed her to give opinions which she had seemed sorry to have to hold.
"She was wrong about Miss Brabourne," he reflected. "We have all been wrong about her, all misjudged her—even Fowler, who ought to know her so well."
At the date of the above-mentioned conversation, his distrust of Elsa had certainly equalled if not gone beyond Wynifred's; now, the revulsion of feeling was complete.
Nothing in this world so enlists the sympathies of mankind as the victim of an unjust suspicion. Elsa had been under the shadow of the darkest of accusations. She was now declared to be innocent as the day. Claud's heart turned to her, as the heart of anyone calling himself a man must infallibly do. He felt as though his strictly neutral position had been the direst of insults—as though he wanted to kneel at her feet and kiss the hem of her garment. Percivale had not been neutral—he had seen, had known the falseness of the monstrous charge; Claud thought he would like to be in his place now just for four-and-twenty hours. He must be the hero of the moment, as Elsa was the heroine.
And what a heroine! The remembrance of the girl as she lay asleep, framed in her wealth of hair, flashed vividly upon him as they reached the hall door.
"By Jove! She is beautiful!" he said, quite unconscious that he spoke aloud.
Henry paused, with his latch-key in his hand and looked at him with an amused gleam in his eyes.
"What!" said he, "you too!"
Claud started, laughed, flushed deeply, and shook his head.
"Oh, no—not that," he said. "Not that at all. Of course I am a worshipper at the shrine of injured innocence and persecuted beauty—every knight-errant must be that, you know; but no more. I wonder why?"
"You wonder why what?"
"I wonder why I am not madly in love with Miss Brabourne. I fully intended to be, at one time. Why shouldn't I be? I don't understand it."
"I can tell you why, if you care to know," said Henry, smiling quietly to himself as he set open the door, and crossed his threshold.
"Oh, it's of no consequence; thank you," said Claud, with suspicious hurry, and reddening slightly.
"No? Well, perhaps you are wise," was the grave answer. "I find that young people mostlyarevery prudent in these days. It would be quite a relief occasionally to see a man carried away by the strength of his feelings."
Claud looked earnestly at him.
"Don't you think a man ought to have himself well in hand?" he asked.
"Oh, I suppose so; but I am not such a believer in the universality of self-discipline in the young men of the day. They don't control their desires for high play, costly cigars, horses, wine, or enjoyment generally. It is only in the matter of marriage that I have noticed this singular discretion overtakes them. Don't you think one may safely attribute it to another motive than self-control? Caution is often merely a name for selfishness."
"And you think this applies to me?" said Claud, slowly, hanging up his cap with deliberation. "I don't say you're wrong. But it's a nice point, which I should like to get settled for me—which is the least lovable course? To decline to obey the dictates of your heart from motives of prudence, or to follow the lead of your feelings, and so drag down to poverty the woman you profess to love, but in reality only desire to possess?"
"My dear fellow," said Henry, affectionately, "you are taking this too seriously. It's a question one can't well discuss in the abstract, particularly now, when you look as haggard as a ghost and are ready to drop with fatigue. Come, you must really get some rest. It is seven o'clock, I declare, and you have been on your legs for four-and-twenty hours."
Claud did certainly looked fagged now that the full light of high day fell on his pale face. He sat down on the lowest stair, yawned, stretched, and asked, sleepily,
"What time is the inquest?"
"Twelve o'clock. You go straight upstairs, I'll send you your breakfast in a quarter-of-an-hour, and then you are to lie down and get two or three hours' sleep. I'll have you called in time. Come, get up."
Claud remained immovable.
"I wonder who he is," he said at last.
"Whom?"
"Percivale. I should like to know."
"You won't find out by sitting on the staircase, my boy. Come, do go."
"All right—I'm going. Whoever he is, he's a trump, and that's something to know about a fellow."
The "trump" in question had been swimming vigorously in the glittering, lively sea for a quarter-of-an-hour. He emerged from the water invigorated and glowing, with the drops in his red-gold hair.
His crew had a hot breakfast ready for him, to which when dressed he did ample justice; and then giving orders to be waked, and for the boat to be in readiness at eleven, he stretched himself on a sofa which they had brought on deck, and prepared to sleep.
This, however, was more easily said than done. He had never felt more wide awake in his life. Stretched on his back, his arms under his head, the light motion of the blue waters lulling him gently, he lay and thought over all that had happened. The sunshine poured down upon him, and everything was very still. Now and again there was the white flash of a passing bird, shaft-like through the air; now and then a low, guttural German laugh, as his crew sat together discussing this latest adventure of their roving master.
Elaine's face was present to his fancy—so vividly that he had only to close his eyes to see every detail of it. The startled expression, the wistful gaze, the exquisite complexion, the golden shower that framed her.
The words of a favorite poetess of his seemed saying themselves over in his brain: