The desolation and abandonment which had fallen upon Edge Willoughby cannot be described.

The sisters knew not what to think, or say, or do. A vague notion that all employment was incongruous when suffering under a bereavement led them to sit in a circle round the dining-room, gazing at each other with stiff and pale faces, wondering if this nightmare-like day would ever end, and what would follow next.

In the large drawing-room lay the motionless form of poor Godfrey, still and dead, in the gloom of closed blinds and drawn curtains. The same death-like quiet brooded over all the house. Miss Ellen lay on her couch in an agony of self-reproach, caused by the fact that it was owing to her influence entirely that the boy had come to Edge.

Oh, that he had never come—that Elsa had never been subjected to the fiery trial which had terminated so fatally.

It was all their fault, she told herself. They had grossly mismanaged the child—they had never sought her confidence, only exacted her submission. Now that Miss Ellen would have given everything she possessed for that confidence, it was, of course, obstinately withheld. No word could Elsa be made to speak, though, figuratively, they had all gone down on their knees to her.

If she would only confess the truth—whatever it was they could pardon it, had been their piteous cry. But she would not speak. The only thing they could extract was an announcement that they all, she knew, took her for a murderess, and she would therefore not attempt to justify herself; and finally, all they could do was to allow her to go away into her own room and lock herself in. The whole situation was intensely awkward: for the Ortons were quartered upon them, and it was hard to say which was the greater—their dislike to being there, or the Misses Willoughbys' dislike to having them.

On returning from the cliff, Ottilie had swept off all her belongings with a grand air, declaring that no human power should induce her to sleep under the same roof with Elsa, and had driven with her husband to the "Fountain Head," where they were met by William Clapp, who respectfully but firmly denied them admittance. "He had heard what the lady was pleased to say, aout on the beach this morning, and he warn't going tÛ harbor them as laid things o' that kind to the charge o' Miss Ullin as he had seen grow up, and meant to stand by to his dying day."

There was absolutely no alternative but to go back ignominiously to Edge Willoughby, and beg for an asylum there till the inquest should be over. The request was granted with freezing hauteur by the sisters, Miss Charlotte adding that she thought it would be more pleasant for all parties if Mr. and Mrs. Orton had their meals served separately.

The pair were out of doors now, wandering restlessly about, in quest of nobody quite knew what. When the bell sounded the sisters imagined that they had returned, and a tremor of excitement ran through the pallid assembly as the parlor-maid brought in a small card, on which was engraved simply:

The gentleman followed his card, and stood just inside the door, still in his nautical and somewhat unusual dress, cap in hand, and with his clear eyes fixed upon Miss Ellen.

"May I come in?" he asked.

"O—certainly!" fluttered Miss Ellen.

He went straight across the room to her couch and took her hand.

"I hope you will allow me to introduce myself," he said. "I am the unfortunate man who hurled such a bomb-shell into the midst of the village this morning. I am now engaged in doing my poor best to repair the mischief I have caused. Take courage, Miss Willoughby—your white dove shall not receive so much as a fleck on her gold and silver plumage."

Miss Ellen could hardly speak for tears.

"She is flecked already," she gasped. "A vile accusation has been levelled at her before a crowd of witnesses. We are disgraced."

"I think the lady who made the accusation will be the one to feel disgraced," answered Mr. Percivale, taking a seat beside her. "Keep up heart, Miss Willoughby, I feel sure this frightful accusation will be easily proved false."

She looked up with a sudden spasm of hope.

"Then you really think——" she began, and paused.

"I think?" interrogatively.

"You sincerely believe that Elaine is quite innocent of this—that she is as ignorant of the facts of the case as we are?" There was a feverish, frantic eagerness, in her voice as she spoke.

"That is certainly my fixed belief," he said, calmly. "I fail to see how anyone could think otherwise. I know what you fear—that Miss Brabourne struck a blow in anger, and then was so horrified at its result that she dared not confess what she had done. There is a circumstance which renders this an impossible view of the case. Whoever murdered the poor boy afterwards scooped a shallow hole in the grass, partly out of sight beneath a bramble, and laid the body in it. To do this without becoming covered with blood and dirt would have been a miracle. Miss Brabourne came home last night, so Mr. Cranmer says, with the front of her dress marked with chalk; but there are plenty of witnesses, I think, to prove that she had no blood-stains, either on hands or dress, nor were her hands in the state they necessarily must have been had she dug a hole with insufficient tools."

"That is true," said Miss Ellen, eagerly. "You shall see the dress if you like—it is soiled, but not nearly to that extent! This is hope—this is life. I never thought of all this before."

"If you would allow me," went on the stranger, courteously, "I want to see more than Miss Brabourne's dress—I want an interview with her herself. Would you allow me to see her—alone?"

There was a slight pause. Then Miss Charlotte spoke.

"May I ask why you wish to see my niece in private?" she asked.

"I will tell you frankly why. I am the only person who has fearlessly asserted from the first that I believe her to be innocent. I think it likely that she will, in consequence, accord me a confidence which she would withhold from anyone else."

"He is right," said Miss Ellen, with tears. "She will not speak a word to us. We have never trusted her—we have let her see it; we have been very wrong. Take Mr. Percivale into the school-room, Emily, and see if you can induce Elsa to come down and see him."

Percivale followed his guide into the small, dull room where most of Elsa's life had been passed. There were the instruments of her daily torture, the black-board, the globes, the slates and lesson-books, the rattling, inharmonious piano. Outside was the dip of the valley, the wooded height beyond, and, nearer, the wide sunny terrace, now a blaze of dahlias and chrysanthemums. He walked to the window and stood there—very still, and gazing out with eyes that did not betray the secret of what his thoughts might be. His cap lay on the small table near; leaning against the woodwork, he folded his arms, and so, without change of attitude or expression, awaited the entrance of the accused.

Elsa came in after an interval of nearly a quarter-of-an-hour. She was white, and had evidently been weeping; but these accidents seemed scarcely to impair her beauty, while they heightened the strange interest which surrounded her, as it were, with an atmosphere of her own. Slowly closing the door behind her, she stood just within it, as still as he, and with her eyes fixed questioningly upon him, as if inquiring whether his first profession of faith in her had been shaken by what he had since heard.

The slight sound of the lock made him rouse himself, and withdraw his gaze from the horizon to fix it upon her face. Over mouth, cheeks, and brow his eyes flickered till they rested upon hers; and for several moments they remained so, seeing only one another. The girl seemed reading him as she would read a page—as a condemned criminal might devour the lines which told him that his innocence was established. Gradually on her wistful face there dawned a smile—a ray of blessed assurance. She moved two steps forward, stopped, faltered, hid her face.

He advanced quickly, stood beside her, and said,

"I thank you."

It made her look up hurriedly.

"You—thank me?"

"Yes; for your granting me this interview shows me that you are on my side—that you are going to sanction my poor efforts to help you. To what do I owe such honor? It ought to be the portion of some worthier knight than I; but, such as I am, I will fight for you if it costs me life itself."

"You are—" she began, but her voice failed her. "I cannot say it," cried she—"I cannot tell you how I think of you. You are a stranger, but you can see clearer than they can. Not one of them believes in me—not even my godfather. But you—you—" as if instinctively she held out both her hands.

Taking them, he bent over them and lightly kissed them as he had done on the beach, with a grace which was not quite English. Then, flashing a glance round the room, he selected the least aggressively uncomfortable chair, and made her sit down in it. Leaning against the piano, in such an attitude that the whole droop of her posture and the hands which lay in her lap were clearly visible as he looked down upon her, he said:

"I feel so ashamed to make you sit here and exert yourself to talk to a stranger when you are feeling so keenly. But I want you to help me by trying to remember certain incidents as clearly as you can. Will you try?"

"I will do anything you tell me."

"That is very good of you. Now forgive my hurrying you so, and plunging so abruptly into the midst of my subject, but my time is short—"

She started.

"Are you going away?"

A rush of most unwonted color mounted to Percivale's cheeks, and he hesitated a moment before his reply.

"No; not going till your innocence is established; but the inquest will be held here the day after to-morrow, and I want to be in a position to show you blameless by then."

She lifted her head and smiled up at him.

"You can do it. I believe you could do anything," she said, softly.

He looked at her steadily as he replied,

"It does seem at this moment as though a great deal were possible."

There was an eloquent pause, during which the hall clock struck loudly. Its sound roused Percivale, and he began his questioning.

"First of all, I want to know exactly what happened during your walk with your brother yesterday. Can you remember, and will you tell me carefully, what time you started, where you went, and how you parted? For all these things are of great importance."

"Yes; I will tell you exactly what happened. It was about half-past-two o'clock when my aunts said I was to go out with Godfrey. I did not want to go—for two reasons, both of which I will tell you. The first was that I was feeling very miserable because I had just said good-bye to my friends the Allonbys, who were gone to London——"

"You will forgive me interrupting you one moment," he said, in a very still voice, and with a fixed expression, "but Mrs. Orton this morning said that you were going to be married. May I ask if you are engaged to Mr. Allonby, because if so I think he ought to be telegraphed for—it would not be my place—I am not privileged——"

He broke off and waited. After a moment she said,

"I am not engaged to Mr. Allonby."

"Thank you. I hope you did not think I was unnecessarily curious?"

"No."

"And now to continue. What other reason had you for not wishing to go out with Godfrey?"

"He had been very rude a fortnight before, and Mr. Allonby punished him. I knew he would try to revenge himself on me as soon as Mr. Allonby was gone—he said so."

"Exactly; but you went?"

"Yes, I was obliged to go. So we started along the Quarry Road, and when we got some way we began to quarrel. I had a book with me that Mr. Allonby had given me, and Godfrey tried to take it away. I would not let him, and he grew very angry. I held it above my head, and he sprung up and hung on me, and managed somehow to get his foot underneath mine, so that I slipped on the road, and he got the book. I was feeling very low-spirited, and so weary of his tiresome ways that I began to cry. We were on the road leading to the cliff from the quarries, close to the cottage where Mrs. Parker lives. She has a son called Saul who is an idiot, and he hates Godfrey, because he used to set his bull-dog at him. The other day Saul threw a stone at Godfrey from behind a tree, and hit his leg, and so Godfrey was determined to pay him out. When he saw the cottage it reminded him of this, so he said he should run home to the stable-yard, and get Venom, his dog. He turned back, and ran along the road towards home, and I was too tired and too unhappy to follow him. I thought I would give him the slip, so I just went off and hid myself in the woods by Boveney Hollow. I sat in the woods and cried for a long time, and at last the wind had risen so, and the sky looked so black and threatening, that I was frightened, and I guessed that Godfrey had gone home by that time, so I came out of the woods by the shortest way, and when I reached the high-road I met Mr. Fowler and Mr. Cranmer, so I went home with them."

"And that was the last you saw of your brother?"

"Yes."

"He ran home to fetch his dog, in order to set it at Saul Parker the idiot?"

"Yes. He had done it before. He said it was to teach Saul to behave himself; for you know poor Saul doesn't know any manners, and he is always rude to strangers, he hates them so. If he so much as sees the back of a person he does not know, he begins to scream with rage."

"Is he—this idiot—considered dangerous?"

"Dangerous? Oh, no, I think he is quite gentle, unless you tease him. At least, I do remember Clara Battishill saying that he was growing cruel. He is a big boy. Mr. Fowler tried to persuade his mother to let him go to a home, where they would teach him to occupy himself; but she cried so bitterly at the idea of losing him; he is all she has to love."

Mr. Percivale was silent; his eyes perused the pattern of the worn carpet.

Furtively Elsa lifted her eyelids, and critically examined his face. A high, noble-looking head, the eyes of a dreamer, the chin of a poet, the mouth of a man both resolute and pure.

His fair moustache did not obscure the firm sweet line between the lips; something there was about him which did not belong to the nineteenth century; an atmosphere of lofty purpose and ideal simplicity. His expression was quite unlike anything one is accustomed to see. There was no cynicism, no spite, no half-amused, half-bored tolerance of a trivial world—none of that air of being exactly equipped for the circumstances in which he found himself, which belonged so completely to Claud Cranmer.

This was a nature quite apart from its surroundings—a nature which had formed an ideal, and would never mingle but with the realization of this ideal. For this man the chances of happiness were terribly few; he could never adapt himself, never consent to put up with anything lower or less than he had dreamed of. If by the mysterious workings of fate he could meet and win a woman whose soul was as pure, whose standard as lofty as his own, he would enjoy a happiness undreamed of here below by the many thousands who soar not above mediocrity; but if—if, as was so terribly probable, he should make a mistake; if, after all, he took Leah instead of Rachel, he would touch a depth of misery and despair equally unknown to the generality of mankind. For him existed no possibility of compromise; his one hope of felicity rested upon the simple accident of whom he should fall in love with. And, by a strange paradox, the very loftiness of his nature and singleness of his mind rendered him far less capable of forming a true judgment than a man like Claud, who had "dipped in life's struggle and out again," had many times

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."