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 the Swan, 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 means salvation for 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 was sure she 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.