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 the Swan into 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 decided not to 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 mostly are very 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:

His heart began to beat loudly at the thought of seeing her again so soon. How beautiful she was! What would she look like if she stood there—just there on the white deck of the Swan, with a background of flickering sea and melting air, and a face from which horror and appeal were gone, leaving only the fair graciousness of maidenhood? The thought was delicious. Raising himself on his elbow, he looked around. How pretty his yacht was! How glad he felt that this was so. Was it good enough to bear the pressure of her little foot? Dare he invite her to come on board, even if only for a moment, that he might always hereafter feel the joy of knowing that her presence had been there?

And what when she had gone again—when the few moments were over, and she had departed, taking with her all light from the skies, and all heart from life?

He tried to fancy what his feelings might be, when again the anchor was weighed, and he should see the coast receding behind the swift Swan. Could he bear it? That seemed the question. Was it possible that he should bid good-bye to this valley as he had bid good-bye to so many a fair spot before?

He tossed himself impatiently over. He could not do it. No, no, and again no! Was he Vanderdecken, that he should fly from place to place and find no rest? Was this roving so very pleasant, after all?... what had been the charm of it?... And he was certainly very lonely. Doubtless it was a selfish life. He knew he had adopted it for reason good and sufficient—a reason which had not been of his own seeking. But now——

He sprang from his sofa and wandered to and fro on the deck. That restlessness was upon him which comes to all of us, when suddenly we discover that the life which we have hitherto found sufficient is henceforth impossible to us. Looking steadily into the future, facing it squarely, as his manner was, he recoiled for a moment. For he seemed to see, in a single flash, all his life culminating in one end—all the love of his heart fixed upon one object.

How much he required of her? Suppose—suppose——Oh, fate, fate, how many possibilities arose to vex his soul! Suppose she loved Allonby. Suppose she should never be able to care for him—Percivale. And then arose in his heart a mighty and determined will to carry this thing through, and make her love him. At that moment he felt a power surge within him which nothing could withstand. As he stood there on the deck, he was already a conqueror;—he had slain the monster—surely he could win the heart of the maiden, as all doughty champions were wont to do.

The mist was broken away now, and the roof of Edge Willoughby—the roof which sheltered Elsa—was visible to his eyes. He sent an unspoken blessing across the water towards it.

The restlessness began to subside.

He threw himself again on the sofa, and this time the wooing air seemed to creep into his brain and make him drowsy. His thoughts lost their continuity and became scrappy, disjointed, hazy. At last fatigue asserted its empire finally. The lids closed over the steadfast eyes; and the young champion slept, with his cheek pillowed on his arm, and his strong limbs stretched out in a delicious lassitude.

The sailors crept, one after the other, to look upon him as he slept. Old MÜller, who had held him in his arms as a baby, gazed down at him with fond triumph. There was little he could not do, this young master of theirs, they proudly thought, and, as MÜller noted the noble innocence of the sleeping face, it recalled to him vividly the deathbed of the young mother of eighteen, as she lay broken-hearted, sinking away out of life in far off Littsdoff, a remote village of north Germany. A tear slid down his weather-stained face, as he thought in his sentimental German way how proud that poor child would have been of her son could she have lived to know his future.