_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, n.o.body 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 ma.s.s 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 bia.s.sed. 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 my _Swan_. The men are waiting for me on the sh.o.r.e."

"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.

"Muller!" 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 r.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 pa.s.sed. It reminded him of the sad sighing of old t.i.thonus, 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 t.i.thonus to Henry Fowler. His eye roamed over

"The ever silent s.p.a.ces 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 ma.s.s 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.

The _Swan_ lay 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 sh.o.r.e, 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.

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

But most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love.