"As to you, you have just bought that expensive fowling-piece. Whenever my weekly balance is low, I shall send you out shooting. No more butcher's meat till things come right again."

"Ah! Henry Fowler speaks the truth. I am indeed a hen-pecked husband."

"Claud! How dare you? I am sure Mr. Fowler never said such a thing."

"I never said he did."

"You are quite too foolish; and now you must let me go, for here comes George, and he is bringing the tea-tray out here."

"Well done, George," said Mr. Cranmer. "Just what I feel to want. And there comes the postman over the bridge. Run like a good little girl and bring me my letters."

"None for you," said Wyn, returning. "Only one for the Honorable Mrs. C.

Cranmer, from Lady Mabel."

As she stood by the rustic tea-table, opening and reading her letter, her husband, for the hundredth time, thought how pretty she looked.

Fresh and dainty as to her gown, her face just tinged with color, no longer unnaturally thin, but alive and sparkling with animation. Her soft hair waved about her in the pleasant air, her sole ornaments were the two wide gold rings on the third finger of her left hand. Henry Fowler had witnessed the change he had so longed to effect in her--the combined result of happiness and the Combe air.

From her serene brow to her neatly-shod feet, this doting Claud had not a fault to find with her. She was his own, the darling of his heart, the fulfilment of every need of his soul.

But, even as he gazed, Wyn's happy face clouded; a furrow came in the smooth forehead.

"Oh, Claud!" she said, hurriedly, "here is something very disagreeable.

I wonder if Mr. Fowler can have heard this; it would be enough to make him feel very disturbed, at least. Mabel is at Moynart, and Edward joined her yesterday, and he says there is a hateful story about Mr.

Percivale going the round of the clubs."

"My child, there usually is a hateful story about him going the round of the clubs----"

"Yes, but Colonel Wynch-Frere seems to think there is something in this one. The names and dates are so accurate. I--it was before my time. Did you ever hear of R----?"

She named a notorious political offender, who, nearly thirty years before, fled to Germany, and there committed suicide on the eve of his arrest.

"Yes," said Claud, thoughtfully, "I remember hearing of it. I was in the nursery at the time. I think Mabel and I acted the whole scene together.

We liked a violent death of any sort. But what about him?"

"They say Leon Percivale is his son."

Claud raised his eyes to the scene before him. There lay the bay, there was the spot where the white _Swan_ had anch.o.r.ed. There in the dawn, a twelvemonth ago, he had seen the sun rise over Percivale the victor--Percivale, who had saved Elsa Brabourne from a stigma worse than death.

Now the blow had fallen. The girl whom he had rescued had betrayed him, as Claud had feared she would. The blood rushed to his face, a storm of angry sorrow to his heart. Why, why had such a man wasted his heart on so slight a thing as Elsa?

Wynifred's eyes rested keenly on her husband. She saw his silence, his consternation.

"Oh, Claud, it is not true, is it?"

"No, darling, I know that it is not true; and yet--yet--I fear there is some truth in it."

She came close to him, laying her hands on his shoulders.

"Who can have spoken of such a thing?" she said, earnestly.

"There was only one human being who knew the facts," was the answer.

"That was--his wife."

"Claud, no!" Her vehemence startled him. "You should say such a thing of no wife!" she cried. "It is impossible--unnatural! She never could have betrayed such a secret!"

He rose, and slipped an arm round her neck.

"You judge all women by your own standard, dear."

"I don't! I don't do anything of the kind! I do not think highly of Elsa--you know I never did! But that would be too horrible. It has come out some other way. No wife could be such a traitor."

As she spoke the words, Henry Fowler came over the bridge; and instinctively they held their breath. His face looked calmer and he was smiling.

"Well, young people," he said, brightly, "my eyes are getting old, you know, but I don't fancy I'm wrong. Claud, look out to sea. Isn't there a sail out there towards Lyme? Isn't it the cutter?"

Claud turned his eyes in the direction indicated.

"Right enough," he said. "If this breeze holds, she'll be here in no time. She has made her journey a day faster than was expected."

"Ay lad! It's a year to-day since she came sailing into the bay!

Yesterday was the night of the great storm."

He turned to Wyn. "I got a bit upset to-day by some foolish talk that I heard in Stanton about Leon. But I've decided to think no more of it. As soon as I see him I know I should feel ashamed of myself to have thought ill of the lad--G.o.d bless him! Now, Mrs. Cranmer, a cup of tea, if you please, for I must be off down to the sh.o.r.e."

Wyn slipped her letter into her pocket, and betook herself to the tea-pot. Her husband hastily got up, leaving his own tea almost untasted, and disappeared into the house to collect himself a little; for he felt as though his meeting with Percivale might be agitating.

CHAPTER LIII.

A lie which is half the truth is even the blackest of lies.

For a lie which is all a lie may be met with and fought outright, But a lie which is half a truth is a harder matter to fight.

_The Grandmother._

An excited crowd had quickly collected on the beach when the news spread like wild-fire through the village that the _Swan_ was sailing into the bay.

The premature arrival of the yacht was almost a disappointment to William Clapp, Joe Battishill and others, who were rigging up a triumphal arch in preparation for the morrow.

Elaine's London wedding had been a great downfall to the hopes of the natives of the Combe; and now they desired to make up for it by welcoming her in a manner suitable to the triumphs she had achieved.

Leon, leaning against the rail aft, as he had done a year ago, saw the a.s.semblage of excited people, and a crowd of memories arose within him.

So they had stood, a dark, eager group, on the breezy morning when first the Valley of Avilion had broken upon his gaze. How calm had been his mood, then! How serene his horizon! A tranquil peace was his habit of mind, no storm of pa.s.sion had come to lash that deep heart of his into swelling waves.

Since that day all had changed. His whole being had suffered revolution.

How many sensations had successively dominated his soul! Emotion, excitement, longing, pa.s.sion, triumph, and reaction.