A ray of moon pierced the drifting clouds, and showed him Aureole, huddled on the seat, a woebegone little figure, with wisps of soaked veil and hair blown flat on to her pinched white face; not a trace left of the flare and defiant glow with which she had started on her pursuit of love à la troubadour. And he became suddenly human, and very sorry for her, and rather embarrassed at his former rant and rhetoric.
“Never mind, dear; we’re tacking landwards now; and not a soul need ever know the facts of this. If anyone asks, you’ve been for a spin with a tomfool skipper who didn’t know dirty weather when he saw it. I expect Mr. Kyndersley can be trusted to keep his mouth shut,” with a scathing glance at the second of the romantic pair, who, at the moment, was emphatically not fulfilling these expectations.
They landed at the same spot where they had previously embarked. Stuart was eager to get Aureole home; he saw she was on the verge of a breakdown; and recognizing perhaps the new note of solicitude and pity in his tones, she seemed to cling to him. Without a word of farewell, they left Bertram standing on the shore; carrying in one hand a smashed guitar, with the other hand striving to gather closer about his shivering figure, the sodden folds of his cloak. It was not till his two companions were finally gulped by the darkness, as they passed up the winding road of the Chine, that his bewildered consciousness was slowly illumined by recognition of his freedom.
“Did you have any luggage?” Stuart demanded of Aureole, as he supported her up the drive of the Farme.
“No—yes; only a small bag; it’s still in the boat.”
“Then what——?”
“Bertram was going to buy me all I wanted.”
Stuart wondered if his ten-pound note, as well as his boat, was to have been pressed into service for the elopement.
They found the hall deserted; from behind the dining-room door could be heard sounds indicative of dinner progressing within.