CHAPTER XXX.
East, west,
North, south I looked. The lie was dead
And damned, and Truth stood up instead.
Count Gismond.
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.