"That's the deuce of it," says Sir Thomas, with a dismal shake of the head. "Between you and me, I dread telling her. There will be an explosion, my boy--an explosion. But I've made up my mind to go through with it, and go through with it I will."
He jingles the loose change in his pocket and whistles under his breath, but is evidently far from easy in his mind.
It need hardly be said that Eleanor stands higher in the favour of Lady Dudgeon than ever she did before. If she is penniless herself, has she not a husband who is worth twenty thousand pounds? Her ladyship could afford to condone much in face of such a golden fact as that. Not that there is anything to condone in the case of Eleanor, as matters have turned out; but had it unhappily been the case that Gerald was not his uncle's heir, it may be feared that Eleanor's offences would have been altogether past condonation.
The evening wears on, and one after another the young people take their leave, till only a few are left, who are not going home till morning. These, tired out at last with dancing and romping, gather round Ambrose Murray, and beg of him to tell them a fairy tale. So he tells them a tale in which there is a giant and a dwarf, and a castle with walls of brass, and a magic horn that hangs by the gate, and a beautiful princess who is shut up in a dungeon, and a brave knight who has many wonderful adventures and hair-breadth escapes.
When the tale is done, being a little weary, he bids the children a kindly goodnight, then he shakes hands with Sir Thomas and Lady Dudgeon, and asks them to excuse his retiring. Eleanor goes with him to the foot of the stairs, where they kiss each other and say goodnight. Eleanor stands and watches him as he goes slowly up the wide staircase, looking very tired, she thinks. He turns when he reaches the landing, and smiles, and waves his hand to her. She blows him a last kiss. Next moment he is gone, and she hurries back to the drawing-room.
When Ambrose Murray reaches his room, he rakes the glowing embers together, and puts out his candle. He often sits in the dark for hours. Then he draws up one of the blinds, and looks out. The atmosphere is very clear, and the sky is brilliant with stars. He stands there for a long time, gazing up at the stars with rapt look on his face. His thoughts are evidently far away--far away, it may be, from earth and all its weariness and troubles. By-and-by he goes and kneels down by the side of his bed, and clasps his hands.
And there next morning they find him, still kneeling, still with clasped hands, and with a look of ineffable peace on his white, worn face--of that peace which passeth all understanding.