A PAIR OF BLUE EYES

by Thomas Hardy

 'A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent, sweet not lasting, The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more. '

PREFACE

The following chapters were written at a time when the craze forindiscriminate church-restoration had just reached the remotest nooksof western England, where the wild and tragic features of the coasthad long combined in perfect harmony with the crude Gothic Art of theecclesiastical buildings scattered along it, throwing into extraordinarydiscord all architectural attempts at newness there. To restore thegrey carcases of a mediaevalism whose spirit had fled, seemed a notless incongruous act than to set about renovating the adjoining cragsthemselves. 

Hence it happened that an imaginary history of three human hearts, whose emotions were not without correspondence with thesematerial circumstances, found in the ordinary incidents of suchchurch-renovations a fitting frame for its presentation. 

The shore and country about 'Castle Boterel' is now getting well known, and will be readily recognized. The spot is, I may add, the furthestwestward of all those convenient corners wherein I have ventured toerect my theatre for these imperfect little dramas of country life andpassions; and it lies near to, or no great way beyond, the vague borderof the Wessex kingdom on that side, which, like the westering verge ofmodern American settlements, was progressive and uncertain. 

This, however, is of little importance. The place is pre-eminently (forone person at least) the region of dream and mystery. The ghostly birds, the pall-like sea, the frothy wind, the eternal soliloquy of the waters, the bloom of dark purple cast, that seems to exhale from the shorewardprecipices, in themselves lend to the scene an atmosphere like thetwilight of a night vision. 

One enormous sea-bord cliff in particular figures in the narrative; andfor some forgotten reason or other this cliff was described in the storyas being without a name. Accuracy would require the statement to bethat a remarkable cliff which resembles in many points the cliff of thedescription bears a name that no event has made famous. 

 T. H. March 1899

 THE PERSONS

 ELFRIDE SWANCOURT a young Lady CHRISTOPHER SWANCOURT a Clergyman STEPHEN SMITH an Architect HENRY KNIGHT a Reviewer and Essayist CHARLOTTE TROYTON a rich Widow GERTRUDE JETHWAY a poor Widow SPENSER HUGO LUXELLIAN a Peer LADY LUXELLIAN his Wife MARY AND KATE two little Girls WILLIAM WORM a dazed Factotum JOHN SMITH a Master-mason JANE SMITH his Wife MARTIN CANNISTER a Sexton UNITY a Maid-servant

 Other servants, masons, labourers, grooms, nondescripts, etc. , etc. 

THE SCENE

Mostly on the outskirts of Lower Wessex. 

Chapter I

 'A fair vestal, throned in the west'

Elfride Swancourt was a girl whose emotions lay very near the surface. Their nature more precisely, and as modified by the creeping hoursof time, was known only to those who watched the circumstances of herhistory. 

Personally, she was the combination of very interesting particulars, whose rarity, however, lay in the combination itself rather than in theindividual elements combined. As a matter of fact, you did not see theform and substance of her features when conversing with her; and thischarming power of preventing a material study of her lineaments by aninterlocutor, originated not in the cloaking effect of a well-formedmanner (for her manner was childish and scarcely formed), but in theattractive crudeness of the remarks themselves. She had lived all herlife in retirement--the monstrari gigito of idle men had not flatteredher, and at the age of nineteen or twenty she was no further on insocial consciousness than an urban young lady of fifteen. 

One point in her, however, you did notice: that was her eyes. In themwas seen a sublimation of all of her; it was not necessary to lookfurther: there she lived. 

These eyes were blue; blue as autumn distance--blue as the blue we seebetween the retreating mouldings of hills and woody slopes on a sunnySeptember morning. A misty and shady blue, that had no beginning orsurface, and was looked INTO rather than AT. 

As to her presence, it was not powerful; it was weak. Some women canmake their personality pervade the atmosphere of a whole banquetinghall; Elfride's was no more pervasive than that of a kitten. 

Elfride had as her own the thoughtfulness which appears in the face ofthe Madonna della Sedia, without its rapture: the warmth and spiritof the type of woman's feature most common to the beauties--mortaland immortal--of Rubens, without their insistent fleshiness. Thecharacteristic expression of the female faces of Correggio--that of theyearning human thoughts that lie too deep for tears--was hers sometimes, but seldom under ordinary conditions. 

The point in Elfride Swancourt's life at which a deeper current may besaid to have permanently set in, was one winter afternoon when she foundherself standing, in the character of hostess, face to face with a manshe had never seen before--moreover, looking at him with a Miranda-likecuriosity and interest that she had never yet bestowed on a mortal. 

On this particular day her father, the vicar of a parish on thesea-swept outskirts of Lower Wessex, and a widower, was suffering froman attack of gout. After finishing her household supervisions Elfridebecame restless, and several times left the room, ascended thestaircase, and knocked at her father's chamber-door. 

'Come in!' was always answered in a hearty out-of-door voice from theinside. 

'Papa, ' she said on one occasion to the fine, red-faced, handsome man offorty, who, puffing and fizzing like a bursting bottle, lay on the bedwrapped in a dressing-gown, and every now and then enunciating, in spiteof himself, about one letter of some word or words that were almostoaths; 'papa, will you not come downstairs this evening?' She spokedistinctly: he was rather deaf. 

'Afraid not--eh-hh!--very much afraid I shall not, Elfride. Piph-ph-ph!I can't bear even a handkerchief upon this deuced toe of mine, much lessa stocking or slipper--piph-ph-ph! There 'tis again! No, I shan't get uptill to-morrow. '

'Then I hope this London man won't come; for I don't know what I shoulddo, papa. '

'Well, it would be awkward, certainly. '

'I should hardly think he would come to-day. '

'Why?'

'Because the wind blows so. '

'Wind! What ideas you have, Elfride! Who ever heard of wind stopping aman from doing his business? The idea of this toe of mine coming on sosuddenly!. .. If he should come, you must send him up to me, I suppose, and then give him some food and put him to bed in some way. Dear me, what a nuisance all this is!'

'Must he have dinner?'

'Too heavy for a tired man at the end of a tedious journey. '

'Tea, then?'

'Not substantial enough. '

'High tea, then? There is cold fowl, rabbit-pie, some pasties, andthings of that kind. '

'Yes, high tea. '

'Must I pour out his tea, papa?'

'Of course; you are the mistress of the house. '

'What! sit there all the time with a stranger, just as if I knew him, and not anybody to introduce us?'

'Nonsense, child, about introducing; you know better than that. Apractical professional man, tired and hungry, who has been travellingever since daylight this morning, will hardly be inclined to talk andair courtesies to-night. He wants food and shelter, and you must seethat he has it, simply because I am suddenly laid up and cannot. Thereis nothing so dreadful in that, I hope? You get all kinds of stuff intoyour head from reading so many of those novels. '

'Oh no; there is nothing dreadful in it when it becomes plainly a caseof necessity like this. But, you see, you are always there when peoplecome to dinner, even if we know them; and this is some strange Londonman of the world, who will think it odd, perhaps. '

'Very well; let him. '

'Is he Mr. Hewby's partner?'

'I should scarcely think so: he may be. '

'How old is he, I wonder?'

'That I cannot tell. You will find the copy of my letter to Mr. Hewby, and his answer, upon the table in the study. You may read them, and thenyou'll know as much as I do about our visitor. '

'I have read them. '

'Well, what's the use of asking questions, then? They contain all Iknow. Ugh-h-h!. .. Od plague you, you young scamp! don't put anythingthere! I can't bear the weight of a fly. '

'Oh, I am sorry, papa. I forgot; I thought you might be cold, ' she said, hastily removing the rug she had thrown upon the feet of the sufferer;and waiting till she saw that consciousness of her offence had passedfrom his face, she withdrew from the room, and retired again downstairs. 

Chapter II

 'Twas on the evening of a winter's day. '

When two or three additional hours had merged the same afternoon inevening, some moving outlines might have been observed against the skyon the summit of a wild lone hill in that district. They circumscribedtwo men, having at present the aspect of silhouettes, sitting in adog-cart and pushing along in the teeth of the wind. Scarcely a solitaryhouse or man had been visible along the whole dreary distance of opencountry they were traversing; and now that night had begun to fall, the faint twilight, which still gave an idea of the landscape totheir observation, was enlivened by the quiet appearance of the planetJupiter, momentarily gleaming in intenser brilliancy in front of them, and by Sirius shedding his rays in rivalry from his position over theirshoulders. The only lights apparent on earth were some spots of dullred, glowing here and there upon the distant hills, which, as the driverof the vehicle gratuitously remarked to the hirer, were smoulderingfires for the consumption of peat and gorse-roots, where the common wasbeing broken up for agricultural purposes. The wind prevailed with butlittle abatement from its daytime boisterousness, three or four smallclouds, delicate and pale, creeping along under the sky southward to theChannel. 

Fourteen of the sixteen miles intervening between the railway terminusand the end of their journey had been gone over, when they began to passalong the brink of a valley some miles in extent, wherein the wintryskeletons of a more luxuriant vegetation than had hitherto surroundedthem proclaimed an increased richness of soil, which showed signs of farmore careful enclosure and management than had any slopes they had yetpassed. A little farther, and an opening in the elms stretching up fromthis fertile valley revealed a mansion. 

'That's Endelstow House, Lord Luxellian's, ' said the driver. 

'Endelstow House, Lord Luxellian's, ' repeated the other mechanically. He then turned himself sideways, and keenly scrutinized the almostinvisible house with an interest which the indistinct picture itselfseemed far from adequate to create. 'Yes, that's Lord Luxellian's, ' hesaid yet again after a while, as he still looked in the same direction. 

'What, be we going there?'

'No; Endelstow Vicarage, as I have told you. '

'I thought you m't have altered your mind, sir, as ye have stared thatway at nothing so long. '

'Oh no; I am interested in the house, that's all. '

'Most people be, as the saying is. '

'Not in the sense that I am. '

'Oh!. .. Well, his family is no better than my own, 'a b'lieve. '

'How is that?'

'Hedgers and ditchers by rights. But once in ancient times one of 'em, when he was at work, changed clothes with King Charles the Second, andsaved the king's life. King Charles came up to him like a common man, and said off-hand, "Man in the smock-frock, my name is Charles theSecond, and that's the truth on't. Will you lend me your clothes?" "Idon't mind if I do, " said Hedger Luxellian; and they changed there andthen. "Now mind ye, " King Charles the Second said, like a common man, ashe rode away, "if ever I come to the crown, you come to court, knock atthe door, and say out bold, 'Is King Charles the Second at home?' Tellyour name, and they shall let you in, and you shall be made a lord. "Now, that was very nice of Master Charley?'

'Very nice indeed. '

'Well, as the story is, the king came to the throne; and some yearsafter that, away went Hedger Luxellian, knocked at the king's door, and asked if King Charles the Second was in. "No, he isn't, " they said. "Then, is Charles the Third?" said Hedger Luxellian. "Yes, " said a youngfeller standing by like a common man, only he had a crown on, "my nameis Charles the Third. " And----'

'I really fancy that must be a mistake. I don't recollect anything inEnglish history about Charles the Third, ' said the other in a tone ofmild remonstrance. 

'Oh, that's right history enough, only 'twasn't prented; he was rather aqueer-tempered man, if you remember. '

'Very well; go on. '

'And, by hook or by crook, Hedger Luxellian was made a lord, andeverything went on well till some time after, when he got into a mostterrible row with King Charles the Fourth. 

'I can't stand Charles the Fourth. Upon my word, that's too much. '

'Why? There was a George the Fourth, wasn't there?'

'Certainly. '

'Well, Charleses be as common as Georges. However I'll say no more aboutit. .. . Ah, well! 'tis the funniest world ever I lived in--upon my life'tis. Ah, that such should be!'

The dusk had thickened into darkness while they thus conversed, and theoutline and surface of the mansion gradually disappeared. The windows, which had before been as black blots on a lighter expanse of wall, became illuminated, and were transfigured to squares of light on thegeneral dark body of the night landscape as it absorbed the outlines ofthe edifice into its gloomy monochrome. 

Not another word was spoken for some time, and they climbed a hill, thenanother hill piled on the summit of the first. An additional mile ofplateau followed, from which could be discerned two light-houses on thecoast they were nearing, reposing on the horizon with a calm lustre ofbenignity. Another oasis was reached; a little dell lay like a nest attheir feet, towards which the driver pulled the horse at a sharp angle, and descended a steep slope which dived under the trees like a rabbit'sburrow. They sank lower and lower. 

'Endelstow Vicarage is inside here, ' continued the man with the reins. 'This part about here is West Endelstow; Lord Luxellian's is EastEndelstow, and has a church to itself. Pa'son Swancourt is the pa'sonof both, and bobs backward and forward. Ah, well! 'tis a funny world. 'A b'lieve there was once a quarry where this house stands. The man whobuilt it in past time scraped all the glebe for earth to put round thevicarage, and laid out a little paradise of flowers and trees in thesoil he had got together in this way, whilst the fields he scraped havebeen good for nothing ever since. '

'How long has the present incumbent been here?'

'Maybe about a year, or a year and half: 'tisn't two years; for theydon't scandalize him yet; and, as a rule, a parish begins to scandalizethe pa'son at the end of two years among 'em familiar. But he's a verynice party. Ay, Pa'son Swancourt knows me pretty well from often drivingover; and I know Pa'son Swancourt. '

They emerged from the bower, swept round in a curve, and the chimneysand gables of the vicarage became darkly visible. Not a light showedanywhere. They alighted; the man felt his way into the porch, and rangthe bell. 

At the end of three or four minutes, spent in patient waiting withouthearing any sounds of a response, the stranger advanced and repeated thecall in a more decided manner. He then fancied he heard footsteps in thehall, and sundry movements of the door-knob, but nobody appeared. 

'Perhaps they beant at home, ' sighed the driver. 'And I promised myselfa bit of supper in Pa'son Swancourt's kitchen. Sich lovely mate-pize andfigged keakes, and cider, and drops o' cordial that they do keep here!'

'All right, naibours! Be ye rich men or be ye poor men, that ye mustneeds come to the world's end at this time o' night?' exclaimed a voiceat this instant; and, turning their heads, they saw a rickety individualshambling round from the back door with a horn lantern dangling from hishand. 

'Time o' night, 'a b'lieve! and the clock only gone seven of 'em. Show alight, and let us in, William Worm. '

'Oh, that you, Robert Lickpan?'

'Nobody else, William Worm. '

'And is the visiting man a-come?'

'Yes, ' said the stranger. 'Is Mr. Swancourt at home?'

'That 'a is, sir. And would ye mind coming round by the back way? Thefront door is got stuck wi' the wet, as he will do sometimes; and theTurk can't open en. I know I am only a poor wambling man that 'ill neverpay the Lord for my making, sir; but I can show the way in, sir. '

The new arrival followed his guide through a little door in a wall, andthen promenaded a scullery and a kitchen, along which he passed witheyes rigidly fixed in advance, an inbred horror of prying forbiddinghim to gaze around apartments that formed the back side of the householdtapestry. Entering the hall, he was about to be shown to his room, whenfrom the inner lobby of the front entrance, whither she had gone tolearn the cause of the delay, sailed forth the form of Elfride. Herstart of amazement at the sight of the visitor coming forth from underthe stairs proved that she had not been expecting this surprising flankmovement, which had been originated entirely by the ingenuity of WilliamWorm. 

She appeared in the prettiest of all feminine guises, that is to say, indemi-toilette, with plenty of loose curly hair tumbling down about hershoulders. An expression of uneasiness pervaded her countenance; andaltogether she scarcely appeared woman enough for the situation. Thevisitor removed his hat, and the first words were spoken; Elfrideprelusively looking with a deal of interest, not unmixed with surprise, at the person towards whom she was to do the duties of hospitality. 

'I am Mr. Smith, ' said the stranger in a musical voice. 

'I am Miss Swancourt, ' said Elfride. 

Her constraint was over. The great contrast between the reality shebeheld before her, and the dark, taciturn, sharp, elderly man ofbusiness who had lurked in her imagination--a man with clothes smellingof city smoke, skin sallow from want of sun, and talk flavoured withepigram--was such a relief to her that Elfride smiled, almost laughed, in the new-comer's face. 

Stephen Smith, who has hitherto been hidden from us by the darkness, wasat this time of his life but a youth in appearance, and barely a manin years. Judging from his look, London was the last place in the worldthat one would have imagined to be the scene of his activities: such aface surely could not be nourished amid smoke and mud and fog and dust;such an open countenance could never even have seen anything of 'theweariness, the fever, and the fret' of Babylon the Second. 

His complexion was as fine as Elfride's own; the pink of his cheeks asdelicate. His mouth as perfect as Cupid's bow in form, and as cherry-redin colour as hers. Bright curly hair; bright sparkling blue-gray eyes;a boy's blush and manner; neither whisker nor moustache, unless alittle light-brown fur on his upper lip deserved the latter title: thiscomposed the London professional man, the prospect of whose advent hadso troubled Elfride. 

Elfride hastened to say she was sorry to tell him that Mr. Swancourt wasnot able to receive him that evening, and gave the reason why. Mr. Smithreplied, in a voice boyish by nature and manly by art, that he was verysorry to hear this news; but that as far as his reception was concerned, it did not matter in the least. 

Stephen was shown up to his room. In his absence Elfride stealthilyglided into her father's. 

'He's come, papa. Such a young man for a business man!'

'Oh, indeed!'

'His face is--well--PRETTY; just like mine. '

'H'm! what next?'

'Nothing; that's all I know of him yet. It is rather nice, is it not?'

'Well, we shall see that when we know him better. Go down and give thepoor fellow something to eat and drink, for Heaven's sake. And when hehas done eating, say I should like to have a few words with him, if hedoesn't mind coming up here. '

The young lady glided downstairs again, and whilst she awaits youngSmith's entry, the letters referring to his visit had better be given. 

1. --MR. SWANCOURT TO MR. HEWBY. 

'ENDELSTOW VICARAGE, Feb. 18, 18--. 

'SIR, --We are thinking of restoring the tower and aisle of the church inthis parish; and Lord Luxellian, the patron of the living, has mentionedyour name as that of a trustworthy architect whom it would be desirableto ask to superintend the work. 

'I am exceedingly ignorant of the necessary preliminary steps. Probably, however, the first is that (should you be, as Lord Luxellian says youare, disposed to assist us) yourself or some member of your staff comeand see the building, and report thereupon for the satisfaction ofparishioners and others. 

'The spot is a very remote one: we have no railway within fourteenmiles; and the nearest place for putting up at--called a town, thoughmerely a large village--is Castle Boterel, two miles further on; so thatit would be most convenient for you to stay at the vicarage--which I amglad to place at your disposal--instead of pushing on to the hotel atCastle Boterel, and coming back again in the morning. 

'Any day of the next week that you like to name for the visit will findus quite ready to receive you. --Yours very truly, CHRISTOPHER SWANCOURT. 

2. --MR. HEWBY TO MR. SWANCOURT. 

"PERCY PLACE, CHARING CROSS, Feb. 20, 18--. 

'DEAR SIR, --Agreeably to your request of the 18th instant, I havearranged to survey and make drawings of the aisle and tower of yourparish church, and of the dilapidations which have been suffered toaccrue thereto, with a view to its restoration. 

'My assistant, Mr. Stephen Smith, will leave London by the early trainto-morrow morning for the purpose. Many thanks for your proposal toaccommodate him. He will take advantage of your offer, and willprobably reach your house at some hour of the evening. You may put everyconfidence in him, and may rely upon his discernment in the matter ofchurch architecture. 

'Trusting that the plans for the restoration, which I shall prepare fromthe details of his survey, will prove satisfactory to yourself and LordLuxellian, I am, dear sir, yours faithfully, WALTER HEWBY. '

Chapter III

 'Melodious birds sing madrigals'

That first repast in Endelstow Vicarage was a very agreeable one toyoung Stephen Smith. The table was spread, as Elfride had suggested toher father, with the materials for the heterogeneous meal called hightea--a class of refection welcome to all when away from men and towns, and particularly attractive to youthful palates. The table was prettilydecked with winter flowers and leaves, amid which the eye was greeted bychops, chicken, pie, &c. , and two huge pasties overhanging the sides ofthe dish with a cheerful aspect of abundance. 

At the end, towards the fireplace, appeared the tea-service, ofold-fashioned Worcester porcelain, and behind this arose the slightform of Elfride, attempting to add matronly dignity to the movement ofpouring out tea, and to have a weighty and concerned look in matters ofmarmalade, honey, and clotted cream. Having made her own meal before hearrived, she found to her embarrassment that there was nothing left forher to do but talk when not assisting him. She asked him if he wouldexcuse her finishing a letter she had been writing at a side-table, and, after sitting down to it, tingled with a sense of being grossly rude. However, seeing that he noticed nothing personally wrong in her, andthat he too was embarrassed when she attentively watched his cup torefill it, Elfride became better at ease; and when furthermore heaccidentally kicked the leg of the table, and then nearly upset histea-cup, just as schoolboys did, she felt herself mistress of thesituation, and could talk very well. In a few minutes ingenuousnessand a common term of years obliterated all recollection that they werestrangers just met. Stephen began to wax eloquent on extremely slightexperiences connected with his professional pursuits; and she, havingno experiences to fall back upon, recounted with much animation storiesthat had been related to her by her father, which would have astonishedhim had he heard with what fidelity of action and tone they wererendered. Upon the whole, a very interesting picture of Sweet-and-Twentywas on view that evening in Mr. Swancourt's house. 

Ultimately Stephen had to go upstairs and talk loud to the vicar, receiving from him between his puffs a great many apologies for callinghim so unceremoniously to a stranger's bedroom. 'But, ' continued Mr. Swancourt, 'I felt that I wanted to say a few words to you before themorning, on the business of your visit. One's patience gets exhaustedby staying a prisoner in bed all day through a sudden freak of one'senemy--new to me, though--for I have known very little of gout as yet. However, he's gone to my other toe in a very mild manner, and I expecthe'll slink off altogether by the morning. I hope you have been wellattended to downstairs?'

'Perfectly. And though it is unfortunate, and I am sorry to see youlaid up, I beg you will not take the slightest notice of my being in thehouse the while. '

'I will not. But I shall be down to-morrow. My daughter is an excellentdoctor. A dose or two of her mild mixtures will fetch me round quickerthan all the drug stuff in the world. Well, now about the churchbusiness. Take a seat, do. We can't afford to stand upon ceremony inthese parts as you see, and for this reason, that a civilized humanbeing seldom stays long with us; and so we cannot waste time inapproaching him, or he will be gone before we have had the pleasure ofclose acquaintance. This tower of ours is, as you will notice, entirelygone beyond the possibility of restoration; but the church itself iswell enough. You should see some of the churches in this county. Floorsrotten: ivy lining the walls. '

'Dear me!'

'Oh, that's nothing. The congregation of a neighbour of mine, whenevera storm of rain comes on during service, open their umbrellas and holdthem up till the dripping ceases from the roof. Now, if you will kindlybring me those papers and letters you see lying on the table, I willshow you how far we have got. '

Stephen crossed the room to fetch them, and the vicar seemed to noticemore particularly the slim figure of his visitor. 

'I suppose you are quite competent?' he said. 

'Quite, ' said the young man, colouring slightly. 

'You are very young, I fancy--I should say you are not more thannineteen?'

I am nearly twenty-one. '

'Exactly half my age; I am forty-two. '

'By the way, ' said Mr. Swancourt, after some conversation, 'you saidyour whole name was Stephen Fitzmaurice, and that your grandfather cameoriginally from Caxbury. Since I have been speaking, it has occurredto me that I know something of you. You belong to a well-known ancientcounty family--not ordinary Smiths in the least. '

'I don't think we have any of their blood in our veins. '

'Nonsense! you must. Hand me the "Landed Gentry. " Now, let me see. There, Stephen Fitzmaurice Smith--he lies in St. Mary's Church, doesn't he? Well, out of that family Sprang the Leaseworthy Smiths, andcollaterally came General Sir Stephen Fitzmaurice Smith of Caxbury----'

'Yes; I have seen his monument there, ' shouted Stephen. 'But there is noconnection between his family and mine: there cannot be. '

'There is none, possibly, to your knowledge. But look at this, my dearsir, ' said the vicar, striking his fist upon the bedpost for emphasis. 'Here are you, Stephen Fitzmaurice Smith, living in London, butspringing from Caxbury. Here in this book is a genealogical tree of theStephen Fitzmaurice Smiths of Caxbury Manor. You may be only a familyof professional men now--I am not inquisitive: I don't ask questions ofthat kind; it is not in me to do so--but it is as plain as the nose inyour face that there's your origin! And, Mr. Smith, I congratulate youupon your blood; blue blood, sir; and, upon my life, a very desirablecolour, as the world goes. '

'I wish you could congratulate me upon some more tangible quality, ' saidthe younger man, sadly no less than modestly. 

'Nonsense! that will come with time. You are young: all your life isbefore you. Now look--see how far back in the mists of antiquity my ownfamily of Swancourt have a root. Here, you see, ' he continued, turningto the page, 'is Geoffrey, the one among my ancestors who lost a baronybecause he would cut his joke. Ah, it's the sort of us! But the storyis too long to tell now. Ay, I'm a poor man--a poor gentleman, in fact:those I would be friends with, won't be friends with me; those who arewilling to be friends with me, I am above being friends with. Beyonddining with a neighbouring incumbent or two, and an occasionalchat--sometimes dinner--with Lord Luxellian, a connection of mine, I amin absolute solitude--absolute. '

'You have your studies, your books, and your--daughter. '

'Oh yes, yes; and I don't complain of poverty. Canto coram latrone. Well, Mr. Smith, don't let me detain you any longer in a sick room. Ha!that reminds me of a story I once heard in my younger days. ' Herethe vicar began a series of small private laughs, and Stephen lookedinquiry. 'Oh, no, no! it is too bad--too bad to tell!' continued Mr. Swancourt in undertones of grim mirth. 'Well, go downstairs; my daughtermust do the best she can with you this evening. Ask her to sing toyou--she plays and sings very nicely. Good-night; I feel as if I hadknown you for five or six years. I'll ring for somebody to show youdown. '

'Never mind, ' said Stephen, 'I can find the way. ' And he wentdownstairs, thinking of the delightful freedom of manner in the remotercounties in comparison with the reserve of London. 

'I forgot to tell you that my father was rather deaf, ' said Elfrideanxiously, when Stephen entered the little drawing-room. 

'Never mind; I know all about it, and we are great friends, ' the man ofbusiness replied enthusiastically. 'And, Miss Swancourt, will you kindlysing to me?'

To Miss Swancourt this request seemed, what in fact it was, exceptionally point-blank; though she guessed that her father had somehand in framing it, knowing, rather to her cost, of his unceremoniousway of utilizing her for the benefit of dull sojourners. At the sametime, as Mr. Smith's manner was too frank to provoke criticism, and hisage too little to inspire fear, she was ready--not to say pleased--toaccede. Selecting from the canterbury some old family ditties, that inyears gone by had been played and sung by her mother, Elfride sat downto the pianoforte, and began, ''Twas on the evening of a winter's day, 'in a pretty contralto voice. 

'Do you like that old thing, Mr. Smith?' she said at the end. 

'Yes, I do much, ' said Stephen--words he would have uttered, andsincerely, to anything on earth, from glee to requiem, that she mighthave chosen. 

'You shall have a little one by De Leyre, that was given me by a youngFrench lady who was staying at Endelstow House:

 '"Je l'ai plante, je l'ai vu naitre, Ce beau rosier ou les oiseaux, " &c. ;

and then I shall want to give you my own favourite for the very last, Shelley's "When the lamp is shattered, " as set to music by my poormother. I so much like singing to anybody who REALLY cares to hear me. '

Every woman who makes a permanent impression on a man is usuallyrecalled to his mind's eye as she appeared in one particular scene, which seems ordained to be her special form of manifestation throughoutthe pages of his memory. As the patron Saint has her attitude andaccessories in mediaeval illumination, so the sweetheart may be said tohave hers upon the table of her true Love's fancy, without which she israrely introduced there except by effort; and this though she may, onfurther acquaintance, have been observed in many other phases which onewould imagine to be far more appropriate to love's young dream. 

Miss Elfride's image chose the form in which she was beheld duringthese minutes of singing, for her permanent attitude of visitation toStephen's eyes during his sleeping and waking hours in after days. The profile is seen of a young woman in a pale gray silk dress withtrimmings of swan's-down, and opening up from a point in front, like awaistcoat without a shirt; the cool colour contrasting admirably withthe warm bloom of her neck and face. The furthermost candle on the pianocomes immediately in a line with her head, and half invisible itself, forms the accidentally frizzled hair into a nebulous haze of light, surrounding her crown like an aureola. Her hands are in their place onthe keys, her lips parted, and trilling forth, in a tender diminuendo, the closing words of the sad apostrophe:

 'O Love, who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier!'

Her head is forward a little, and her eyes directed keenly upward to thetop of the page of music confronting her. Then comes a rapid look intoStephen's face, and a still more rapid look back again to her business, her face having dropped its sadness, and acquired a certain expressionof mischievous archness the while; which lingered there for some time, but was never developed into a positive smile of flirtation. 

Stephen suddenly shifted his position from her right hand to her left, where there was just room enough for a small ottoman to stand betweenthe piano and the corner of the room. Into this nook he squeezedhimself, and gazed wistfully up into Elfride's face. So long and soearnestly gazed he, that her cheek deepened to a more and more crimsontint as each line was added to her song. Concluding, and pausingmotionless after the last word for a minute or two, she ventured to lookat him again. His features wore an expression of unutterable heaviness. 

'You don't hear many songs, do you, Mr. Smith, to take so much notice ofthese of mine?'

'Perhaps it was the means and vehicle of the song that I was noticing: Imean yourself, ' he answered gently. 

'Now, Mr. Smith!'

'It is perfectly true; I don't hear much singing. You mistake what I am, I fancy. Because I come as a stranger to a secluded spot, you think Imust needs come from a life of bustle, and know the latest movements ofthe day. But I don't. My life is as quiet as yours, and more solitary;solitary as death. '

'The death which comes from a plethora of life? But seriously, I canquite see that you are not the least what I thought you would be beforeI saw you. You are not critical, or experienced, or--much to mind. That's why I don't mind singing airs to you that I only half know. 'Finding that by this confession she had vexed him in a way she did notintend, she added naively, 'I mean, Mr. Smith, that you are better, notworse, for being only young and not very experienced. You don't think mylife here so very tame and dull, I know. '

'I do not, indeed, ' he said with fervour. 'It must be delightfullypoetical, and sparkling, and fresh, and----'

'There you go, Mr. Smith! Well, men of another kind, when I get them tobe honest enough to own the truth, think just the reverse: that my lifemust be a dreadful bore in its normal state, though pleasant for theexceptional few days they pass here. '

'I could live here always!' he said, and with such a tone and lookof unconscious revelation that Elfride was startled to find that herharmonies had fired a small Troy, in the shape of Stephen's heart. Shesaid quickly:

'But you can't live here always. '

'Oh no. ' And he drew himself in with the sensitiveness of a snail. 

Elfride's emotions were sudden as his in kindling, but the least ofwoman's lesser infirmities--love of admiration--caused an inflammabledisposition on his part, so exactly similar to her own, to appear asmeritorious in him as modesty made her own seem culpable in her. 

Chapter IV

 'Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap. '

For reasons of his own, Stephen Smith was stirring a short time afterdawn the next morning. From the window of his room he could see, first, two bold escarpments sloping down together like the letter V. Towardsthe bottom, like liquid in a funnel, appeared the sea, gray and small. On the brow of one hill, of rather greater altitude than its neighbour, stood the church which was to be the scene of his operations. The lonelyedifice was black and bare, cutting up into the sky from the very tipof the hill. It had a square mouldering tower, owning neither battlementnor pinnacle, and seemed a monolithic termination, of one substance withthe ridge, rather than a structure raised thereon. Round the church rana low wall; over-topping the wall in general level was the graveyard;not as a graveyard usually is, a fragment of landscape with its duevariety of chiaro-oscuro, but a mere profile against the sky, serratedwith the outlines of graves and a very few memorial stones. Not a treecould exist up there: nothing but the monotonous gray-green grass. 

Five minutes after this casual survey was made his bedroom was empty, and its occupant had vanished quietly from the house. 

At the end of two hours he was again in the room, looking warm andglowing. He now pursued the artistic details of dressing, which onhis first rising had been entirely omitted. And a very blooming boy helooked, after that mysterious morning scamper. His mouth was a triumphof its class. It was the cleanly-cut, piquantly pursed-up mouth ofWilliam Pitt, as represented in the well or little known bust byNollekens--a mouth which is in itself a young man's fortune, if properlyexercised. His round chin, where its upper part turned inward, stillcontinued its perfect and full curve, seeming to press in to a point thebottom of his nether lip at their place of junction. 

Once he murmured the name of Elfride. Ah, there she was! On the lawnin a plain dress, without hat or bonnet, running with a boy'svelocity, superadded to a girl's lightness, after a tame rabbit shewas endeavouring to capture, her strategic intonations of coaxing wordsalternating with desperate rushes so much out of keeping with them, thatthe hollowness of such expressions was but too evident to her pet, whodarted and dodged in carefully timed counterpart. 

The scene down there was altogether different from that of the hills. A thicket of shrubs and trees enclosed the favoured spot from thewilderness without; even at this time of the year the grass wasluxuriant there. No wind blew inside the protecting belt of evergreens, wasting its force upon the higher and stronger trees forming the outermargin of the grove. 

Then he heard a heavy person shuffling about in slippers, and calling'Mr. Smith!' Smith proceeded to the study, and found Mr. Swancourt. Theyoung man expressed his gladness to see his host downstairs. 

'Oh yes; I knew I should soon be right again. I have not made theacquaintance of gout for more than two years, and it generally goes offthe second night. Well, where have you been this morning? I saw you comein just now, I think!'

'Yes; I have been for a walk. '

'Start early?'

'Yes. '

'Very early, I think?'

'Yes, it was rather early. '

'Which way did you go? To the sea, I suppose. Everybody goes seaward. '

'No; I followed up the river as far as the park wall. '

'You are different from your kind. Well, I suppose such a wild place isa novelty, and so tempted you out of bed?'

'Not altogether a novelty. I like it. '

The youth seemed averse to explanation. 

'You must, you must; to go cock-watching the morning after a journey offourteen or sixteen hours. But there's no accounting for tastes, andI am glad to see that yours are no meaner. After breakfast, but notbefore, I shall be good for a ten miles' walk, Master Smith. '

Certainly there seemed nothing exaggerated in that assertion. Mr. Swancourt by daylight showed himself to be a man who, in common withthe other two people under his roof, had really strong claims to beconsidered handsome, --handsome, that is, in the sense in which the moonis bright: the ravines and valleys which, on a close inspection, areseen to diversify its surface being left out of the argument. His facewas of a tint that never deepened upon his cheeks nor lightened uponhis forehead, but remained uniform throughout; the usual neutralsalmon-colour of a man who feeds well--not to say too well--and does notthink hard; every pore being in visible working order. His tout ensemblewas that of a highly improved class of farmer, dressed up in the wrongclothes; that of a firm-standing perpendicular man, whose fall wouldhave been backwards in direction if he had ever lost his balance. 

The vicar's background was at present what a vicar's background shouldbe, his study. Here the consistency ends. All along the chimneypiecewere ranged bottles of horse, pig, and cow medicines, and against thewall was a high table, made up of the fragments of an old oak Iychgate. Upon this stood stuffed specimens of owls, divers, and gulls, and overthem bunches of wheat and barley ears, labelled with the date of theyear that produced them. Some cases and shelves, more or less ladenwith books, the prominent titles of which were Dr. Brown's 'Notes onthe Romans, ' Dr. Smith's 'Notes on the Corinthians, ' and Dr. Robinson's'Notes on the Galatians, Ephesians, and Philippians, ' just saved thecharacter of the place, in spite of a girl's doll's-house standing abovethem, a marine aquarium in the window, and Elfride's hat hanging on itscorner. 

'Business, business!' said Mr. Swancourt after breakfast. He began tofind it necessary to act the part of a fly-wheel towards the somewhatirregular forces of his visitor. 

They prepared to go to the church; the vicar, on second thoughts, mounting his coal-black mare to avoid exerting his foot too much atstarting. Stephen said he should want a man to assist him. 'Worm!' thevicar shouted. 

A minute or two after a voice was heard round the corner of thebuilding, mumbling, 'Ah, I used to be strong enough, but 'tis alterednow! Well, there, I'm as independent as one here and there, even if theydo write 'squire after their names. '

'What's the matter?' said the vicar, as William Worm appeared; when theremarks were repeated to him. 

'Worm says some very true things sometimes, ' Mr. Swancourt said, turningto Stephen. 'Now, as regards that word "esquire. " Why, Mr. Smith, that word "esquire" is gone to the dogs, --used on the letters of everyjackanapes who has a black coat. Anything else, Worm?'

'Ay, the folk have begun frying again!'

'Dear me! I'm sorry to hear that. '

'Yes, ' Worm said groaningly to Stephen, 'I've got such a noise in myhead that there's no living night nor day. 'Tis just for all the worldlike people frying fish: fry, fry, fry, all day long in my poor head, till I don't know whe'r I'm here or yonder. There, God A'mighty willfind it out sooner or later, I hope, and relieve me. '

'Now, my deafness, ' said Mr. Swancourt impressively, 'is a dead silence;but William Worm's is that of people frying fish in his head. Veryremarkable, isn't it?'

'I can hear the frying-pan a-fizzing as naterel as life, ' said Wormcorroboratively. 

'Yes, it is remarkable, ' said Mr. Smith. 

'Very peculiar, very peculiar, ' echoed the vicar; and they all thenfollowed the path up the hill, bounded on each side by a little stonewall, from which gleamed fragments of quartz and blood-red marbles, apparently of inestimable value, in their setting of brown alluvium. Stephen walked with the dignity of a man close to the horse's head, Wormstumbled along a stone's throw in the rear, and Elfride was nowherein particular, yet everywhere; sometimes in front, sometimes behind, sometimes at the sides, hovering about the procession like a butterfly;not definitely engaged in travelling, yet somehow chiming in at pointswith the general progress. 

The vicar explained things as he went on: 'The fact is, Mr. Smith, I didn't want this bother of church restoration at all, but itwas necessary to do something in self-defence, on account of thosed----dissenters: I use the word in its scriptural meaning, of course, not as an expletive. '

'How very odd!' said Stephen, with the concern demanded of seriousfriendliness. 

'Odd? That's nothing to how it is in the parish of Twinkley. Both thechurchwardens are----; there, I won't say what they are; and the clerkand the sexton as well. '

'How very strange!' said Stephen. 

'Strange? My dear sir, that's nothing to how it is in the parish ofSinnerton. However, as to our own parish, I hope we shall make someprogress soon. '

'You must trust to circumstances. '

'There are no circumstances to trust to. We may as well trust inProvidence if we trust at all. But here we are. A wild place, isn't it?But I like it on such days as these. '

The churchyard was entered on this side by a stone stile, over whichhaving clambered, you remained still on the wild hill, the within notbeing so divided from the without as to obliterate the sense of openfreedom. A delightful place to be buried in, postulating that delightcan accompany a man to his tomb under any circumstances. There wasnothing horrible in this churchyard, in the shape of tight mounds bondedwith sticks, which shout imprisonment in the ears rather than whisperrest; or trim garden-flowers, which only raise images of people in newblack crape and white handkerchiefs coming to tend them; or wheel-marks, which remind us of hearses and mourning coaches; or cypress-bushes, which make a parade of sorrow; or coffin-boards and bones lying behindtrees, showing that we are only leaseholders of our graves. No; nothingbut long, wild, untutored grass, diversifying the forms of the moundsit covered, --themselves irregularly shaped, with no eye to effect; theimpressive presence of the old mountain that all this was a part ofbeing nowhere excluded by disguising art. Outside were similar slopesand similar grass; and then the serene impassive sea, visible to awidth of half the horizon, and meeting the eye with the effect of avast concave, like the interior of a blue vessel. Detached rocks stoodupright afar, a collar of foam girding their bases, and repeating in itswhiteness the plumage of a countless multitude of gulls that restlesslyhovered about. 

'Now, Worm!' said Mr. Swancourt sharply; and Worm started into anattitude of attention at once to receive orders. Stephen and himselfwere then left in possession, and the work went on till early in theafternoon, when dinner was announced by Unity of the vicarage kitchenrunning up the hill without a bonnet. 

Elfride did not make her appearance inside the building till late inthe afternoon, and came then by special invitation from Stephen duringdinner. She looked so intensely LIVING and full of movement as she cameinto the old silent place, that young Smith's world began to be litby 'the purple light' in all its definiteness. Worm was got rid of bysending him to measure the height of the tower. 

What could she do but come close--so close that a minute arc of herskirt touched his foot--and asked him how he was getting on withhis sketches, and set herself to learn the principles of practicalmensuration as applied to irregular buildings? Then she must ascend thepulpit to re-imagine for the hundredth time how it would seem to be apreacher. 

Presently she leant over the front of the pulpit. 

'Don't you tell papa, will you, Mr. Smith, if I tell you something?' shesaid with a sudden impulse to make a confidence. 

'Oh no, that I won't, ' said he, staring up. 

'Well, I write papa's sermons for him very often, and he preaches thembetter than he does his own; and then afterwards he talks to people andto me about what he said in his sermon to-day, and forgets that I wroteit for him. Isn't it absurd?'

'How clever you must be!' said Stephen. 'I couldn't write a sermon forthe world. '

'Oh, it's easy enough, ' she said, descending from the pulpit and comingclose to him to explain more vividly. 'You do it like this. Did you everplay a game of forfeits called "When is it? where is it? what is it?"'

'No, never. '

'Ah, that's a pity, because writing a sermon is very much like playingthat game. You take the text. You think, why is it? what is it? and soon. You put that down under "Generally. " Then you proceed to the First, Secondly, and Thirdly. Papa won't have Fourthlys--says they are all myeye. Then you have a final Collectively, several pages of this beingput in great black brackets, writing opposite, "LEAVE THIS OUT IF THEFARMERS ARE FALLING ASLEEP. " Then comes your In Conclusion, then A FewWords And I Have Done. Well, all this time you have put on the backof each page, "KEEP YOUR VOICE DOWN"--I mean, ' she added, correctingherself, 'that's how I do in papa's sermon-book, because otherwise hegets louder and louder, till at last he shouts like a farmer up a-field. Oh, papa is so funny in some things!'

Then, after this childish burst of confidence, she was frightened, as ifwarned by womanly instinct, which for the moment her ardour had outrun, that she had been too forward to a comparative stranger. 

Elfride saw her father then, and went away into the wind, being caughtby a gust as she ascended the churchyard slope, in which gust she hadthe motions, without the motives, of a hoiden; the grace, without theself-consciousness, of a pirouetter. She conversed for a minute or twowith her father, and proceeded homeward, Mr. Swancourt coming on tothe church to Stephen. The wind had freshened his warm complexion as itfreshens the glow of a brand. He was in a mood of jollity, and watchedElfride down the hill with a smile. 

'You little flyaway! you look wild enough now, ' he said, and turned toStephen. 'But she's not a wild child at all, Mr. Smith. As steady asyou; and that you are steady I see from your diligence here. '

'I think Miss Swancourt very clever, ' Stephen observed. 

'Yes, she is; certainly, she is, ' said papa, turning his voice as muchas possible to the neutral tone of disinterested criticism. 'Now, Smith, I'll tell you something; but she mustn't know it for the world--not forthe world, mind, for she insists upon keeping it a dead secret. Why, SHEWRITES MY SERMONS FOR ME OFTEN, and a very good job she makes of them!'

'She can do anything. '

'She can do that. The little rascal has the very trick of the trade. But, mind you, Smith, not a word about it to her, not a single word!'

'Not a word, ' said Smith. 

'Look there, ' said Mr. Swancourt. 'What do you think of my roofing?' Hepointed with his walking-stick at the chancel roof, 'Did you do that, sir?'

'Yes, I worked in shirt-sleeves all the time that was going on. I pulleddown the old rafters, fixed the new ones, put on the battens, slatedthe roof, all with my own hands, Worm being my assistant. We worked likeslaves, didn't we, Worm?'

'Ay, sure, we did; harder than some here and there--hee, hee!' saidWilliam Worm, cropping up from somewhere. 'Like slaves, 'a b'lieve--hee, hee! And weren't ye foaming mad, sir, when the nails wouldn't gostraight? Mighty I! There, 'tisn't so bad to cuss and keep it in as tocuss and let it out, is it, sir?'

'Well--why?'

'Because you, sir, when ye were a-putting on the roof, only used to cussin your mind, which is, I suppose, no harm at all. '

'I don't think you know what goes on in my mind, Worm. '

'Oh, doan't I, sir--hee, hee! Maybe I'm but a poor wambling thing, sir, and can't read much; but I can spell as well as some here and there. Doan't ye mind, sir, that blustrous night when ye asked me to hold thecandle to ye in yer workshop, when you were making a new chair for thechancel?'

'Yes; what of that?'

'I stood with the candle, and you said you liked company, if 'twas onlya dog or cat--maning me; and the chair wouldn't do nohow. '

'Ah, I remember. '

'No; the chair wouldn't do nohow. 'A was very well to look at; but, Lord!----'

'Worm, how often have I corrected you for irreverent speaking?'

'--'A was very well to look at, but you couldn't sit in the chair nohow. 'Twas all a-twist wi' the chair, like the letter Z, directly you satdown upon the chair. "Get up, Worm, " says you, when you seed the chairgo all a-sway wi' me. Up you took the chair, and flung en like fireand brimstone to t'other end of your shop--all in a passion. "Damn thechair!" says I. "Just what I was thinking, " says you, sir. "I could seeit in your face, sir, " says I, "and I hope you and God will forgi'eme for saying what you wouldn't. " To save your life you couldn't helplaughing, sir, at a poor wambler reading your thoughts so plain. Ay, I'mas wise as one here and there. '

'I thought you had better have a practical man to go over the church andtower with you, ' Mr. Swancourt said to Stephen the following morning, 'so I got Lord Luxellian's permission to send for a man when you came. Itold him to be there at ten o'clock. He's a very intelligent man, andhe will tell you all you want to know about the state of the walls. Hisname is John Smith. '

Elfride did not like to be seen again at the church with Stephen. 'Iwill watch here for your appearance at the top of the tower, ' she saidlaughingly. 'I shall see your figure against the sky. '

'And when I am up there I'll wave my handkerchief to you, MissSwancourt, ' said Stephen. 'In twelve minutes from this present moment, 'he added, looking at his watch, 'I'll be at the summit and look out foryou. '

She went round to the corner of the shrubbery, whence she could watchhim down the slope leading to the foot of the hill on which the churchstood. There she saw waiting for him a white spot--a mason in hisworking clothes. Stephen met this man and stopped. 

To her surprise, instead of their moving on to the churchyard, theyboth leisurely sat down upon a stone close by their meeting-place, andremained as if in deep conversation. Elfride looked at the time; nineof the twelve minutes had passed, and Stephen showed no signs of moving. More minutes passed--she grew cold with waiting, and shivered. It wasnot till the end of a quarter of an hour that they began to slowly wendup the hill at a snail's pace. 

'Rude and unmannerly!' she said to herself, colouring with pique. 'Anybody would think he was in love with that horrid mason instead ofwith----'

The sentence remained unspoken, though not unthought. 

She returned to the porch. 

'Is the man you sent for a lazy, sit-still, do-nothing kind of man?' sheinquired of her father. 

'No, ' he said surprised; 'quite the reverse. He is Lord Luxellian'smaster-mason, John Smith. '

'Oh, ' said Elfride indifferently, and returned towards her bleakstation, and waited and shivered again. It was a trifle, after all--achildish thing--looking out from a tower and waving a handkerchief. Buther new friend had promised, and why should he tease her so? The effectof a blow is as proportionate to the texture of the object struck asto its own momentum; and she had such a superlative capacity for beingwounded that little hits struck her hard. 

It was not till the end of half an hour that two figures were seen abovethe parapet of the dreary old pile, motionless as bitterns on a ruinedmosque. Even then Stephen was not true enough to perform what he was socourteous to promise, and he vanished without making a sign. 

He returned at midday. Elfride looked vexed when unconscious that hiseyes were upon her; when conscious, severe. However, her attitude ofcoldness had long outlived the coldness itself, and she could no longerutter feigned words of indifference. 

'Ah, you weren't kind to keep me waiting in the cold, and break yourpromise, ' she said at last reproachfully, in tones too low for herfather's powers of hearing. 

'Forgive, forgive me!' said Stephen with dismay. 'I had forgotten--quiteforgotten! Something prevented my remembering. '

'Any further explanation?' said Miss Capricious, pouting. 

He was silent for a few minutes, and looked askance. 

'None, ' he said, with the accent of one who concealed a sin. 

Chapter V

 'Bosom'd high in tufted trees. '

It was breakfast time. 

As seen from the vicarage dining-room, which took a warm tone of lightfrom the fire, the weather and scene outside seemed to have stereotypedthemselves in unrelieved shades of gray. The long-armed trees and shrubsof juniper, cedar, and pine varieties, were grayish black; those of thebroad-leaved sort, together with the herbage, were grayish-green;the eternal hills and tower behind them were grayish-brown; the sky, dropping behind all, gray of the purest melancholy. 

Yet in spite of this sombre artistic effect, the morning was not onewhich tended to lower the spirits. It was even cheering. For it did notrain, nor was rain likely to fall for many days to come. 

Elfride had turned from the table towards the fire and was idlyelevating a hand-screen before her face, when she heard the click of alittle gate outside. 

'Ah, here's the postman!' she said, as a shuffling, active man camethrough an opening in the shrubbery and across the lawn. She vanished, and met him in the porch, afterwards coming in with her hands behind herback. 

'How many are there? Three for papa, one for Mr. Smith, none for MissSwancourt. And, papa, look here, one of yours is from--whom do youthink?--Lord Luxellian. And it has something HARD in it--a lump ofsomething. I've been feeling it through the envelope, and can't thinkwhat it is. '

'What does Luxellian write for, I wonder?' Mr. Swancourt had saidsimultaneously with her words. He handed Stephen his letter, and tookhis own, putting on his countenance a higher class of look than wascustomary, as became a poor gentleman who was going to read a letterfrom a peer. 

Stephen read his missive with a countenance quite the reverse of thevicar's. 

 'PERCY PLACE, Thursday Evening. 'DEAR SMITH, --Old H. Is in a towering rage with you for being so longabout the church sketches. Swears you are more trouble than you areworth. He says I am to write and say you are to stay no longer onany consideration--that he would have done it all in three hours veryeasily. I told him that you were not like an experienced hand, which heseemed to forget, but it did not make much difference. However, betweenyou and me privately, if I were you I would not alarm myself for a dayor so, if I were not inclined to return. I would make out the week andfinish my spree. He will blow up just as much if you appear here onSaturday as if you keep away till Monday morning. --Yours very truly, 'SIMPKINS JENKINS. 

'Dear me--very awkward!' said Stephen, rather en l'air, and confusedwith the kind of confusion that assails an understrapper when he hasbeen enlarged by accident to the dimensions of a superior, and issomewhat rudely pared down to his original size. 

'What is awkward?' said Miss Swancourt. 

Smith by this time recovered his equanimity, and with it theprofessional dignity of an experienced architect. 

'Important business demands my immediate presence in London, I regret tosay, ' he replied. 

'What! Must you go at once?' said Mr. Swancourt, looking over the edgeof his letter. 'Important business? A young fellow like you to haveimportant business!'

'The truth is, ' said Stephen blushing, and rather ashamed of havingpretended even so slightly to a consequence which did not belong tohim, --'the truth is, Mr. Hewby has sent to say I am to come home; and Imust obey him. '

'I see; I see. It is politic to do so, you mean. Now I can see more thanyou think. You are to be his partner. I booked you for that directlyI read his letter to me the other day, and the way he spoke of you. Hethinks a great deal of you, Mr. Smith, or he wouldn't be so anxious foryour return. '

Unpleasant to Stephen such remarks as these could not sound; to have theexpectancy of partnership with one of the largest-practising architectsin London thrust upon him was cheering, however untenable he felt theidea to be. He saw that, whatever Mr. Hewby might think, Mr. Swancourtcertainly thought much of him to entertain such an idea on such slenderground as to be absolutely no ground at all. And then, unaccountably, his speaking face exhibited a cloud of sadness, which a reflection onthe remoteness of any such contingency could hardly have sufficed tocause. 

Elfride was struck with that look of his; even Mr. Swancourt noticed it. 

'Well, ' he said cheerfully, 'never mind that now. You must come againon your own account; not on business. Come to see me as a visitor, you know--say, in your holidays--all you town men have holidays likeschoolboys. When are they?'

'In August, I believe. '

'Very well; come in August; and then you need not hurry away so. I amglad to get somebody decent to talk to, or at, in this outlandish ultimaThule. But, by the bye, I have something to say--you won't go to-day?'

'No; I need not, ' said Stephen hesitatingly. 'I am not obliged to getback before Monday morning. '

'Very well, then, that brings me to what I am going to propose. This isa letter from Lord Luxellian. I think you heard me speak of him as theresident landowner in this district, and patron of this living?'

'I--know of him. '

'He is in London now. It seems that he has run up on business for a dayor two, and taken Lady Luxellian with him. He has written to ask me togo to his house, and search for a paper among his private memoranda, which he forgot to take with him. '

'What did he send in the letter?' inquired Elfride. 

'The key of a private desk in which the papers are. He doesn't like totrust such a matter to any body else. I have done such things for himbefore. And what I propose is, that we make an afternoon of it--allthree of us. Go for a drive to Targan Bay, come home by way of EndelstowHouse; and whilst I am looking over the documents you can ramble aboutthe rooms where you like. I have the run of the house at any time, youknow. The building, though nothing but a mass of gables outside, has asplendid hall, staircase, and gallery within; and there are a few goodpictures. '

'Yes, there are, ' said Stephen. 

'Have you seen the place, then?

'I saw it as I came by, ' he said hastily. 

'Oh yes; but I was alluding to the interior. And the church--St. Eval's--is much older than our St. Agnes' here. I do duty in that andthis alternately, you know. The fact is, I ought to have some help;riding across that park for two miles on a wet morning is not at allthe thing. If my constitution were not well seasoned, as thank God itis, '--here Mr. Swancourt looked down his front, as if his constitutionwere visible there, --'I should be coughing and barking all the yearround. And when the family goes away, there are only about threeservants to preach to when I get there. Well, that shall be thearrangement, then. Elfride, you will like to go?'

Elfride assented; and the little breakfast-party separated. Stephenrose to go and take a few final measurements at the church, the vicarfollowing him to the door with a mysterious expression of inquiry on hisface. 

'You'll put up with our not having family prayer this morning, I hope?'he whispered. 

'Yes; quite so, ' said Stephen. 

'To tell you the truth, ' he continued in the same undertone, 'we don'tmake a regular thing of it; but when we have strangers visiting us, I amstrongly of opinion that it is the proper thing to do, and I always doit. I am very strict on that point. But you, Smith, there is somethingin your face which makes me feel quite at home; no nonsense about you, in short. Ah, it reminds me of a splendid story I used to hear when Iwas a helter-skelter young fellow--such a story! But'--here the vicarshook his head self-forbiddingly, and grimly laughed. 

'Was it a good story?' said young Smith, smiling too. 

'Oh yes; but 'tis too bad--too bad! Couldn't tell it to you for theworld!'

Stephen went across the lawn, hearing the vicar chuckling privately atthe recollection as he withdrew. 

They started at three o'clock. The gray morning had resolved itselfinto an afternoon bright with a pale pervasive sunlight, without thesun itself being visible. Lightly they trotted along--the wheels nearlysilent, the horse's hoofs clapping, almost ringing, upon the hard, white, turnpike road as it followed the level ridge in a perfectlystraight line, seeming to be absorbed ultimately by the white of thesky. 

Targan Bay--which had the merit of being easily got at--was dulyvisited. They then swept round by innumerable lanes, in which not twentyconsecutive yards were either straight or level, to the domain of LordLuxellian. A woman with a double chin and thick neck, like Queen Anne byDahl, threw open the lodge gate, a little boy standing behind her. 

'I'll give him something, poor little fellow, ' said Elfride, pulling outher purse and hastily opening it. From the interior of her purse a hostof bits of paper, like a flock of white birds, floated into the air, andwere blown about in all directions. 

'Well, to be sure!' said Stephen with a slight laugh. 

'What the dickens is all that?' said Mr. Swancourt. 'Not halves ofbank-notes, Elfride?'

Elfride looked annoyed and guilty. 'They are only something of mine, papa, ' she faltered, whilst Stephen leapt out, and, assisted by thelodge-keeper's little boy, crept about round the wheels and horse'shoofs till the papers were all gathered together again. He handed themback to her, and remounted. 

'I suppose you are wondering what those scraps were?' she said, as theybowled along up the sycamore avenue. 'And so I may as well tell you. They are notes for a romance I am writing. '

She could not help colouring at the confession, much as she tried toavoid it. 

'A story, do you mean?' said Stephen, Mr. Swancourt half listening, andcatching a word of the conversation now and then. 

'Yes; THE COURT OF KELLYON CASTLE; a romance of the fifteenth century. Such writing is out of date now, I know; but I like doing it. '

'A romance carried in a purse! If a highwayman were to rob you, he wouldbe taken in. '

'Yes; that's my way of carrying manuscript. The real reason is, that Imostly write bits of it on scraps of paper when I am on horseback; and Iput them there for convenience. '

'What are you going to do with your romance when you have written it?'said Stephen. 

'I don't know, ' she replied, and turned her head to look at theprospect. 

For by this time they had reached the precincts of Endelstow House. Driving through an ancient gate-way of dun-coloured stone, spanned bythe high-shouldered Tudor arch, they found themselves in a spaciouscourt, closed by a facade on each of its three sides. The substantialportions of the existing building dated from the reign of Henry VIII. ;but the picturesque and sheltered spot had been the site of an erectionof a much earlier date. A licence to crenellate mansum infra maneriumsuum was granted by Edward II. To 'Hugo Luxellen chivaler;' but thoughthe faint outline of the ditch and mound was visible at points, no signof the original building remained. 

The windows on all sides were long and many-mullioned; the roof linesbroken up by dormer lights of the same pattern. The apex stones of thesedormers, together with those of the gables, were surmounted by grotesquefigures in rampant, passant, and couchant variety. Tall octagonal andtwisted chimneys thrust themselves high up into the sky, surpassed inheight, however, by some poplars and sycamores at the back, which showedtheir gently rocking summits over ridge and parapet. In the cornersof the court polygonal bays, whose surfaces were entirely occupied bybuttresses and windows, broke into the squareness of the enclosure; anda far-projecting oriel, springing from a fantastic series of mouldings, overhung the archway of the chief entrance to the house. 

As Mr. Swancourt had remarked, he had the freedom of the mansion inthe absence of its owner. Upon a statement of his errand they were alladmitted to the library, and left entirely to themselves. Mr. Swancourtwas soon up to his eyes in the examination of a heap of papers he hadtaken from the cabinet described by his correspondent. Stephen andElfride had nothing to do but to wander about till her father was ready. 

Elfride entered the gallery, and Stephen followed her without seeming todo so. It was a long sombre apartment, enriched with fittings a centuryor so later in style than the walls of the mansion. Pilasters ofRenaissance workmanship supported a cornice from which sprang a curvedceiling, panelled in the awkward twists and curls of the period. The oldGothic quarries still remained in the upper portion of the large windowat the end, though they had made way for a more modern form of glazingelsewhere. 

Stephen was at one end of the gallery looking towards Elfride, who stoodin the midst, beginning to feel somewhat depressed by the society ofLuxellian shades of cadaverous complexion fixed by Holbein, Kneller, andLely, and seeming to gaze at and through her in a moralizing mood. Thesilence, which cast almost a spell upon them, was broken by the suddenopening of a door at the far end. 

Out bounded a pair of little girls, lightly yet warmly dressed. Theireyes were sparkling; their hair swinging about and around; their redmouths laughing with unalloyed gladness. 

'Ah, Miss Swancourt: dearest Elfie! we heard you. Are you going to stayhere? You are our little mamma, are you not--our big mamma is gone toLondon, ' said one. 

'Let me tiss you, ' said the other, in appearance very much like thefirst, but to a smaller pattern. 

Their pink cheeks and yellow hair were speedily intermingled with thefolds of Elfride's dress; she then stooped and tenderly embraced themboth. 

'Such an odd thing, ' said Elfride, smiling, and turning to Stephen. 'They have taken it into their heads lately to call me "little mamma, "because I am very fond of them, and wore a dress the other day somethinglike one of Lady Luxellian's. '

These two young creatures were the Honourable Mary and the HonourableKate--scarcely appearing large enough as yet to bear the weight of suchponderous prefixes. They were the only two children of Lord and LadyLuxellian, and, as it proved, had been left at home during theirparents' temporary absence, in the custody of nurse and governess. LordLuxellian was dotingly fond of the children; rather indifferent towardshis wife, since she had begun to show an inclination not to please himby giving him a boy. 

All children instinctively ran after Elfride, looking upon her more asan unusually nice large specimen of their own tribe than as a grown-upelder. It had now become an established rule, that whenever she metthem--indoors or out-of-doors, weekdays or Sundays--they were to beseverally pressed against her face and bosom for the space of a quarterof a minute, and other-wise made much of on the delightful systemof cumulative epithet and caress to which unpractised girls willoccasionally abandon themselves. 

A look of misgiving by the youngsters towards the door by which theyhad entered directed attention to a maid-servant appearing from the samequarter, to put an end to this sweet freedom of the poor HonourablesMary and Kate. 

'I wish you lived here, Miss Swancourt, ' piped one like a melancholybullfinch. 

'So do I, ' piped the other like a rather more melancholy bullfinch. 'Mamma can't play with us so nicely as you do. I don't think she everlearnt playing when she was little. When shall we come to see you?'

'As soon as you like, dears. '

'And sleep at your house all night? That's what I mean by coming tosee you. I don't care to see people with hats and bonnets on, and allstanding up and walking about. '

'As soon as we can get mamma's permission you shall come and stay aslong as ever you like. Good-bye!'

The prisoners were then led off, Elfride again turning her attention toher guest, whom she had left standing at the remote end of the gallery. On looking around for him he was nowhere to be seen. Elfride steppeddown to the library, thinking he might have rejoined her father there. But Mr. Swancourt, now cheerfully illuminated by a pair of candles, wasstill alone, untying packets of letters and papers, and tying them upagain. 

As Elfride did not stand on a sufficiently intimate footing with theobject of her interest to justify her, as a proper young lady, tocommence the active search for him that youthful impulsiveness prompted, and as, nevertheless, for a nascent reason connected with those divinelycut lips of his, she did not like him to be absent from her side, shewandered desultorily back to the oak staircase, pouting and casting hereyes about in hope of discerning his boyish figure. 

Though daylight still prevailed in the rooms, the corridors were ina depth of shadow--chill, sad, and silent; and it was only by lookingalong them towards light spaces beyond that anything or anybody could bediscerned therein. One of these light spots she found to be caused bya side-door with glass panels in the upper part. Elfride opened it, andfound herself confronting a secondary or inner lawn, separated from theprincipal lawn front by a shrubbery. 

And now she saw a perplexing sight. At right angles to the face of thewing she had emerged from, and within a few feet of the door, juttedout another wing of the mansion, lower and with less architecturalcharacter. Immediately opposite to her, in the wall of this wing, wasa large broad window, having its blind drawn down, and illuminated by alight in the room it screened. 

On the blind was a shadow from somebody close inside it--a person inprofile. The profile was unmistakably that of Stephen. It was justpossible to see that his arms were uplifted, and that his hands held anarticle of some kind. Then another shadow appeared--also in profile--andcame close to him. This was the shadow of a woman. She turned her backtowards Stephen: he lifted and held out what now proved to be a shawl ormantle--placed it carefully--so carefully--round the lady; disappeared;reappeared in her front--fastened the mantle. Did he then kiss her?Surely not. Yet the motion might have been a kiss. Then both shadowsswelled to colossal dimensions--grew distorted--vanished. 

Two minutes elapsed. 

'Ah, Miss Swancourt! I am so glad to find you. I was looking foryou, ' said a voice at her elbow--Stephen's voice. She stepped into thepassage. 

'Do you know any of the members of this establishment?' said she. 

'Not a single one: how should I?' he replied. 

Chapter VI

 'Fare thee weel awhile!'

Simultaneously with the conclusion of Stephen's remark, the sound ofthe closing of an external door in their immediate neighbourhood reachedElfride's ears. It came from the further side of the wing containing theilluminated room. She then discerned, by the aid of the dusky departinglight, a figure, whose sex was undistinguishable, walking down thegravelled path by the parterre towards the river. The figure grewfainter, and vanished under the trees. 

Mr. Swancourt's voice was heard calling out their names from a distantcorridor in the body of the building. They retraced their steps, andfound him with his coat buttoned up and his hat on, awaiting theiradvent in a mood of self-satisfaction at having brought his search toa successful close. The carriage was brought round, and without furtherdelay the trio drove away from the mansion, under the echoing gatewayarch, and along by the leafless sycamores, as the stars began to kindletheir trembling lights behind the maze of branches and twigs. 

No words were spoken either by youth or maiden. Her unpractised mind wascompletely occupied in fathoming its recent acquisition. The young manwho had inspired her with such novelty of feeling, who had come directlyfrom London on business to her father, having been brought by chance toEndelstow House had, by some means or other, acquired the privilegeof approaching some lady he had found therein, and of honouring her bypetits soins of a marked kind, --all in the space of half an hour. 

What room were they standing in? thought Elfride. As nearly as she couldguess, it was Lord Luxellian's business-room, or office. What peoplewere in the house? None but the governess and servants, as far as sheknew, and of these he had professed a total ignorance. Had the personshe had indistinctly seen leaving the house anything to do with theperformance? It was impossible to say without appealing to the culprithimself, and that she would never do. The more Elfride reflected, themore certain did it appear that the meeting was a chance rencounter, andnot an appointment. On the ultimate inquiry as to the individuality ofthe woman, Elfride at once assumed that she could not be an inferior. Stephen Smith was not the man to care about passages-at-love with womenbeneath him. Though gentle, ambition was visible in his kindling eyes;he evidently hoped for much; hoped indefinitely, but extensively. Elfride was puzzled, and being puzzled, was, by a natural sequence ofgirlish sensations, vexed with him. No more pleasure came in recognizingthat from liking to attract him she was getting on to love him, boyishas he was and innocent as he had seemed. 

They reached the bridge which formed a link between the eastern andwestern halves of the parish. Situated in a valley that was boundedoutwardly by the sea, it formed a point of depression from which theroad ascended with great steepness to West Endelstow and the Vicarage. There was no absolute necessity for either of them to alight, but asit was the vicar's custom after a long journey to humour the horse inmaking this winding ascent, Elfride, moved by an imitative instinct, suddenly jumped out when Pleasant had just begun to adopt the deliberatestalk he associated with this portion of the road. 

The young man seemed glad of any excuse for breaking the silence. 'Why, Miss Swancourt, what a risky thing to do!' he exclaimed, immediatelyfollowing her example by jumping down on the other side. 

'Oh no, not at all, ' replied she coldly; the shadow phenomenon atEndelstow House still paramount within her. 

Stephen walked along by himself for two or three minutes, wrapped in therigid reserve dictated by her tone. Then apparently thinking that it wasonly for girls to pout, he came serenely round to her side, and offeredhis arm with Castilian gallantry, to assist her in ascending theremaining three-quarters of the steep. 

Here was a temptation: it was the first time in her life that Elfridehad been treated as a grown-up woman in this way--offered an arm in amanner implying that she had a right to refuse it. Till to-night shehad never received masculine attentions beyond those which might becontained in such homely remarks as 'Elfride, give me your hand;''Elfride, take hold of my arm, ' from her father. Her callow heart madean epoch of the incident; she considered her array of feelings, for andagainst. Collectively they were for taking this offered arm; the singleone of pique determined her to punish Stephen by refusing. 

'No, thank you, Mr. Smith; I can get along better by myself'

It was Elfride's first fragile attempt at browbeating a lover. Fearingmore the issue of such an undertaking than what a gentle young manmight think of her waywardness, she immediately afterwards determined toplease herself by reversing her statement. 

'On second thoughts, I will take it, ' she said. 

They slowly went their way up the hill, a few yards behind the carriage. 

'How silent you are, Miss Swancourt!' Stephen observed. 

'Perhaps I think you silent too, ' she returned. 

'I may have reason to be. '

'Scarcely; it is sadness that makes people silent, and you can havenone. '

'You don't know: I have a trouble; though some might think it less atrouble than a dilemma. '

'What is it?' she asked impulsively. 

Stephen hesitated. 'I might tell, ' he said; 'at the same time, perhaps, it is as well----'

She let go his arm and imperatively pushed it from her, tossing herhead. She had just learnt that a good deal of dignity is lost by askinga question to which an answer is refused, even ever so politely;for though politeness does good service in cases of requisition andcompromise, it but little helps a direct refusal. 'I don't wish to knowanything of it; I don't wish it, ' she went on. 'The carriage is waitingfor us at the top of the hill; we must get in;' and Elfride flittedto the front. 'Papa, here is your Elfride!' she exclaimed to the duskyfigure of the old gentleman, as she sprang up and sank by his sidewithout deigning to accept aid from Stephen. 

'Ah, yes!' uttered the vicar in artificially alert tones, awaking from amost profound sleep, and suddenly preparing to alight. 

'Why, what are you doing, papa? We are not home yet. '

'Oh no, no; of course not; we are not at home yet, ' Mr. Swancourt saidvery hastily, endeavouring to dodge back to his original position withthe air of a man who had not moved at all. 'The fact is I was so lost indeep meditation that I forgot whereabouts we were. ' And in a minute thevicar was snoring again. 

That evening, being the last, seemed to throw an exceptional shade ofsadness over Stephen Smith, and the repeated injunctions of the vicar, that he was to come and revisit them in the summer, apparently tendedless to raise his spirits than to unearth some misgiving. 

He left them in the gray light of dawn, whilst the colours of earth weresombre, and the sun was yet hidden in the east. Elfride had fidgeted allnight in her little bed lest none of the household should be awakesoon enough to start him, and also lest she might miss seeing againthe bright eyes and curly hair, to which their owner's possession of ahidden mystery added a deeper tinge of romance. To some extent--sosoon does womanly interest take a solicitous turn--she felt herselfresponsible for his safe conduct. They breakfasted before daylight;Mr. Swancourt, being more and more taken with his guest's ingenuousappearance, having determined to rise early and bid him a friendlyfarewell. It was, however, rather to the vicar's astonishment, that hesaw Elfride walk in to the breakfast-table, candle in hand. 

Whilst William Worm performed his toilet (during which performancethe inmates of the vicarage were always in the habit of waiting withexemplary patience), Elfride wandered desultorily to the summer house. Stephen followed her thither. The copse-covered valley was visible fromthis position, a mist now lying all along its length, hiding the streamwhich trickled through it, though the observers themselves were in clearair. 

They stood close together, leaning over the rustic balustrading whichbounded the arbour on the outward side, and formed the crest of a steepslope beneath Elfride constrainedly pointed out some features of thedistant uplands rising irregularly opposite. But the artistic eye was, either from nature or circumstance, very faint in Stephen now, and heonly half attended to her description, as if he spared time from someother thought going on within him. 

'Well, good-bye, ' he said suddenly; 'I must never see you again, Isuppose, Miss Swancourt, in spite of invitations. '

His genuine tribulation played directly upon the delicate chords ofher nature. She could afford to forgive him for a concealment or two. Moreover, the shyness which would not allow him to look her in the facelent bravery to her own eyes and tongue. 

'Oh, DO come again, Mr. Smith!' she said prettily. 

'I should delight in it; but it will be better if I do not. '

'Why?'

'Certain circumstances in connection with me make it undesirable. Not onmy account; on yours. '

'Goodness! As if anything in connection with you could hurt me, ' shesaid with serene supremacy; but seeing that this plan of treatment wasinappropriate, she tuned a smaller note. 'Ah, I know why you willnot come. You don't want to. You'll go home to London and to all thestirring people there, and will never want to see us any more!'

'You know I have no such reason. '

'And go on writing letters to the lady you are engaged to, just asbefore. '

'What does that mean? I am not engaged. '

'You wrote a letter to a Miss Somebody; I saw it in the letter-rack. '

'Pooh! an elderly woman who keeps a stationer's shop; and it was to tellher to keep my newspapers till I get back. '

'You needn't have explained: it was not my business at all. ' MissElfride was rather relieved to hear that statement, nevertheless. 'Andyou won't come again to see my father?' she insisted. 

'I should like to--and to see you again, but----'

'Will you reveal to me that matter you hide?' she interruptedpetulantly. 

'No; not now. '

She could not but go on, graceless as it might seem. 

'Tell me this, ' she importuned with a trembling mouth. 'Does any meetingof yours with a lady at Endelstow Vicarage clash with--any interest youmay take in me?'

He started a little. 'It does not, ' he said emphatically; and lookedinto the pupils of her eyes with the confidence that only honesty cangive, and even that to youth alone. 

The explanation had not come, but a gloom left her. She could not butbelieve that utterance. Whatever enigma might lie in the shadow on theblind, it was not an enigma of underhand passion. 

She turned towards the house, entering it through the conservatory. Stephen went round to the front door. Mr. Swancourt was standing on thestep in his slippers. Worm was adjusting a buckle in the harness, andmurmuring about his poor head; and everything was ready for Stephen'sdeparture. 

'You named August for your visit. August it shall be; that is, if youcare for the society of such a fossilized Tory, ' said Mr. Swancourt. 

Mr. Smith only responded hesitatingly, that he should like to comeagain. 

'You said you would, and you must, ' insisted Elfride, coming to the doorand speaking under her father's arm. 

Whatever reason the youth may have had for not wishing to enter thehouse as a guest, it no longer predominated. He promised, and bade themadieu, and got into the pony-carriage, which crept up the slope, andbore him out of their sight. 

'I never was so much taken with anybody in my life as I am with thatyoung fellow--never! I cannot understand it--can't understand itanyhow, ' said Mr. Swancourt quite energetically to himself; and wentindoors. 

Chapter VII

 'No more of me you knew, my love!'

Stephen Smith revisited Endelstow Vicarage, agreeably to his promise. Hehad a genuine artistic reason for coming, though no such reasonseemed to be required. Six-and-thirty old seat ends, of exquisitefifteenth-century workmanship, were rapidly decaying in an aisle ofthe church; and it became politic to make drawings of their worm-eatencontours ere they were battered past recognition in the turmoil of theso-called restoration. 

He entered the house at sunset, and the world was pleasant again tothe two fair-haired ones. A momentary pang of disappointment had, nevertheless, passed through Elfride when she casually discovered thathe had not come that minute post-haste from London, but had reached theneighbourhood the previous evening. Surprise would have accompanied thefeeling, had she not remembered that several tourists were haunting thecoast at this season, and that Stephen might have chosen to do likewise. 

They did little besides chat that evening, Mr. Swancourt beginning toquestion his visitor, closely yet paternally, and in good part, on hishopes and prospects from the profession he had embraced. Stephen gavevague answers. The next day it rained. In the evening, when twenty-fourhours of Elfride had completely rekindled her admirer's ardour, a gameof chess was proposed between them. 

The game had its value in helping on the developments of their future. 

Elfride soon perceived that her opponent was but a learner. She nextnoticed that he had a very odd way of handling the pieces when castlingor taking a man. Antecedently she would have supposed that the sameperformance must be gone through by all players in the same manner; shewas taught by his differing action that all ordinary players, who learnthe game by sight, unconsciously touch the men in a stereotyped way. This impression of indescribable oddness in Stephen's touch culminatedin speech when she saw him, at the taking of one of her bishops, push itaside with the taking man instead of lifting it as a preliminary to themove. 

'How strangely you handle the men, Mr. Smith!'

'Do I? I am sorry for that. '

'Oh no--don't be sorry; it is not a matter great enough for sorrow. Butwho taught you to play?'

'Nobody, Miss Swancourt, ' he said. 'I learnt from a book lent me by myfriend Mr. Knight, the noblest man in the world. '

'But you have seen people play?'

'I have never seen the playing of a single game. This is the first timeI ever had the opportunity of playing with a living opponent. I haveworked out many games from books, and studied the reasons of thedifferent moves, but that is all. '

This was a full explanation of his mannerism; but the fact that a manwith the desire for chess should have grown up without being able tosee or engage in a game astonished her not a little. She pondered on thecircumstance for some time, looking into vacancy and hindering the play. 

Mr. Swancourt was sitting with his eyes fixed on the board, butapparently thinking of other things. Half to himself he said, pendingthe move of Elfride:

'"Quae finis aut quod me manet stipendium?"'

Stephen replied instantly:

'"Effare: jussas cum fide poenas luam. "'

'Excellent--prompt--gratifying!' said Mr. Swancourt with feeling, bringing down his hand upon the table, and making three pawns and aknight dance over their borders by the shaking. 'I was musing on thosewords as applicable to a strange course I am steering--but enough ofthat. I am delighted with you, Mr. Smith, for it is so seldom in thisdesert that I meet with a man who is gentleman and scholar enough tocontinue a quotation, however trite it may be. '

'I also apply the words to myself, ' said Stephen quietly. 

'You? The last man in the world to do that, I should have thought. '

'Come, ' murmured Elfride poutingly, and insinuating herself betweenthem, 'tell me all about it. Come, construe, construe!'

Stephen looked steadfastly into her face, and said slowly, and in avoice full of a far-off meaning that seemed quaintly premature in one soyoung:

'Quae finis WHAT WILL BE THE END, aut OR, quod stipendium WHAT FINE, manet me AWAITS ME? Effare SPEAK OUT; luam I WILL PAY, cum fide WITHFAITH, jussas poenas THE PENALTY REQUIRED. '

The vicar, who had listened with a critical compression of the lips tothis school-boy recitation, and by reason of his imperfect hearing hadmissed the marked realism of Stephen's tone in the English words, nowsaid hesitatingly: 'By the bye, Mr. Smith (I know you'll excuse mycuriosity), though your translation was unexceptionably correct andclose, you have a way of pronouncing your Latin which to me seems mostpeculiar. Not that the pronunciation of a dead language is of muchimportance; yet your accents and quantities have a grotesque sound tomy ears. I thought first that you had acquired your way of breathing thevowels from some of the northern colleges; but it cannot be so withthe quantities. What I was going to ask was, if your instructor in theclassics could possibly have been an Oxford or Cambridge man?'

'Yes; he was an Oxford man--Fellow of St. Cyprian's. '

'Really?'

'Oh yes; there's no doubt about it. 

'The oddest thing ever I heard of!' said Mr. Swancourt, starting withastonishment. 'That the pupil of such a man----'

'The best and cleverest man in England!' cried Stephen enthusiastically. 

'That the pupil of such a man should pronounce Latin in the way youpronounce it beats all I ever heard. How long did he instruct you?'

'Four years. '

'Four years!'

'It is not so strange when I explain, ' Stephen hastened to say. 'It wasdone in this way--by letter. I sent him exercises and construing twice aweek, and twice a week he sent them back to me corrected, with marginalnotes of instruction. That is how I learnt my Latin and Greek, such asit is. He is not responsible for my scanning. He has never heard me scana line. '

'A novel case, and a singular instance of patience!' cried the vicar. 

'On his part, not on mine. Ah, Henry Knight is one in a thousand! Iremember his speaking to me on this very subject of pronunciation. Hesays that, much to his regret, he sees a time coming when every man willpronounce even the common words of his own tongue as seems right in hisown ears, and be thought none the worse for it; that the speaking age ispassing away, to make room for the writing age. '

Both Elfride and her father had waited attentively to hear Stephen go onto what would have been the most interesting part of the story, namely, what circumstances could have necessitated such an unusual method ofeducation. But no further explanation was volunteered; and they saw, bythe young man's manner of concentrating himself upon the chess-board, that he was anxious to drop the subject. 

The game proceeded. Elfride played by rote; Stephen by thought. Itwas the cruellest thing to checkmate him after so much labour, sheconsidered. What was she dishonest enough to do in her compassion?To let him checkmate her. A second game followed; and being herselfabsolutely indifferent as to the result (her playing was above theaverage among women, and she knew it), she allowed him to give checkmateagain. A final game, in which she adopted the Muzio gambit as heropening, was terminated by Elfride's victory at the twelfth move. 

Stephen looked up suspiciously. His heart was throbbing even moreexcitedly than was hers, which itself had quickened when she seriouslyset to work on this last occasion. Mr. Swancourt had left the room. 

'You have been trifling with me till now!' he exclaimed, his faceflushing. 'You did not play your best in the first two games?'

Elfride's guilt showed in her face. Stephen became the picture ofvexation and sadness, which, relishable for a moment, caused her thenext instant to regret the mistake she had made. 

'Mr. Smith, forgive me!' she said sweetly. 'I see now, though I did notat first, that what I have done seems like contempt for your skill. But, indeed, I did not mean it in that sense. I could not, upon myconscience, win a victory in those first and second games over one whofought at such a disadvantage and so manfully. '

He drew a long breath, and murmured bitterly, 'Ah, you are cleverer thanI. You can do everything--I can do nothing! O Miss Swancourt!' he burstout wildly, his heart swelling in his throat, 'I must tell you how Ilove you! All these months of my absence I have worshipped you. '

He leapt from his seat like the impulsive lad that he was, slid roundto her side, and almost before she suspected it his arm was round herwaist, and the two sets of curls intermingled. 

So entirely new was full-blown love to Elfride, that she trembled asmuch from the novelty of the emotion as from the emotion itself. Thenshe suddenly withdrew herself and stood upright, vexed that she hadsubmitted unresistingly even to his momentary pressure. She resolved toconsider this demonstration as premature. 

'You must not begin such things as those, ' she said with coquettishhauteur of a very transparent nature 'And--you must not do so again--andpapa is coming. '

'Let me kiss you--only a little one, ' he said with his usual delicacy, and without reading the factitiousness of her manner. 

'No; not one. '

'Only on your cheek?'

'No. '

'Forehead?'

'Certainly not. '

'You care for somebody else, then? Ah, I thought so!'

'I am sure I do not. '

'Nor for me either?'

'How can I tell?' she said simply, the simplicity lying merely in thebroad outlines of her manner and speech. There were the semitone ofvoice and half-hidden expression of eyes which tell the initiated howvery fragile is the ice of reserve at these times. 

Footsteps were heard. Mr. Swancourt then entered the room, and theirprivate colloquy ended. 

The day after this partial revelation, Mr. Swancourt proposed a drive tothe cliffs beyond Targan Bay, a distance of three or four miles. 

Half an hour before the time of departure a crash was heard in the backyard, and presently Worm came in, saying partly to the world in general, partly to himself, and slightly to his auditors:

'Ay, ay, sure! That frying of fish will be the end of William Worm. Theybe at it again this morning--same as ever--fizz, fizz, fizz!'

'Your head bad again, Worm?' said Mr. Swancourt. 'What was that noise weheard in the yard?'

'Ay, sir, a weak wambling man am I; and the frying have been going on inmy poor head all through the long night and this morning as usual; and Iwas so dazed wi' it that down fell a piece of leg-wood across the shaftof the pony-shay, and splintered it off. "Ay, " says I, "I feel it as if'twas my own shay; and though I've done it, and parish pay is my lot ifI go from here, perhaps I am as independent as one here and there. "'

'Dear me, the shaft of the carriage broken!' cried Elfride. She wasdisappointed: Stephen doubly so. The vicar showed more warmth of temperthan the accident seemed to demand, much to Stephen's uneasiness andrather to his surprise. He had not supposed so much latent sternnesscould co-exist with Mr. Swancourt's frankness and good-nature. 

'You shall not be disappointed, ' said the vicar at length. 'It is almosttoo long a distance for you to walk. Elfride can trot down on her pony, and you shall have my old nag, Smith. '

Elfride exclaimed triumphantly, 'You have never seen me onhorseback--Oh, you must!' She looked at Stephen and read his thoughtsimmediately. 'Ah, you don't ride, Mr. Smith?'

'I am sorry to say I don't. '

'Fancy a man not able to ride!' said she rather pertly. 

The vicar came to his rescue. 'That's common enough; he has had otherlessons to learn. Now, I recommend this plan: let Elfride ride onhorseback, and you, Mr. Smith, walk beside her. '

The arrangement was welcomed with secret delight by Stephen. It seemedto combine in itself all the advantages of a long slow ramble withElfride, without the contingent possibility of the enjoyment beingspoilt by her becoming weary. The pony was saddled and brought round. 

'Now, Mr. Smith, ' said the lady imperatively, coming downstairs, andappearing in her riding-habit, as she always did in a change of dress, like a new edition of a delightful volume, 'you have a task to performto-day. These earrings are my very favourite darling ones; but the worstof it is that they have such short hooks that they are liable to bedropped if I toss my head about much, and when I am riding I can't givemy mind to them. It would be doing me knight service if you keep youreyes fixed upon them, and remember them every minute of the day, andtell me directly I drop one. They have had such hairbreadth escapes, haven't they, Unity?' she continued to the parlour-maid who was standingat the door. 

'Yes, miss, that they have!' said Unity with round-eyed commiseration. 

'Once 'twas in the lane that I found one of them, ' pursued Elfridereflectively. 

'And then 'twas by the gate into Eighteen Acres, ' Unity chimed in. 

'And then 'twas on the carpet in my own room, ' rejoined Elfride merrily. 

'And then 'twas dangling on the embroidery of your petticoat, miss; andthen 'twas down your back, miss, wasn't it? And oh, what a way you wasin, miss, wasn't you? my! until you found it!'

Stephen took Elfride's slight foot upon his hand: 'One, two, three, andup!' she said. 

Unfortunately not so. He staggered and lifted, and the horse edgedround; and Elfride was ultimately deposited upon the ground rather moreforcibly than was pleasant. Smith looked all contrition. 

'Never mind, ' said the vicar encouragingly; 'try again! 'Tis a littleaccomplishment that requires some practice, although it looks so easy. Stand closer to the horse's head, Mr. Smith. '

'Indeed, I shan't let him try again, ' said she with a microscopic lookof indignation. 'Worm, come here, and help me to mount. ' Worm steppedforward, and she was in the saddle in a trice. 

Then they moved on, going for some distance in silence, the hot air ofthe valley being occasionally brushed from their faces by a cool breeze, which wound its way along ravines leading up from the sea. 

'I suppose, ' said Stephen, 'that a man who can neither sit in a saddlehimself nor help another person into one seems a useless incumbrance;but, Miss Swancourt, I'll learn to do it all for your sake; I will, indeed. '

'What is so unusual in you, ' she said, in a didactic tone justifiable ina horsewoman's address to a benighted walker, 'is that your knowledge ofcertain things should be combined with your ignorance of certain otherthings. '

Stephen lifted his eyes earnestly to hers. 

'You know, ' he said, 'it is simply because there are so many otherthings to be learnt in this wide world that I didn't trouble about thatparticular bit of knowledge. I thought it would be useless to me; butI don't think so now. I will learn riding, and all connected with it, because then you would like me better. Do you like me much less forthis?'

She looked sideways at him with critical meditation tenderly rendered. 

'Do I seem like LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI?' she began suddenly, withoutreplying to his question. 'Fancy yourself saying, Mr. Smith:

 "I sat her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A fairy's song, She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna dew;"

and that's all she did. '

'No, no, ' said the young man stilly, and with a rising colour. 

 '"And sure in language strange she said, I love thee true. "'

'Not at all, ' she rejoined quickly. 'See how I can gallop. Now, Pansy, off!' And Elfride started; and Stephen beheld her lightfigure contracting to the dimensions of a bird as she sank into thedistance--her hair flowing. 

He walked on in the same direction, and for a considerable time couldsee no signs of her returning. Dull as a flower without the sun he satdown upon a stone, and not for fifteen minutes was any sound of horseor rider to be heard. Then Elfride and Pansy appeared on the hill in around trot. 

'Such a delightful scamper as we have had!' she said, her face flushedand her eyes sparkling. She turned the horse's head, Stephen arose, andthey went on again. 

'Well, what have you to say to me, Mr. Smith, after my long absence?'

'Do you remember a question you could not exactly answer lastnight--whether I was more to you than anybody else?' said he. 

'I cannot exactly answer now, either. '

'Why can't you?'

'Because I don't know if I am more to you than any one else. '

'Yes, indeed, you are!' he exclaimed in a voice of intensestappreciation, at the same time gliding round and looking into her face. 

'Eyes in eyes, ' he murmured playfully; and she blushingly obeyed, looking back into his. 

'And why not lips on lips?' continued Stephen daringly. 

'No, certainly not. Anybody might look; and it would be the death of me. You may kiss my hand if you like. '

He expressed by a look that to kiss a hand through a glove, and that ariding-glove, was not a great treat under the circumstances. 

'There, then; I'll take my glove off. Isn't it a pretty white hand? Ah, you don't want to kiss it, and you shall not now!'

'If I do not, may I never kiss again, you severe Elfride! You know Ithink more of you than I can tell; that you are my queen. I would diefor you, Elfride!'

A rapid red again filled her cheeks, and she looked at him meditatively. What a proud moment it was for Elfride then! She was ruling a heart withabsolute despotism for the first time in her life. 

Stephen stealthily pounced upon her hand. 

'No; I won't, I won't!' she said intractably; 'and you shouldn't take meby surprise. '

There ensued a mild form of tussle for absolute possession of themuch-coveted hand, in which the boisterousness of boy and girl was farmore prominent than the dignity of man and woman. Then Pansy becamerestless. Elfride recovered her position and remembered herself. 

'You make me behave in not a nice way at all!' she exclaimed, in a toneneither of pleasure nor anger, but partaking of both. 'I ought not tohave allowed such a romp! We are too old now for that sort of thing. '

'I hope you don't think me too--too much of a creeping-round sort ofman, ' said he in a penitent tone, conscious that he too had lost alittle dignity by the proceeding. 

'You are too familiar; and I can't have it! Considering the shortnessof the time we have known each other, Mr. Smith, you take too much uponyou. You think I am a country girl, and it doesn't matter how you behaveto me!'

'I assure you, Miss Swancourt, that I had no idea of freak in my mind. Iwanted to imprint a sweet--serious kiss upon your hand; and that's all. '

'Now, that's creeping round again! And you mustn't look into my eyesso, ' she said, shaking her head at him, and trotting on a few paces inadvance. Thus she led the way out of the lane and across some fields inthe direction of the cliffs. At the boundary of the fields nearest thesea she expressed a wish to dismount. The horse was tied to a post, andthey both followed an irregular path, which ultimately terminated upona flat ledge passing round the face of the huge blue-black rock at aheight about midway between the sea and the topmost verge. There, farbeneath and before them, lay the everlasting stretch of ocean; there, upon detached rocks, were the white screaming gulls, seeming everintending to settle, and yet always passing on. Right and left rankedthe toothed and zigzag line of storm-torn heights, forming the serieswhich culminated in the one beneath their feet. 

Behind the youth and maiden was a tempting alcove and seat, formednaturally in the beetling mass, and wide enough to admit two or threepersons. Elfride sat down, and Stephen sat beside her. 

'I am afraid it is hardly proper of us to be here, either, ' she saidhalf inquiringly. 'We have not known each other long enough for thiskind of thing, have we!'

'Oh yes, ' he replied judicially; 'quite long enough. '

'How do you know?'

'It is not length of time, but the manner in which our minutes beat, that makes enough or not enough in our acquaintanceship. '

'Yes, I see that. But I wish papa suspected or knew what a VERY NEWTHING I am doing. He does not think of it at all. '

'Darling Elfie, I wish we could be married! It is wrong for me to sayit--I know it is--before you know more; but I wish we might be, all thesame. Do you love me deeply, deeply?'

'No!' she said in a fluster. 

At this point-blank denial, Stephen turned his face away decisively, andpreserved an ominous silence; the only objects of interest on earth forhim being apparently the three or four-score sea-birds circling in theair afar off. 

'I didn't mean to stop you quite, ' she faltered with some alarm; andseeing that he still remained silent, she added more anxiously, 'If yousay that again, perhaps, I will not be quite--quite so obstinate--if--ifyou don't like me to be. '

'Oh, my Elfride!' he exclaimed, and kissed her. 

It was Elfride's first kiss. And so awkward and unused was she; full ofstriving--no relenting. There was none of those apparent struggles toget out of the trap which only results in getting further in: no finalattitude of receptivity: no easy close of shoulder to shoulder, handupon hand, face upon face, and, in spite of coyness, the lips in theright place at the supreme moment. That graceful though apparentlyaccidental falling into position, which many have noticed asprecipitating the end and making sweethearts the sweeter, was not here. Why? Because experience was absent. A woman must have had many kissesbefore she kisses well. 

In fact, the art of tendering the lips for these amatory salutes followsthe principles laid down in treatises on legerdemain for performingthe trick called Forcing a Card. The card is to be shifted nimbly, withdrawn, edged under, and withal not to be offered till the moment theunsuspecting person's hand reaches the pack; this forcing to be done somodestly and yet so coaxingly, that the person trifled with imagines heis really choosing what is in fact thrust into his hand. 

Well, there were no such facilities now; and Stephen was conscious ofit--first with a momentary regret that his kiss should be spoilt by herconfused receipt of it, and then with the pleasant perception that herawkwardness was her charm. 

'And you do care for me and love me?' said he. 

'Yes. '

'Very much?'

'Yes. '

'And I mustn't ask you if you'll wait for me, and be my wife some day?'

'Why not?' she said naively. 

'There is a reason why, my Elfride. '

'Not any one that I know of. '

'Suppose there is something connected with me which makes it almostimpossible for you to agree to be my wife, or for your father tocountenance such an idea?'

'Nothing shall make me cease to love you: no blemish can be found uponyour personal nature. That is pure and generous, I know; and havingthat, how can I be cold to you?'

'And shall nothing else affect us--shall nothing beyond my nature be apart of my quality in your eyes, Elfie?'

'Nothing whatever, ' she said with a breath of relief. 'Is that all? Someoutside circumstance? What do I care?'

'You can hardly judge, dear, till you know what has to be judged. Forthat, we will stop till we get home. I believe in you, but I cannot feelbright. '

'Love is new, and fresh to us as the dew; and we are together. As thelover's world goes, this is a great deal. Stephen, I fancy I see thedifference between me and you--between men and women generally, perhaps. I am content to build happiness on any accidental basis that may lienear at hand; you are for making a world to suit your happiness. '

'Elfride, you sometimes say things which make you seem suddenly tobecome five years older than you are, or than I am; and that remark isone. I couldn't think so OLD as that, try how I might. .. . And no loverhas ever kissed you before?'

'Never. '

'I knew that; you were so unused. You ride well, but you don't kissnicely at all; and I was told once, by my friend Knight, that that is anexcellent fault in woman. '

'Now, come; I must mount again, or we shall not be home by dinner-time. 'And they returned to where Pansy stood tethered. 'Instead of entrustingmy weight to a young man's unstable palm, ' she continued gaily, 'Iprefer a surer "upping-stock" (as the villagers call it), in the form ofa gate. There--now I am myself again. '

They proceeded homeward at the same walking pace. 

Her blitheness won Stephen out of his thoughtfulness, and each forgoteverything but the tone of the moment. 

'What did you love me for?' she said, after a long musing look at aflying bird. 

'I don't know, ' he replied idly. 

'Oh yes, you do, ' insisted Elfride. 

'Perhaps, for your eyes. '

'What of them?--now, don't vex me by a light answer. What of my eyes?'

'Oh, nothing to be mentioned. They are indifferently good. '

'Come, Stephen, I won't have that. What did you love me for?'

'It might have been for your mouth?'

'Well, what about my mouth?'

'I thought it was a passable mouth enough----'

'That's not very comforting. '

'With a pretty pout and sweet lips; but actually, nothing more than whateverybody has. '

'Don't make up things out of your head as you go on, there's a dearStephen. Now--what--did--you--love--me--for?'

'Perhaps, 'twas for your neck and hair; though I am not sure: or foryour idle blood, that did nothing but wander away from your cheeksand back again; but I am not sure. Or your hands and arms, that theyeclipsed all other hands and arms; or your feet, that they played aboutunder your dress like little mice; or your tongue, that it was of a deardelicate tone. But I am not altogether sure. '

'Ah, that's pretty to say; but I don't care for your love, if it made amere flat picture of me in that way, and not being sure, and suchcold reasoning; but what you FELT I was, you know, Stephen' (at thisa stealthy laugh and frisky look into his face), 'when you said toyourself, "I'll certainly love that young lady. "'

'I never said it. '

'When you said to yourself, then, "I never will love that young lady. "'

'I didn't say that, either. '

'Then was it, "I suppose I must love that young lady?"'

'No. '

'What, then?'

''Twas much more fluctuating--not so definite. '

'Tell me; do, do. '

'It was that I ought not to think about you if I loved you truly. '

'Ah, that I don't understand. There's no getting it out of you. And I'llnot ask you ever any more--never more--to say out of the deep reality ofyour heart what you loved me for. '

'Sweet tantalizer, what's the use? It comes to this sole simple thing:That at one time I had never seen you, and I didn't love you; that thenI saw you, and I did love you. Is that enough?'

'Yes; I will make it do. .. . I know, I think, what I love you for. You arenice-looking, of course; but I didn't mean for that. It is because youare so docile and gentle. '

'Those are not quite the correct qualities for a man to be loved for, 'said Stephen, in rather a dissatisfied tone of self-criticism. 'Well, never mind. I must ask your father to allow us to be engaged directly weget indoors. It will be for a long time. '

'I like it the better. .. . Stephen, don't mention it till to-morrow. '

'Why?'

'Because, if he should object--I don't think he will; but ifhe should--we shall have a day longer of happiness from ourignorance. .. . Well, what are you thinking of so deeply?'

'I was thinking how my dear friend Knight would enjoy this scene. I wishhe could come here. '

'You seem very much engrossed with him, ' she answered, with a jealouslittle toss. 'He must be an interesting man to take up so much of yourattention. '

'Interesting!' said Stephen, his face glowing with his fervour; 'noble, you ought to say. '

'Oh yes, yes; I forgot, ' she said half satirically. 'The noblest man inEngland, as you told us last night. '

'He is a fine fellow, laugh as you will, Miss Elfie. '

'I know he is your hero. But what does he do? anything?'

'He writes. '

'What does he write? I have never heard of his name. '

'Because his personality, and that of several others like him, isabsorbed into a huge WE, namely, the impalpable entity called thePRESENT--a social and literary Review. '

'Is he only a reviewer?'

'ONLY, Elfie! Why, I can tell you it is a fine thing to be on the staffof the PRESENT. Finer than being a novelist considerably. '

'That's a hit at me, and my poor COURT OF KELLYON CASTLE. '

'No, Elfride, ' he whispered; 'I didn't mean that. I mean that he isreally a literary man of some eminence, and not altogether a reviewer. He writes things of a higher class than reviews, though he reviewsa book occasionally. His ordinary productions are social and ethicalessays--all that the PRESENT contains which is not literary reviewing. '

'I admit he must be talented if he writes for the PRESENT. We have itsent to us irregularly. I want papa to be a subscriber, but he's soconservative. Now the next point in this Mr. Knight--I suppose he is avery good man. '

'An excellent man. I shall try to be his intimate friend some day. '

'But aren't you now?'

'No; not so much as that, ' replied Stephen, as if such a suppositionwere extravagant. 'You see, it was in this way--he came originally fromthe same place as I, and taught me things; but I am not intimate withhim. Shan't I be glad when I get richer and better known, and hob andnob with him!' Stephen's eyes sparkled. 

A pout began to shape itself upon Elfride's soft lips. 'You think alwaysof him, and like him better than you do me!'

'No, indeed, Elfride. The feeling is different quite. But I do like him, and he deserves even more affection from me than I give. '

'You are not nice now, and you make me as jealous as possible!' sheexclaimed perversely. 'I know you will never speak to any third personof me so warmly as you do to me of him. '

'But you don't understand, Elfride, ' he said with an anxious movement. 'You shall know him some day. He is so brilliant--no, it isn't exactlybrilliant; so thoughtful--nor does thoughtful express him--that it wouldcharm you to talk to him. He's a most desirable friend, and that isn'thalf I could say. '

'I don't care how good he is; I don't want to know him, because he comesbetween me and you. You think of him night and day, ever so much morethan of anybody else; and when you are thinking of him, I am shut out ofyour mind. '

'No, dear Elfride; I love you dearly. '

'And I don't like you to tell me so warmly about him when you are inthe middle of loving me. Stephen, suppose that I and this man Knight ofyours were both drowning, and you could only save one of us----'

'Yes--the stupid old proposition--which would I save?

'Well, which? Not me. '

'Both of you, ' he said, pressing her pendent hand. 

'No, that won't do; only one of us. '

'I cannot say; I don't know. It is disagreeable--quite a horrid idea tohave to handle. '

'A-ha, I know. You would save him, and let me drown, drown, drown; and Idon't care about your love!'

She had endeavoured to give a playful tone to her words, but the latterspeech was rather forced in its gaiety. 

At this point in the discussion she trotted off to turn a corner whichwas avoided by the footpath, the road and the path reuniting at a pointa little further on. On again making her appearance she continuallymanaged to look in a direction away from him, and left him in thecool shade of her displeasure. Stephen was soon beaten at this game ofindifference. He went round and entered the range of her vision. 

'Are you offended, Elfie? Why don't you talk?'

'Save me, then, and let that Mr. Clever of yours drown. I hate him. Now, which would you?'

'Really, Elfride, you should not press such a hard question. It isridiculous. '

'Then I won't be alone with you any more. Unkind, to wound me so!' Shelaughed at her own absurdity but persisted. 

'Come, Elfie, let's make it up and be friends. '

'Say you would save me, then, and let him drown. '

'I would save you--and him too. '

'And let him drown. Come, or you don't love me!' she teasingly went on. 

'And let him drown, ' he ejaculated despairingly. 

'There; now I am yours!' she said, and a woman's flush of triumph lither eyes. 

'Only one earring, miss, as I'm alive, ' said Unity on their entering thehall. 

With a face expressive of wretched misgiving, Elfride's hand flew likean arrow to her ear. 

'There!' she exclaimed to Stephen, looking at him with eyes full ofreproach. 

'I quite forgot, indeed. If I had only remembered!' he answered, with aconscience-stricken face. 

She wheeled herself round, and turned into the shrubbery. Stephenfollowed. 

'If you had told me to watch anything, Stephen, I should havereligiously done it, ' she capriciously went on, as soon as she heard himbehind her. 

'Forgetting is forgivable. '

'Well, you will find it, if you want me to respect you and be engagedto you when we have asked papa. ' She considered a moment, and added moreseriously, 'I know now where I dropped it, Stephen. It was on the cliff. I remember a faint sensation of some change about me, but I was tooabsent to think of it then. And that's where it is now, and you must goand look there. '

'I'll go at once. '

And he strode away up the valley, under a broiling sun and amid thedeathlike silence of early afternoon. He ascended, with giddy-pacedhaste, the windy range of rocks to where they had sat, felt and peeredabout the stones and crannies, but Elfride's stray jewel was nowhereto be seen. Next Stephen slowly retraced his steps, and, pausing at across-road to reflect a while, he left the plateau and struck downwardsacross some fields, in the direction of Endelstow House. 

He walked along the path by the river without the slightest hesitationas to its bearing, apparently quite familiar with every inch of theground. As the shadows began to lengthen and the sunlight to mellow, he passed through two wicket-gates, and drew near the outskirts ofEndelstow Park. The river now ran along under the park fence, previousto entering the grove itself, a little further on. 

Here stood a cottage, between the fence and the stream, on a slightlyelevated spot of ground, round which the river took a turn. Thecharacteristic feature of this snug habitation was its one chimney inthe gable end, its squareness of form disguised by a huge cloak of ivy, which had grown so luxuriantly and extended so far from its base, as toincrease the apparent bulk of the chimney to the dimensions of a tower. Some little distance from the back of the house rose the park boundary, and over this were to be seen the sycamores of the grove, making slowinclinations to the just-awakening air. 

Stephen crossed the little wood bridge in front, went up to the cottagedoor, and opened it without knock or signal of any kind. 

Exclamations of welcome burst from some person or persons when the doorwas thrust ajar, followed by the scrape of chairs on a stone floor, asif pushed back by their occupiers in rising from a table. The door wasclosed again, and nothing could now be heard from within, save a livelychatter and the rattle of plates. 

Chapter VIII

 'Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord. '

The mists were creeping out of pools and swamps for their pilgrimagesof the night when Stephen came up to the front door of the vicarage. Elfride was standing on the step illuminated by a lemon-hued expanse ofwestern sky. 

'You never have been all this time looking for that earring?' she saidanxiously. 

'Oh no; and I have not found it. '

'Never mind. Though I am much vexed; they are my prettiest. But, Stephen, what ever have you been doing--where have you been? I havebeen so uneasy. I feared for you, knowing not an inch of the country. Ithought, suppose he has fallen over the cliff! But now I am inclined toscold you for frightening me so. '

'I must speak to your father now, ' he said rather abruptly; 'I have somuch to say to him--and to you, Elfride. '

'Will what you have to say endanger this nice time of ours, and is itthat same shadowy secret you allude to so frequently, and will it makeme unhappy?'

'Possibly. '

She breathed heavily, and looked around as if for a prompter. 

'Put it off till to-morrow, ' she said. 

He involuntarily sighed too. 

'No; it must come to-night. Where is your father, Elfride?'

'Somewhere in the kitchen garden, I think, ' she replied. 'That is hisfavourite evening retreat. I will leave you now. Say all that's to besaid--do all there is to be done. Think of me waiting anxiously for theend. ' And she re-entered the house. 

She waited in the drawing-room, watching the lights sink to shadows, theshadows sink to darkness, until her impatience to know what had occurredin the garden could no longer be controlled. She passed round theshrubbery, unlatched the garden door, and skimmed with her keen eyes thewhole twilighted space that the four walls enclosed and sheltered: theywere not there. She mounted a little ladder, which had been used forgathering fruit, and looked over the wall into the field. This fieldextended to the limits of the glebe, which was enclosed on that side bya privet-hedge. Under the hedge was Mr. Swancourt, walking up and down, and talking aloud--to himself, as it sounded at first. No: another voiceshouted occasional replies; and this interlocutor seemed to be on theother side of the hedge. The voice, though soft in quality, was notStephen's. 

The second speaker must have been in the long-neglected garden of an oldmanor-house hard by, which, together with a small estate attached, hadlately been purchased by a person named Troyton, whom Elfride had neverseen. Her father might have struck up an acquaintanceship with somemember of that family through the privet-hedge, or a stranger to theneighbourhood might have wandered thither. 

Well, there was no necessity for disturbing him. 

And it seemed that, after all, Stephen had not yet made his desiredcommunication to her father. Again she went indoors, wondering whereStephen could be. For want of something better to do, she went upstairsto her own little room. Here she sat down at the open window, and, leaning with her elbow on the table and her cheek upon her hand, shefell into meditation. 

It was a hot and still August night. Every disturbance of the silencewhich rose to the dignity of a noise could be heard for miles, and themerest sound for a long distance. So she remained, thinking of Stephen, and wishing he had not deprived her of his company to no purpose, as itappeared. How delicate and sensitive he was, she reflected; and yet hewas man enough to have a private mystery, which considerably elevatedhim in her eyes. Thus, looking at things with an inward vision, she lostconsciousness of the flight of time. 

Strange conjunctions of circumstances, particularly those of a trivialeveryday kind, are so frequent in an ordinary life, that we grow used totheir unaccountableness, and forget the question whether the very longodds against such juxtaposition is not almost a disproof of it being amatter of chance at all. What occurred to Elfride at this moment was acase in point. She was vividly imagining, for the twentieth time, thekiss of the morning, and putting her lips together in the positionanother such a one would demand, when she heard the identical operationperformed on the lawn, immediately beneath her window. 

A kiss--not of the quiet and stealthy kind, but decisive, loud, andsmart. 

Her face flushed and she looked out, but to no purpose. The dark rimof the upland drew a keen sad line against the pale glow of the sky, unbroken except where a young cedar on the lawn, that had outgrown itsfellow trees, shot its pointed head across the horizon, piercing thefirmamental lustre like a sting. 

It was just possible that, had any persons been standing on the grassyportions of the lawn, Elfride might have seen their dusky forms. But theshrubs, which once had merely dotted the glade, had now grown bushy andlarge, till they hid at least half the enclosure containing them. Thekissing pair might have been behind some of these; at any rate, nobodywas in sight. 

Had no enigma ever been connected with her lover by his hints andabsences, Elfride would never have thought of admitting into her mind asuspicion that he might be concerned in the foregoing enactment. But thereservations he at present insisted on, while they added to the mysterywithout which perhaps she would never have seriously loved him at all, were calculated to nourish doubts of all kinds, and with a slow flush ofjealousy she asked herself, might he not be the culprit?

Elfride glided downstairs on tiptoe, and out to the precise spot onwhich she had parted from Stephen to enable him to speak privately toher father. Thence she wandered into all the nooks around the place fromwhich the sound seemed to proceed--among the huge laurestines, about thetufts of pampas grasses, amid the variegated hollies, under the weepingwych-elm--nobody was there. Returning indoors she called 'Unity!'

'She is gone to her aunt's, to spend the evening, ' said Mr. Swancourt, thrusting his head out of his study door, and letting the light of hiscandles stream upon Elfride's face--less revealing than, as it seemed toherself, creating the blush of uneasy perplexity that was burning uponher cheek. 

'I didn't know you were indoors, papa, ' she said with surprise. 'Surelyno light was shining from the window when I was on the lawn?' and shelooked and saw that the shutters were still open. 

'Oh yes, I am in, ' he said indifferently. 'What did you want Unity for?I think she laid supper before she went out. '

'Did she?--I have not been to see--I didn't want her for that. '

Elfride scarcely knew, now that a definite reason was required, whatthat reason was. Her mind for a moment strayed to another subject, unimportant as it seemed. The red ember of a match was lying inside thefender, which explained that why she had seen no rays from the windowwas because the candles had only just been lighted. 

'I'll come directly, ' said the vicar. 'I thought you were out somewherewith Mr. Smith. '

Even the inexperienced Elfride could not help thinking that her fathermust be wonderfully blind if he failed to perceive what was the nascentconsequence of herself and Stephen being so unceremoniously lefttogether; wonderfully careless, if he saw it and did not think aboutit; wonderfully good, if, as seemed to her by far the most probablesupposition, he saw it and thought about it and approved of it. Thesereflections were cut short by the appearance of Stephen just outside theporch, silvered about the head and shoulders with touches of moonlight, that had begun to creep through the trees. 

'Has your trouble anything to do with a kiss on the lawn?' she askedabruptly, almost passionately. 

'Kiss on the lawn?'

'Yes!' she said, imperiously now. 

'I didn't comprehend your meaning, nor do I now exactly. I certainlyhave kissed nobody on the lawn, if that is really what you want to know, Elfride. '

'You know nothing about such a performance?'

'Nothing whatever. What makes you ask?'

'Don't press me to tell; it is nothing of importance. And, Stephen, youhave not yet spoken to papa about our engagement?'

'No, ' he said regretfully, 'I could not find him directly; and thenI went on thinking so much of what you said about objections, refusals--bitter words possibly--ending our happiness, that Iresolved to put it off till to-morrow; that gives us one more day ofdelight--delight of a tremulous kind. '

'Yes; but it would be improper to be silent too long, I think, ' she saidin a delicate voice, which implied that her face had grown warm. 'I wanthim to know we love, Stephen. Why did you adopt as your own my thoughtof delay?'

'I will explain; but I want to tell you of my secret first--to tell younow. It is two or three hours yet to bedtime. Let us walk up the hill tothe church. '

Elfride passively assented, and they went from the lawn by a sidewicket, and ascended into the open expanse of moonlight which streamedaround the lonely edifice on the summit of the hill. 

The door was locked. They turned from the porch, and walked hand in handto find a resting-place in the churchyard. Stephen chose a flat tomb, showing itself to be newer and whiter than those around it, and sittingdown himself, gently drew her hand towards him. 

'No, not there, ' she said. 

'Why not here?'

'A mere fancy; but never mind. ' And she sat down. 

'Elfie, will you love me, in spite of everything that may be saidagainst me?'

'O Stephen, what makes you repeat that so continually and so sadly? Youknow I will. Yes, indeed, ' she said, drawing closer, 'whatever may besaid of you--and nothing bad can be--I will cling to you just the same. Your ways shall be my ways until I die. '

'Did you ever think what my parents might be, or what society Ioriginally moved in?'

'No, not particularly. I have observed one or two little points in yourmanners which are rather quaint--no more. I suppose you have moved inthe ordinary society of professional people. '

'Supposing I have not--that none of my family have a profession exceptme?'

'I don't mind. What you are only concerns me. '

'Where do you think I went to school--I mean, to what kind of school?'

'Dr. Somebody's academy, ' she said simply. 

'No. To a dame school originally, then to a national school. '

'Only to those! Well, I love you just as much, Stephen, dear Stephen, 'she murmured tenderly, 'I do indeed. And why should you tell me thesethings so impressively? What do they matter to me?'

He held her closer and proceeded:

'What do you think my father is--does for his living, that is to say?'

'He practises some profession or calling, I suppose. '

'No; he is a mason. '

'A Freemason?'

'No; a cottager and journeyman mason. '

Elfride said nothing at first. After a while she whispered:

'That is a strange idea to me. But never mind; what does it matter?'

'But aren't you angry with me for not telling you before?'

'No, not at all. Is your mother alive?'

'Yes. '

'Is she a nice lady?'

'Very--the best mother in the world. Her people had been well-to-doyeomen for centuries, but she was only a dairymaid. '

'O Stephen!' came from her in whispered exclamation. 

'She continued to attend to a dairy long after my father married her, 'pursued Stephen, without further hesitation. 'And I remember very wellhow, when I was very young, I used to go to the milking, look on at theskimming, sleep through the churning, and make believe I helped her. Ah, that was a happy time enough!'

'No, never--not happy. '

'Yes, it was. '

'I don't see how happiness could be where the drudgery of dairy-workhad to be done for a living--the hands red and chapped, and the shoesclogged. .. . Stephen, I do own that it seems odd to regard you in thelight of--of--having been so rough in your youth, and done menial thingsof that kind. ' (Stephen withdrew an inch or two from her side. ) 'ButI DO LOVE YOU just the same, ' she continued, getting closer under hisshoulder again, 'and I don't care anything about the past; and I seethat you are all the worthier for having pushed on in the world in sucha way. '

'It is not my worthiness; it is Knight's, who pushed me. '

'Ah, always he--always he!'

'Yes, and properly so. Now, Elfride, you see the reason of his teachingme by letter. I knew him years before he went to Oxford, but I had notgot far enough in my reading for him to entertain the idea of helpingme in classics till he left home. Then I was sent away from the village, and we very seldom met; but he kept up this system of tuition bycorrespondence with the greatest regularity. I will tell you all thestory, but not now. There is nothing more to say now, beyond givingplaces, persons, and dates. ' His voice became timidly slow at thispoint. 

'No; don't take trouble to say more. You are a dear honest fellow to sayso much as you have; and it is not so dreadful either. It has become anormal thing that millionaires commence by going up to London with theirtools at their back, and half-a-crown in their pockets. That sort oforigin is getting so respected, ' she continued cheerfully, 'that it isacquiring some of the odour of Norman ancestry. '

'Ah, if I had MADE my fortune, I shouldn't mind. But I am only apossible maker of it as yet. '

'It is quite enough. And so THIS is what your trouble was?'

'I thought I was doing wrong in letting you love me without telling youmy story; and yet I feared to do so, Elfie. I dreaded to lose you, and Iwas cowardly on that account. '

'How plain everything about you seems after this explanation! Yourpeculiarities in chess-playing, the pronunciation papa noticed in yourLatin, your odd mixture of book-knowledge with ignorance of ordinarysocial accomplishments, are accounted for in a moment. And has thisanything to do with what I saw at Lord Luxellian's?'

'What did you see?'

'I saw the shadow of yourself putting a cloak round a lady. I was at theside door; you two were in a room with the window towards me. You cameto me a moment later. '

'She was my mother. '

'Your mother THERE!' She withdrew herself to look at him silently in herinterest. 

'Elfride, ' said Stephen, 'I was going to tell you the remainderto-morrow--I have been keeping it back--I must tell it now, after all. The remainder of my revelation refers to where my parents are. Where doyou think they live? You know them--by sight at any rate. '

'I know them!' she said in suspended amazement. 

'Yes. My father is John Smith, Lord Luxellian's master-mason, who livesunder the park wall by the river. '

'O Stephen! can it be?'

'He built--or assisted at the building of the house you live in, yearsago. He put up those stone gate piers at the lodge entrance to LordLuxellian's park. My grandfather planted the trees that belt in yourlawn; my grandmother--who worked in the fields with him--held each treeupright whilst he filled in the earth: they told me so when I was achild. He was the sexton, too, and dug many of the graves around us. '

'And was your unaccountable vanishing on the first morning of yourarrival, and again this afternoon, a run to see your father andmother?. .. I understand now; no wonder you seemed to know your way aboutthe village!'

'No wonder. But remember, I have not lived here since I was nine yearsold. I then went to live with my uncle, a blacksmith, near Exonbury, inorder to be able to attend a national school as a day scholar; therewas none on this remote coast then. It was there I met with my friendKnight. And when I was fifteen and had been fairly educated by theschool-master--and more particularly by Knight--I was put as a pupil inan architect's office in that town, because I was skilful in the useof the pencil. A full premium was paid by the efforts of my motherand father, rather against the wishes of Lord Luxellian, who likes myfather, however, and thinks a great deal of him. There I stayed till sixmonths ago, when I obtained a situation as improver, as it is called, ina London office. That's all of me. '

'To think YOU, the London visitor, the town man, should have beenborn here, and have known this village so many years before I did. Howstrange--how very strange it seems to me!' she murmured. 

'My mother curtseyed to you and your father last Sunday, ' said Stephen, with a pained smile at the thought of the incongruity. 'And your papasaid to her, "I am glad to see you so regular at church, JANE. "'

'I remember it, but I have never spoken to her. We have only been hereeighteen months, and the parish is so large. '

'Contrast with this, ' said Stephen, with a miserable laugh, 'yourfather's belief in my "blue blood, " which is still prevalent in hismind. The first night I came, he insisted upon proving my descent fromone of the most ancient west-county families, on account of mysecond Christian name; when the truth is, it was given me because mygrandfather was assistant gardener in the Fitzmaurice-Smith family forthirty years. Having seen your face, my darling, I had not heart tocontradict him, and tell him what would have cut me off from a friendlyknowledge of you. '

She sighed deeply. 'Yes, I see now how this inequality may be madeto trouble us, ' she murmured, and continued in a low, sad whisper, 'I wouldn't have minded if they had lived far away. Papa might haveconsented to an engagement between us if your connection had been withvillagers a hundred miles off; remoteness softens family contrasts. Buthe will not like--O Stephen, Stephen! what can I do?'

'Do?' he said tentatively, yet with heaviness. 'Give me up; let me goback to London, and think no more of me. '

'No, no; I cannot give you up! This hopelessness in our affairs makes mecare more for you. .. . I see what did not strike me at first. Stephen, why do we trouble? Why should papa object? An architect in London is anarchitect in London. Who inquires there? Nobody. We shall live there, shall we not? Why need we be so alarmed?'

'And Elfie, ' said Stephen, his hopes kindling with hers, 'Knight thinksnothing of my being only a cottager's son; he says I am as worthy of hisfriendship as if I were a lord's; and if I am worthy of his friendship, I am worthy of you, am I not, Elfride?'

'I not only have never loved anybody but you, ' she said, instead ofgiving an answer, 'but I have not even formed a strong friendship, suchas you have for Knight. I wish you hadn't. It diminishes me. '

'Now, Elfride, you know better, ' he said wooingly. 'And had you reallynever any sweetheart at all?'

'None that was ever recognized by me as such. '

'But did nobody ever love you?'

'Yes--a man did once; very much, he said. '

'How long ago?'

'Oh, a long time. '

'How long, dearest?

'A twelvemonth. '

'That's not VERY long' (rather disappointedly). 

'I said long, not very long. '

'And did he want to marry you?'

'I believe he did. But I didn't see anything in him. He was not goodenough, even if I had loved him. '

'May I ask what he was?'

'A farmer. '

'A farmer not good enough--how much better than my family!' Stephenmurmured. 

'Where is he now?' he continued to Elfride. 

'HERE. '

'Here! what do you mean by that?'

'I mean that he is here. '

'Where here?'

'Under us. He is under this tomb. He is dead, and we are sitting on hisgrave. '

'Elfie, ' said the young man, standing up and looking at the tomb, 'how odd and sad that revelation seems! It quite depresses me for themoment. '

'Stephen! I didn't wish to sit here; but you would do so. '

'You never encouraged him?'

'Never by look, word, or sign, ' she said solemnly. 'He died ofconsumption, and was buried the day you first came. '

'Let us go away. I don't like standing by HIM, even if you never lovedhim. He was BEFORE me. '

'Worries make you unreasonable, ' she half pouted, following Stephen atthe distance of a few steps. 'Perhaps I ought to have told you before wesat down. Yes; let us go. '

Chapter IX

 'Her father did fume'

Oppressed, in spite of themselves, by a foresight of impendingcomplications, Elfride and Stephen returned down the hill hand in hand. At the door they paused wistfully, like children late at school. 

Women accept their destiny more readily than men. Elfride had nowresigned herself to the overwhelming idea of her lover's sorryantecedents; Stephen had not forgotten the trifling grievance thatElfride had known earlier admiration than his own. 

'What was that young man's name?' he inquired. 

'Felix Jethway; a widow's only son. '

'I remember the family. '

'She hates me now. She says I killed him. '

Stephen mused, and they entered the porch. 

'Stephen, I love only you, ' she tremulously whispered. He pressed herfingers, and the trifling shadow passed away, to admit again the mutualand more tangible trouble. 

The study appeared to be the only room lighted up. They entered, each with a demeanour intended to conceal the inconcealable fact thatreciprocal love was their dominant chord. Elfride perceived a man, sitting with his back towards herself, talking to her father. She wouldhave retired, but Mr. Swancourt had seen her. 

'Come in, ' he said; 'it is only Martin Cannister, come for a copy of theregister for poor Mrs. Jethway. '

Martin Cannister, the sexton, was rather a favourite with Elfride. Heused to absorb her attention by telling her of his strange experiencesin digging up after long years the bodies of persons he had known, andrecognizing them by some little sign (though in reality he had neverrecognized any). He had shrewd small eyes and a great wealth of doublechin, which compensated in some measure for considerable poverty ofnose. 

The appearance of a slip of paper in Cannister's hand, and a fewshillings lying on the table in front of him, denoted that the businesshad been transacted, and the tenor of their conversation went toshow that a summary of village news was now engaging the attention ofparishioner and parson. 

Mr. Cannister stood up and touched his forehead over his eye with hisfinger, in respectful salutation of Elfride, gave half as much salute toStephen (whom he, in common with other villagers, had never for a momentrecognized), then sat down again and resumed his discourse. 

'Where had I got on to, sir?'

'To driving the pile, ' said Mr. Swancourt. 

'The pile 'twas. So, as I was saying, Nat was driving the pile in thismanner, as I might say. ' Here Mr. Cannister held his walking-stickscrupulously vertical with his left hand, and struck a blow with greatforce on the knob of the stick with his right. 'John was steadying thepile so, as I might say. ' Here he gave the stick a slight shake, andlooked firmly in the various eyes around to see that before proceedingfurther his listeners well grasped the subject at that stage. 'Well, when Nat had struck some half-dozen blows more upon the pile, 'a stoppedfor a second or two. John, thinking he had done striking, put his handupon the top o' the pile to gie en a pull, and see if 'a were firm inthe ground. ' Mr. Cannister spread his hand over the top of the stick, completely covering it with his palm. 'Well, so to speak, Nat hadn'tmaned to stop striking, and when John had put his hand upon the pile, the beetle----'

'Oh dreadful!' said Elfride. 

'The beetle was already coming down, you see, sir. Nat just caught sightof his hand, but couldn't stop the blow in time. Down came the beetleupon poor John Smith's hand, and squashed en to a pummy. '

'Dear me, dear me! poor fellow!' said the vicar, with an intonation likethe groans of the wounded in a pianoforte performance of the 'Battle ofPrague. '

'John Smith, the master-mason?' cried Stephen hurriedly. 

'Ay, no other; and a better-hearted man God A'mighty never made. '

'Is he so much hurt?'

'I have heard, ' said Mr. Swancourt, not noticing Stephen, 'that he has ason in London, a very promising young fellow. '

'Oh, how he must be hurt!' repeated Stephen. 

'A beetle couldn't hurt very little. Well, sir, good-night t'ye; and ye, sir; and you, miss, I'm sure. '

Mr. Cannister had been making unnoticeable motions of withdrawal, and bythe time this farewell remark came from his lips he was just outside thedoor of the room. He tramped along the hall, stayed more than a minuteendeavouring to close the door properly, and then was lost to theirhearing. 

Stephen had meanwhile turned and said to the vicar:

'Please excuse me this evening! I must leave. John Smith is my father. '

The vicar did not comprehend at first. 

'What did you say?' he inquired. 

'John Smith is my father, ' said Stephen deliberately. 

A surplus tinge of redness rose from Mr. Swancourt's neck, and cameround over his face, the lines of his features became more firmlydefined, and his lips seemed to get thinner. It was evident that aseries of little circumstances, hitherto unheeded, were now fittingthemselves together, and forming a lucid picture in Mr. Swancourt's mindin such a manner as to render useless further explanation on Stephen'spart. 

'Indeed, ' the vicar said, in a voice dry and without inflection. 

This being a word which depends entirely upon its tone for its meaning, Mr. Swancourt's enunciation was equivalent to no expression at all. 

'I have to go now, ' said Stephen, with an agitated bearing, and amovement as if he scarcely knew whether he ought to run off or staylonger. 'On my return, sir, will you kindly grant me a few minutes'private conversation?'

'Certainly. Though antecedently it does not seem possible that there canbe anything of the nature of private business between us. '

Mr. Swancourt put on his straw hat, crossed the drawing-room, into whichthe moonlight was shining, and stepped out of the French window intothe verandah. It required no further effort to perceive what, indeed, reasoning might have foretold as the natural colour of a mind whosepleasures were taken amid genealogies, good dinners, and patricianreminiscences, that Mr. Swancourt's prejudices were too strong for hisgenerosity, and that Stephen's moments as his friend and equal werenumbered, or had even now ceased. 

Stephen moved forward as if he would follow the vicar, then as if hewould not, and in absolute perplexity whither to turn himself, wentawkwardly to the door. Elfride followed lingeringly behind him. Beforehe had receded two yards from the doorstep, Unity and Ann the housemaidcame home from their visit to the village. 

'Have you heard anything about John Smith? The accident is not so bad aswas reported, is it?' said Elfride intuitively. 

'Oh no; the doctor says it is only a bad bruise. '

'I thought so!' cried Elfride gladly. 

'He says that, although Nat believes he did not check the beetle asit came down, he must have done so without knowing it--checked it veryconsiderably too; for the full blow would have knocked his hand abroad, and in reality it is only made black-and-blue like. '

'How thankful I am!' said Stephen. 

The perplexed Unity looked at him with her mouth rather than with hereyes. 

'That will do, Unity, ' said Elfride magisterially; and the two maidspassed on. 

'Elfride, do you forgive me?' said Stephen with a faint smile. 'No manis fair in love;' and he took her fingers lightly in his own. 

With her head thrown sideways in the Greuze attitude, she looked atender reproach at his doubt and pressed his hand. Stephen returned thepressure threefold, then hastily went off to his father's cottage by thewall of Endelstow Park. 

'Elfride, what have you to say to this?' inquired her father, coming upimmediately Stephen had retired. 

With feminine quickness she grasped at any straw that would enable herto plead his cause. 'He had told me of it, ' she faltered; 'so that it isnot a discovery in spite of him. He was just coming in to tell you. '

'COMING to tell! Why hadn't he already told? I object as much, ifnot more, to his underhand concealment of this, than I do to the factitself. It looks very much like his making a fool of me, and of you too. You and he have been about together, and corresponding together, in away I don't at all approve of--in a most unseemly way. You should haveknown how improper such conduct is. A woman can't be too careful not tobe seen alone with I-don't-know-whom. '

'You saw us, papa, and have never said a word. '

'My fault, of course; my fault. What the deuce could I be thinking of!He, a villager's son; and we, Swancourts, connections of the Luxellians. We have been coming to nothing for centuries, and now I believe we havegot there. What shall I next invite here, I wonder!'

Elfride began to cry at this very unpropitious aspect of affairs. 'O papa, papa, forgive me and him! We care so much for one another, papa--O, so much! And what he was going to ask you is, if you will allowof an engagement between us till he is a gentleman as good as you. Weare not in a hurry, dear papa; we don't want in the least to marry now;not until he is richer. Only will you let us be engaged, because I lovehim so, and he loves me?'

Mr. Swancourt's feelings were a little touched by this appeal, and hewas annoyed that such should be the case. 'Certainly not!' he replied. He pronounced the inhibition lengthily and sonorously, so that the 'not'sounded like 'n-o-o-o-t!'

'No, no, no; don't say it!'

'Foh! A fine story. It is not enough that I have been deludedand disgraced by having him here, --the son of one of my villagepeasants, --but now I am to make him my son-in-law! Heavens above us, areyou mad, Elfride?'

'You have seen his letters come to me ever since his first visit, papa, and you knew they were a sort of--love-letters; and since he has beenhere you have let him be alone with me almost entirely; and you guessed, you must have guessed, what we were thinking of, and doing, and youdidn't stop him. Next to love-making comes love-winning, and you knew itwould come to that, papa. '

The vicar parried this common-sense thrust. 'I know--since you press meso--I know I did guess some childish attachment might arise betweenyou; I own I did not take much trouble to prevent it; but I have notparticularly countenanced it; and, Elfride, how can you expect that Ishould now? It is impossible; no father in England would hear of such athing. '

'But he is the same man, papa; the same in every particular; and how canhe be less fit for me than he was before?'

'He appeared a young man with well-to-do friends, and a little property;but having neither, he is another man. '

'You inquired nothing about him?'

'I went by Hewby's introduction. He should have told me. So shouldthe young man himself; of course he should. I consider it a mostdishonourable thing to come into a man's house like a treacherousI-don't-know-what. '

'But he was afraid to tell you, and so should I have been. He loved metoo well to like to run the risk. And as to speaking of his friends onhis first visit, I don't see why he should have done so at all. He camehere on business: it was no affair of ours who his parents were. Andthen he knew that if he told you he would never be asked here, and wouldperhaps never see me again. And he wanted to see me. Who can blame himfor trying, by any means, to stay near me--the girl he loves? All isfair in love. I have heard you say so yourself, papa; and you yourselfwould have done just as he has--so would any man. '

'And any man, on discovering what I have discovered, would also do as Ido, and mend my mistake; that is, get shot of him again, as soon as thelaws of hospitality will allow. ' But Mr. Swancourt then remembered thathe was a Christian. 'I would not, for the world, seem to turn him outof doors, ' he added; 'but I think he will have the tact to see that hecannot stay long after this, with good taste. '

'He will, because he's a gentleman. See how graceful his manners are, 'Elfride went on; though perhaps Stephen's manners, like the featsof Euryalus, owed their attractiveness in her eyes rather to theattractiveness of his person than to their own excellence. 

'Ay; anybody can be what you call graceful, if he lives a little timein a city, and keeps his eyes open. And he might have picked up hisgentlemanliness by going to the galleries of theatres, and watchingstage drawing-room manners. He reminds me of one of the worst stories Iever heard in my life. '

'What story was that?'

'Oh no, thank you! I wouldn't tell you such an improper matter for theworld!'

'If his father and mother had lived in the north or east of England, 'gallantly persisted Elfride, though her sobs began to interrupt herarticulation, 'anywhere but here--you--would have--only regarded--HIM, and not THEM! His station--would have--been what--his profession makesit, --and not fixed by--his father's humble position--at all; whom henever lives with--now. Though John Smith has saved lots of money, andis better off than we are, they say, or he couldn't have put his sonto such an expensive profession. And it is clever and--honourable--ofStephen, to be the best of his family. '

'Yes. "Let a beast be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at theking's mess. "'

'You insult me, papa!' she burst out. 'You do, you do! He is my ownStephen, he is!'

'That may or may not be true, Elfride, ' returned her father, againuncomfortably agitated in spite of himself 'You confuse futureprobabilities with present facts, --what the young man may be with whathe is. We must look at what he is, not what an improbable degree ofsuccess in his profession may make him. The case is this: the son ofa working-man in my parish who may or may not be able to buy me up--ayouth who has not yet advanced so far into life as to have any incomeof his own deserving the name, and therefore of his father's degree asregards station--wants to be engaged to you. His family are livingin precisely the same spot in England as yours, so throughout thiscounty--which is the world to us--you would always be known as the wifeof Jack Smith the mason's son, and not under any circumstances asthe wife of a London professional man. It is the drawback, not thecompensating fact, that is talked of always. There, say no more. You mayargue all night, and prove what you will; I'll stick to my words. '

Elfride looked silently and hopelessly out of the window with largeheavy eyes and wet cheeks. 

'I call it great temerity--and long to call it audacity--in Hewby, 'resumed her father. 'I never heard such a thing--giving such ahobbledehoy native of this place such an introduction to me as he did. Naturally you were deceived as well as I was. I don't blame you at all, so far. ' He went and searched for Mr. Hewby's original letter. 'Here'swhat he said to me: "Dear Sir, --Agreeably to your request of the 18thinstant, I have arranged to survey and make drawings, " et cetera. "Myassistant, Mr. Stephen Smith, "--assistant, you see he called him, andnaturally I understood him to mean a sort of partner. Why didn't he say"clerk"?'

'They never call them clerks in that profession, because they do notwrite. Stephen--Mr. Smith--told me so. So that Mr. Hewby simply used theaccepted word. '

'Let me speak, please, Elfride! My assistant, Mr. Stephen Smith, willleave London by the early train to-morrow morning. .. MANY THANKS FOR YOURPROPOSAL TO ACCOMMODATE HIM. .. YOU MAY PUT EVERY CONFIDENCE IN HIM, andmay rely upon his discernment in the matter of church architecture. "Well, I repeat that Hewby ought to be ashamed of himself for making somuch of a poor lad of that sort. '

'Professional men in London, ' Elfride argued, 'don't know anything abouttheir clerks' fathers and mothers. They have assistants who come totheir offices and shops for years, and hardly even know where theylive. What they can do--what profits they can bring the firm--that's allLondon men care about. And that is helped in him by his faculty of beinguniformly pleasant. '

'Uniform pleasantness is rather a defect than a faculty. It shows that aman hasn't sense enough to know whom to despise. '

'It shows that he acts by faith and not by sight, as those you claimsuccession from directed. '

'That's some more of what he's been telling you, I suppose! Yes, I wasinclined to suspect him, because he didn't care about sauces of anykind. I always did doubt a man's being a gentleman if his palate had noacquired tastes. An unedified palate is the irrepressible cloven footof the upstart. The idea of my bringing out a bottle of my '40Martinez--only eleven of them left now--to a man who didn't know it fromeighteenpenny! Then the Latin line he gave to my quotation; it was verycut-and-dried, very; or I, who haven't looked into a classical authorfor the last eighteen years, shouldn't have remembered it. Well, Elfride, you had better go to your room; you'll get over this bit oftomfoolery in time. '

'No, no, no, papa, ' she moaned. For of all the miseries attaching tomiserable love, the worst is the misery of thinking that the passionwhich is the cause of them all may cease. 

'Elfride, ' said her father with rough friendliness, 'I have an excellentscheme on hand, which I cannot tell you of now. A scheme to benefit youand me. It has been thrust upon me for some little time--yes, thrustupon me--but I didn't dream of its value till this afternoon, when therevelation came. I should be most unwise to refuse to entertain it. '

'I don't like that word, ' she returned wearily. 'You have lost so muchalready by schemes. Is it those wretched mines again?'

'No; not a mining scheme. '

'Railways?'

'Nor railways. It is like those mysterious offers we see advertised, by which any gentleman with no brains at all may make so much a weekwithout risk, trouble, or soiling his fingers. However, I am intendingto say nothing till it is settled, though I will just say this much, that you soon may have other fish to fry than to think of Stephen Smith. Remember, I wish, not to be angry, but friendly, to the young man; foryour sake I'll regard him as a friend in a certain sense. But this isenough; in a few days you will be quite my way of thinking. There, now, go to your bedroom. Unity shall bring you up some supper. I wish you notto be here when he comes back. '

Chapter X

 'Beneath the shelter of an aged tree. '

Stephen retraced his steps towards the cottage he had visited onlytwo or three hours previously. He drew near and under the rich foliagegrowing about the outskirts of Endelstow Park, the spotty lights andshades from the shining moon maintaining a race over his head and downhis back in an endless gambol. When he crossed the plank bridge andentered the garden-gate, he saw an illuminated figure coming from theenclosed plot towards the house on the other side. It was his father, with his hand in a sling, taking a general moonlight view of the garden, and particularly of a plot of the youngest of young turnips, previous toclosing the cottage for the night. 

He saluted his son with customary force. 'Hallo, Stephen! We should ha'been in bed in another ten minutes. Come to see what's the matter wi'me, I suppose, my lad?'

The doctor had come and gone, and the hand had been pronounced asinjured but slightly, though it might possibly have been considereda far more serious case if Mr. Smith had been a more important man. Stephen's anxious inquiry drew from his father words of regret at theinconvenience to the world of his doing nothing for the next two days, rather than of concern for the pain of the accident. Together theyentered the house. 

John Smith--brown as autumn as to skin, white as winter as toclothes--was a satisfactory specimen of the village artificer in stone. In common with most rural mechanics, he had too much individuality to bea typical 'working-man'--a resultant of that beach-pebble attrition withhis kind only to be experienced in large towns, which metamorphoses theunit Self into a fraction of the unit Class. 

There was not the speciality in his labour which distinguishes thehandicraftsmen of towns. Though only a mason, strictly speaking, he wasnot above handling a brick, if bricks were the order of the day; or aslate or tile, if a roof had to be covered before the wet weather setin, and nobody was near who could do it better. Indeed, on one or twooccasions in the depth of winter, when frost peremptorily forbids alluse of the trowel, making foundations to settle, stones to fly, andmortar to crumble, he had taken to felling and sawing trees. Moreover, he had practised gardening in his own plot for so many years that, on anemergency, he might have made a living by that calling. 

Probably our countryman was not such an accomplished artificer in aparticular direction as his town brethren in the trades. But he was, intruth, like that clumsy pin-maker who made the whole pin, and who wasdespised by Adam Smith on that account and respected by Macaulay, muchmore the artist nevertheless. 

Appearing now, indoors, by the light of the candle, his stalwarthealthiness was a sight to see. His beard was close and knotted as thatof a chiselled Hercules; his shirt sleeves were partly rolled up, hiswaistcoat unbuttoned; the difference in hue between the snowy linen andthe ruddy arms and face contrasting like the white of an egg and itsyolk. Mrs. Smith, on hearing them enter, advanced from the pantry. 

Mrs. Smith was a matron whose countenance addressed itself to themind rather than to the eye, though not exclusively. She retained herpersonal freshness even now, in the prosy afternoon-time of her life;but what her features were primarily indicative of was a sound commonsense behind them; as a whole, appearing to carry with them a sort ofargumentative commentary on the world in general. 

The details of the accident were then rehearsed by Stephen's father, inthe dramatic manner also common to Martin Cannister, other individualsof the neighbourhood, and the rural world generally. Mrs. Smith threw inher sentiments between the acts, as Coryphaeus of the tragedy, to makethe description complete. The story at last came to an end, as thelongest will, and Stephen directed the conversation into anotherchannel. 

'Well, mother, they know everything about me now, ' he said quietly. 

'Well done!' replied his father; 'now my mind's at peace. '

'I blame myself--I never shall forgive myself--for not telling thembefore, ' continued the young man. 

Mrs. Smith at this point abstracted her mind from the former subject. 'Idon't see what you have to grieve about, Stephen, ' she said. 'People whoaccidentally get friends don't, as a first stroke, tell the history oftheir families. '

'Ye've done no wrong, certainly, ' said his father. 

'No; but I should have spoken sooner. There's more in this visit of minethan you think--a good deal more. '

'Not more than I think, ' Mrs. Smith replied, looking contemplatively athim. Stephen blushed; and his father looked from one to the other in astate of utter incomprehension. 

'She's a pretty piece enough, ' Mrs. Smith continued, 'and very lady-likeand clever too. But though she's very well fit for you as far as thatis, why, mercy 'pon me, what ever do you want any woman at all for yet?'

John made his naturally short mouth a long one, and wrinkled hisforehead, 'That's the way the wind d'blow, is it?' he said. 

'Mother, ' exclaimed Stephen, 'how absurdly you speak! Criticizingwhether she's fit for me or no, as if there were room for doubt onthe matter! Why, to marry her would be the great blessing of mylife--socially and practically, as well as in other respects. No suchgood fortune as that, I'm afraid; she's too far above me. Her familydoesn't want such country lads as I in it. '

'Then if they don't want you, I'd see them dead corpses before I'd wantthem, and go to better families who do want you. '

'Ah, yes; but I could never put up with the distaste of being welcomedamong such people as you mean, whilst I could get indifference amongsuch people as hers. '

'What crazy twist o' thinking will enter your head next?' said hismother. 'And come to that, she's not a bit too high for you, or you toolow for her. See how careful I be to keep myself up. I'm sure I neverstop for more than a minute together to talk to any journeymen people;and I never invite anybody to our party o' Christmases who are notin business for themselves. And I talk to several toppermost carriagepeople that come to my lord's without saying ma'am or sir to 'em, andthey take it as quiet as lambs. '

'You curtseyed to the vicar, mother; and I wish you hadn't. '

'But it was before he called me by my Christian name, or he would havegot very little curtseying from me!' said Mrs. Smith, bridling andsparkling with vexation. 'You go on at me, Stephen, as if I were yourworst enemy! What else could I do with the man to get rid of him, banging it into me and your father by side and by seam, about hisgreatness, and what happened when he was a young fellow at college, andI don't know what-all; the tongue o' en flopping round his mouth like amop-rag round a dairy. That 'a did, didn't he, John?'

'That's about the size o't, ' replied her husband. 

'Every woman now-a-days, ' resumed Mrs. Smith, 'if she marry at all, mustexpect a father-in-law of a rank lower than her father. The men havegone up so, and the women have stood still. Every man you meet is morethe dand than his father; and you are just level wi' her. '

'That's what she thinks herself. '

'It only shows her sense. I knew she was after 'ee, Stephen--I knew it. '

'After me! Good Lord, what next!'

'And I really must say again that you ought not to be in such a hurry, and wait for a few years. You might go higher than a bankrupt pa'son'sgirl then. '

'The fact is, mother, ' said Stephen impatiently, 'you don't knowanything about it. I shall never go higher, because I don't want to, norshould I if I lived to be a hundred. As to you saying that she's afterme, I don't like such a remark about her, for it implies a schemingwoman, and a man worth scheming for, both of which are not only untrue, but ludicrously untrue, of this case. Isn't it so, father?'

'I'm afraid I don't understand the matter well enough to gie myopinion, ' said his father, in the tone of the fox who had a cold andcould not smell. 

'She couldn't have been very backward anyhow, considering the shorttime you have known her, ' said his mother. 'Well I think that five yearshence you'll be plenty young enough to think of such things. And reallyshe can very well afford to wait, and will too, take my word. Livingdown in an out-step place like this, I am sure she ought to be verythankful that you took notice of her. She'd most likely have died an oldmaid if you hadn't turned up. '

'All nonsense, ' said Stephen, but not aloud. 

'A nice little thing she is, ' Mrs. Smith went on in a more complacenttone now that Stephen had been talked down; 'there's not a word to sayagainst her, I'll own. I see her sometimes decked out like a horse goingto fair, and I admire her for't. A perfect little lady. But people can'thelp their thoughts, and if she'd learnt to make figures instead ofletters when she was at school 'twould have been better for her pocket;for as I said, there never were worse times for such as she than now. '

'Now, now, mother!' said Stephen with smiling deprecation. 

'But I will!' said his mother with asperity. 'I don't read the papersfor nothing, and I know men all move up a stage by marriage. Men of herclass, that is, parsons, marry squires' daughters; squires marry lords'daughters; lords marry dukes' daughters; dukes marry queens' daughters. All stages of gentlemen mate a stage higher; and the lowest stage ofgentlewomen are left single, or marry out of their class. '

'But you said just now, dear mother----' retorted Stephen, unable toresist the temptation of showing his mother her inconsistency. Then hepaused. 

'Well, what did I say?' And Mrs. Smith prepared her lips for a newcampaign. 

Stephen, regretting that he had begun, since a volcano might be theconsequence, was obliged to go on. 

'You said I wasn't out of her class just before. '

'Yes, there, there! That's you; that's my own flesh and blood. I'llwarrant that you'll pick holes in everything your mother says, if youcan, Stephen. You are just like your father for that; take anybody'spart but mine. Whilst I am speaking and talking and trying and slavingaway for your good, you are waiting to catch me out in that way. So youare in her class, but 'tis what HER people would CALL marrying out ofher class. Don't be so quarrelsome, Stephen!'

Stephen preserved a discreet silence, in which he was imitated by hisfather, and for several minutes nothing was heard but the ticking of thegreen-faced case-clock against the wall. 

'I'm sure, ' added Mrs. Smith in a more philosophic tone, and as aterminative speech, 'if there'd been so much trouble to get a husband inmy time as there is in these days--when you must make a god-almighty ofa man to get en to hae ye--I'd have trod clay for bricks before I'd everhave lowered my dignity to marry, or there's no bread in nine loaves. '

The discussion now dropped, and as it was getting late, Stephen bade hisparents farewell for the evening, his mother none the less warmlyfor their sparring; for although Mrs. Smith and Stephen were alwayscontending, they were never at enmity. 

'And possibly, ' said Stephen, 'I may leave here altogether to-morrow;I don't know. So that if I shouldn't call again before returning toLondon, don't be alarmed, will you?'

'But didn't you come for a fortnight?' said his mother. 'And haven't youa month's holiday altogether? They are going to turn you out, then?'

'Not at all. I may stay longer; I may go. If I go, you had better saynothing about my having been here, for her sake. At what time of themorning does the carrier pass Endelstow lane?'

'Seven o'clock. '

And then he left them. His thoughts were, that should the vicar permithim to become engaged, to hope for an engagement, or in any way to thinkof his beloved Elfride, he might stay longer. Should he be forbidden tothink of any such thing, he resolved to go at once. And the latter, evento young hopefulness, seemed the more probable alternative. 

Stephen walked back to the vicarage through the meadows, as he had come, surrounded by the soft musical purl of the water through littleweirs, the modest light of the moon, the freshening smell of the dewsout-spread around. It was a time when mere seeing is meditation, andmeditation peace. Stephen was hardly philosopher enough to availhimself of Nature's offer. His constitution was made up of very simpleparticulars; was one which, rare in the spring-time of civilizations, seems to grow abundant as a nation gets older, individuality fades, and education spreads; that is, his brain had extraordinary receptivepowers, and no great creativeness. Quickly acquiring any kind ofknowledge he saw around him, and having a plastic adaptability morecommon in woman than in man, he changed colour like a chameleon as thesociety he found himself in assumed a higher and more artificial tone. He had not many original ideas, and yet there was scarcely an idea towhich, under proper training, he could not have added a respectableco-ordinate. 

He saw nothing outside himself to-night; and what he saw within was aweariness to his flesh. Yet to a dispassionate observer, his pretensionsto Elfride, though rather premature, were far from absurd as marriagesgo, unless the accidental proximity of simple but honest parents couldbe said to make them so. 

The clock struck eleven when he entered the house. Elfride had beenwaiting with scarcely a movement since he departed. Before he had spokento her she caught sight of him passing into the study with her father. She saw that he had by some means obtained the private interview hedesired. 

A nervous headache had been growing on the excitable girl during theabsence of Stephen, and now she could do nothing beyond going up againto her room as she had done before. Instead of lying down she sat againin the darkness without closing the door, and listened with a beatingheart to every sound from downstairs. The servants had gone to bed. She ultimately heard the two men come from the study and cross to thedining-room, where supper had been lingering for more than an hour. Thedoor was left open, and she found that the meal, such as it was, passed off between her father and her lover without any remark, savecommonplaces as to cucumbers and melons, their wholesomeness andculture, uttered in a stiff and formal way. It seemed to prefigurefailure. 

Shortly afterwards Stephen came upstairs to his bedroom, and was almostimmediately followed by her father, who also retired for the night. Notinclined to get a light, she partly undressed and sat on the bed, whereshe remained in pained thought for some time, possibly an hour. Thenrising to close her door previously to fully unrobing, she saw a streakof light shining across the landing. Her father's door was shut, and hecould be heard snoring regularly. The light came from Stephen's room, and the slight sounds also coming thence emphatically denoted what hewas doing. In the perfect silence she could hear the closing of a lidand the clicking of a lock, --he was fastening his hat-box. Then thebuckling of straps and the click of another key, --he was securing hisportmanteau. With trebled foreboding she opened her door softly, andwent towards his. One sensation pervaded her to distraction. Stephen, her handsome youth and darling, was going away, and she might never seehim again except in secret and in sadness--perhaps never more. At anyrate, she could no longer wait till the morning to hear the result ofthe interview, as she had intended. She flung her dressing-gown roundher, tapped lightly at his door, and whispered 'Stephen!' He cameinstantly, opened the door, and stepped out. 

'Tell me; are we to hope?'

He replied in a disturbed whisper, and a tear approached its outlet, though none fell. 

'I am not to think of such a preposterous thing--that's what he said. And I am going to-morrow. I should have called you up to bid yougood-bye. '

'But he didn't say you were to go--O Stephen, he didn't say that?'

'No; not in words. But I cannot stay. '

'Oh, don't, don't go! Do come and let us talk. Let us come down to thedrawing-room for a few minutes; he will hear us here. '

She preceded him down the staircase with the taper light in herhand, looking unnaturally tall and thin in the long dove-coloureddressing-gown she wore. She did not stop to think of the proprietyor otherwise of this midnight interview under such circumstances. Shethought that the tragedy of her life was beginning, and, for the firsttime almost, felt that her existence might have a grave side, the shadeof which enveloped and rendered invisible the delicate gradations ofcustom and punctilio. Elfride softly opened the drawing-room door andthey both went in. When she had placed the candle on the table, heenclosed her with his arms, dried her eyes with his handkerchief, andkissed their lids. 

'Stephen, it is over--happy love is over; and there is no more sunshinenow!'

'I will make a fortune, and come to you, and have you. Yes, I will!'

'Papa will never hear of it--never--never! You don't know him. I do. He is either biassed in favour of a thing, or prejudiced against it. Argument is powerless against either feeling. '

'No; I won't think of him so, ' said Stephen. 'If I appear before himsome time hence as a man of established name, he will accept me--I knowhe will. He is not a wicked man. '

'No, he is not wicked. But you say "some time hence, " as if it were notime. To you, among bustle and excitement, it will be comparativelya short time, perhaps; oh, to me, it will be its real length trebled!Every summer will be a year--autumn a year--winter a year! O Stephen!and you may forget me!'

Forget: that was, and is, the real sting of waiting to fond-heartedwoman. The remark awoke in Stephen the converse fear. 'You, too, may bepersuaded to give me up, when time has made me fainter in your memory. For, remember, your love for me must be nourished in secret; there willbe no long visits from me to support you. Circumstances will always tendto obliterate me. '

'Stephen, ' she said, filled with her own misgivings, and unheeding hislast words, 'there are beautiful women where you live--of course I knowthere are--and they may win you away from me. ' Her tears came visiblyas she drew a mental picture of his faithlessness. 'And it won't be yourfault, ' she continued, looking into the candle with doleful eyes. 'No!You will think that our family don't want you, and get to include mewith them. And there will be a vacancy in your heart, and some otherswill be let in. '

'I could not, I would not. Elfie, do not be so full of forebodings. '

'Oh yes, they will, ' she replied. 'And you will look at them, not caringat first, and then you will look and be interested, and after a whileyou will think, "Ah, they know all about city life, and assemblies, andcoteries, and the manners of the titled, and poor little Elfie, with allthe fuss that's made about her having me, doesn't know about anythingbut a little house and a few cliffs and a space of sea, far away. " Andthen you'll be more interested in them, and they'll make you have theminstead of me, on purpose to be cruel to me because I am silly, and theyare clever and hate me. And I hate them, too; yes, I do!'

Her impulsive words had power to impress him at any rate with therecognition of the uncertainty of all that is not accomplished. And, worse than that general feeling, there of course remained the sadnesswhich arose from the special features of his own case. However remote adesired issue may be, the mere fact of having entered the groove whichleads to it, cheers to some extent with a sense of accomplishment. HadMr. Swancourt consented to an engagement of no less length than tenyears, Stephen would have been comparatively cheerful in waiting; theywould have felt that they were somewhere on the road to Cupid's garden. But, with a possibility of a shorter probation, they had not as yet anyprospect of the beginning; the zero of hope had yet to be reached. Mr. Swancourt would have to revoke his formidable words before the waitingfor marriage could even set in. And this was despair. 

'I wish we could marry now, ' murmured Stephen, as an impossible fancy. 

'So do I, ' said she also, as if regarding an idle dream. ''Tis the onlything that ever does sweethearts good!'

'Secretly would do, would it not, Elfie?'

'Yes, secretly would do; secretly would indeed be best, ' she said, andwent on reflectively: 'All we want is to render it absolutely impossiblefor any future circumstance to upset our future intention of being happytogether; not to begin being happy now. '

'Exactly, ' he murmured in a voice and manner the counterpart of hers. 'To marry and part secretly, and live on as we are living now; merely toput it out of anybody's power to force you away from me, dearest. '

'Or you away from me, Stephen. '

'Or me from you. It is possible to conceive a force of circumstancestrong enough to make any woman in the world marry against her will: noconceivable pressure, up to torture or starvation, can make a woman oncemarried to her lover anybody else's wife. '

Now up to this point the idea of an immediate secret marriage had beenheld by both as an untenable hypothesis, wherewith simply to beguile amiserable moment. During a pause which followed Stephen's last remark, a fascinating perception, then an alluring conviction, flashed along thebrain of both. The perception was that an immediate marriage COULD becontrived; the conviction that such an act, in spite of its daring, itsfathomless results, its deceptiveness, would be preferred by each to thelife they must lead under any other conditions. 

The youth spoke first, and his voice trembled with the magnitude of theconception he was cherishing. 'How strong we should feel, Elfride!going on our separate courses as before, without the fear of ultimateseparation! O Elfride! think of it; think of it!'

It is certain that the young girl's love for Stephen received a fanningfrom her father's opposition which made it blaze with a dozen times theintensity it would have exhibited if left alone. Never were conditionsmore favourable for developing a girl's first passing fancy for ahandsome boyish face--a fancy rooted in inexperience and nourished byseclusion--into a wild unreflecting passion fervid enough for anything. All the elements of such a development were there, the chief one beinghopelessness--a necessary ingredient always to perfect the mixture offeelings united under the name of loving to distraction. 

'We would tell papa soon, would we not?' she inquired timidly. 'Nobodyelse need know. He would then be convinced that hearts cannot be playedwith; love encouraged be ready to grow, love discouraged be ready todie, at a moment's notice. Stephen, do you not think that if marriagesagainst a parent's consent are ever justifiable, they are when youngpeople have been favoured up to a point, as we have, and then have hadthat favour suddenly withdrawn?'

'Yes. It is not as if we had from the beginning acted in opposition toyour papa's wishes. Only think, Elfie, how pleasant he was towards mebut six hours ago! He liked me, praised me, never objected to my beingalone with you. '

'I believe he MUST like you now, ' she cried. 'And if he found that youirremediably belonged to me, he would own it and help you. 'O Stephen, Stephen, ' she burst out again, as the remembrance of his packing cameafresh to her mind, 'I cannot bear your going away like this! It istoo dreadful. All I have been expecting miserably killed within me likethis!'

Stephen flushed hot with impulse. 'I will not be a doubt to you--thoughtof you shall not be a misery to me!' he said. 'We will be wife andhusband before we part for long!'

She hid her face on his shoulder. 'Anything to make SURE!' shewhispered. 

'I did not like to propose it immediately, ' continued Stephen. 'Itseemed to me--it seems to me now--like trying to catch you--a girlbetter in the world than I. '

'Not that, indeed! And am I better in worldly station? What's the use ofhave beens? We may have been something once; we are nothing now. '

Then they whispered long and earnestly together; Stephen hesitatinglyproposing this and that plan, Elfride modifying them, with quickbreathings, and hectic flush, and unnaturally bright eyes. It was twoo'clock before an arrangement was finally concluded. 

She then told him to leave her, giving him his light to go up to his ownroom. They parted with an agreement not to meet again in the morning. After his door had been some time closed he heard her softly glidinginto her chamber. 

Chapter XI

 'Journeys end in lovers meeting. '

Stephen lay watching the Great Bear; Elfride was regarding a monotonousparallelogram of window blind. Neither slept that night. 

Early the next morning--that is to say, four hours after theirstolen interview, and just as the earliest servant was heard movingabout--Stephen Smith went downstairs, portmanteau in hand. Throughoutthe night he had intended to see Mr. Swancourt again, but the sharprebuff of the previous evening rendered such an interview particularlydistasteful. Perhaps there was another and less honest reason. Hedecided to put it off. Whatever of moral timidity or obliquity may havelain in such a decision, no perception of it was strong enough to detainhim. He wrote a note in his room, which stated simply that he did notfeel happy in the house after Mr. Swancourt's sudden veto on what he hadfavoured a few hours before; but that he hoped a time would come, andthat soon, when his original feelings of pleasure as Mr. Swancourt'sguest might be recovered. 

He expected to find the downstairs rooms wearing the gray and cheerlessaspect that early morning gives to everything out of the sun. Hefound in the dining room a breakfast laid, of which somebody had justpartaken. 

Stephen gave the maid-servant his note of adieu. She stated that Mr. Swancourt had risen early that morning, and made an early breakfast. Hewas not going away that she knew of. 

Stephen took a cup of coffee, left the house of his love, and turnedinto the lane. It was so early that the shaded places still smelt likenight time, and the sunny spots had hardly felt the sun. The horizontalrays made every shallow dip in the ground to show as a well-markedhollow. Even the channel of the path was enough to throw shade, and thevery stones of the road cast tapering dashes of darkness westward, aslong as Jael's tent-nail. 

At a spot not more than a hundred yards from the vicar's residence thelane leading thence crossed the high road. Stephen reached the point ofintersection, stood still and listened. Nothing could be heard save thelengthy, murmuring line of the sea upon the adjacent shore. He lookedat his watch, and then mounted a gate upon which he seated himself, toawait the arrival of the carrier. Whilst he sat he heard wheels comingin two directions. 

The vehicle approaching on his right he soon recognized as thecarrier's. There were the accompanying sounds of the owner's voice andthe smack of his whip, distinct in the still morning air, by which heencouraged his horses up the hill. 

The other set of wheels sounded from the lane Stephen had justtraversed. On closer observation, he perceived that they were movingfrom the precincts of the ancient manor-house adjoining the vicaragegrounds. A carriage then left the entrance gates of the house, andwheeling round came fully in sight. It was a plain travelling carriage, with a small quantity of luggage, apparently a lady's. The vehiclecame to the junction of the four ways half-a-minute before the carrierreached the same spot, and crossed directly in his front, proceeding bythe lane on the other side. 

Inside the carriage Stephen could just discern an elderly lady with ayounger woman, who seemed to be her maid. The road they had taken led toStratleigh, a small watering-place sixteen miles north. 

He heard the manor-house gates swing again, and looking up saw anotherperson leaving them, and walking off in the direction of the parsonage. 'Ah, how much I wish I were moving that way!' felt he parenthetically. The gentleman was tall, and resembled Mr. Swancourt in outline andattire. He opened the vicarage gate and went in. Mr. Swancourt, then, it certainly was. Instead of remaining in bed that morning Mr. Swancourtmust have taken it into his head to see his new neighbour off on ajourney. He must have been greatly interested in that neighbour to dosuch an unusual thing. 

The carrier's conveyance had pulled up, and Stephen now handed in hisportmanteau and mounted the shafts. 'Who is that lady in the carriage?'he inquired indifferently of Lickpan the carrier. 

'That, sir, is Mrs. Troyton, a widder wi' a mint o' money. She's theowner of all that part of Endelstow that is not Lord Luxellian's. Onlybeen here a short time; she came into it by law. The owner formerly wasa terrible mysterious party--never lived here--hardly ever was seen hereexcept in the month of September, as I might say. '

The horses were started again, and noise rendered further discourse amatter of too great exertion. Stephen crept inside under the tilt, andwas soon lost in reverie. 

Three hours and a half of straining up hills and jogging down broughtthem to St. Launce's, the market town and railway station nearest toEndelstow, and the place from which Stephen Smith had journeyed over thedowns on the, to him, memorable winter evening at the beginning ofthe same year. The carrier's van was so timed as to meet a startingup-train, which Stephen entered. Two or three hours' railway travelthrough vertical cuttings in metamorphic rock, through oak copses richand green, stretching over slopes and down delightful valleys, glens, and ravines, sparkling with water like many-rilled Ida, and he plungedamid the hundred and fifty thousand people composing the town ofPlymouth. 

There being some time upon his hands he left his luggage at thecloak-room, and went on foot along Bedford Street to the nearest church. Here Stephen wandered among the multifarious tombstones and looked in atthe chancel window, dreaming of something that was likely to happen bythe altar there in the course of the coming month. He turned away andascended the Hoe, viewed the magnificent stretch of sea and massivepromontories of land, but without particularly discerning one feature ofthe varied perspective. He still saw that inner prospect--the eventhe hoped for in yonder church. The wide Sound, the Breakwater, thelight-house on far-off Eddystone, the dark steam vessels, brigs, barques, and schooners, either floating stilly, or gliding with tiniestmotion, were as the dream, then; the dreamed-of event was as thereality. 

Soon Stephen went down from the Hoe, and returned to the railwaystation. He took his ticket, and entered the London train. 

That day was an irksome time at Endelstow vicarage. Neither father nordaughter alluded to the departure of Stephen. Mr. Swancourt's mannertowards her partook of the compunctious kindness that arises from amisgiving as to the justice of some previous act. 

Either from lack of the capacity to grasp the whole coup d'oeil, or froma natural endowment for certain kinds of stoicism, women are cooler thanmen in critical situations of the passive form. Probably, in Elfride'scase at least, it was blindness to the greater contingencies of thefuture she was preparing for herself, which enabled her to ask herfather in a quiet voice if he could give her a holiday soon, to ride toSt. Launce's and go on to Plymouth. 

Now, she had only once before gone alone to Plymouth, and that was inconsequence of some unavoidable difficulty. Being a country girl, and agood, not to say a wild, horsewoman, it had been her delight to canter, without the ghost of an attendant, over the fourteen or sixteen milesof hard road intervening between their home and the station at St. Launce's, put up the horse, and go on the remainder of the distance bytrain, returning in the same manner in the evening. It was then resolvedthat, though she had successfully accomplished this journey once, it wasnot to be repeated without some attendance. 

But Elfride must not be confounded with ordinary young feminineequestrians. The circumstances of her lonely and narrow life made itimperative that in trotting about the neighbourhood she must trotalone or else not at all. Usage soon rendered this perfectly natural toherself. Her father, who had had other experiences, did not much likethe idea of a Swancourt, whose pedigree could be as distinctly traced asa thread in a skein of silk, scampering over the hills like a farmer'sdaughter, even though he could habitually neglect her. But what withhis not being able to afford her a regular attendant, and his inveteratehabit of letting anything be to save himself trouble, the circumstancegrew customary. And so there arose a chronic notion in the villagers'minds that all ladies rode without an attendant, like Miss Swancourt, except a few who were sometimes visiting at Lord Luxellian's. 

'I don't like your going to Plymouth alone, particularly going to St. Launce's on horseback. Why not drive, and take the man?'

'It is not nice to be so overlooked. ' Worm's company would not seriouslyhave interfered with her plans, but it was her humour to go without him. 

'When do you want to go?' said her father. 

She only answered, 'Soon. '

'I will consider, ' he said. 

Only a few days elapsed before she asked again. A letter had reachedher from Stephen. It had been timed to come on that day by specialarrangement between them. In it he named the earliest morning on whichhe could meet her at Plymouth. Her father had been on a journey toStratleigh, and returned in unusual buoyancy of spirit. It was a goodopportunity; and since the dismissal of Stephen her father had beengenerally in a mood to make small concessions, that he might steer clearof large ones connected with that outcast lover of hers. 

'Next Thursday week I am going from home in a different direction, ' saidher father. 'In fact, I shall leave home the night before. You mightchoose the same day, for they wish to take up the carpets, or some suchthing, I think. As I said, I don't like you to be seen in a town onhorseback alone; but go if you will. '

Thursday week. Her father had named the very day that Stephen also hadnamed that morning as the earliest on which it would be of any use tomeet her; that was, about fifteen days from the day on which he had leftEndelstow. Fifteen days--that fragment of duration which has acquiredsuch an interesting individuality from its connection with the Englishmarriage law. 

She involuntarily looked at her father so strangely, that on becomingconscious of the look she paled with embarrassment. Her father, too, looked confused. What was he thinking of?

There seemed to be a special facility offered her by a power externalto herself in the circumstance that Mr. Swancourt had proposed to leavehome the night previous to her wished-for day. Her father seldom tooklong journeys; seldom slept from home except perhaps on the nightfollowing a remote Visitation. Well, she would not inquire too curiouslyinto the reason of the opportunity, nor did he, as would have beennatural, proceed to explain it of his own accord. In matters of factthere had hitherto been no reserve between them, though they were notusually confidential in its full sense. But the divergence of theiremotions on Stephen's account had produced an estrangement which justat present went even to the extent of reticence on the most ordinaryhousehold topics. 

Elfride was almost unconsciously relieved, persuading herself that herfather's reserve on his business justified her in secrecy as regardedher own--a secrecy which was necessarily a foregone decision with her. So anxious is a young conscience to discover a palliative, that the expost facto nature of a reason is of no account in excluding it. 

The intervening fortnight was spent by her mostly in walking byherself among the shrubs and trees, indulging sometimes in sanguineanticipations; more, far more frequently, in misgivings. All her flowersseemed dull of hue; her pets seemed to look wistfully into her eyes, as if they no longer stood in the same friendly relation to her asformerly. She wore melancholy jewellery, gazed at sunsets, and talked toold men and women. It was the first time that she had had an inner andprivate world apart from the visible one about her. She wished that herfather, instead of neglecting her even more than usual, would make someadvance--just one word; she would then tell all, and risk Stephen'sdispleasure. Thus brought round to the youth again, she saw him inher fancy, standing, touching her, his eyes full of sad affection, hopelessly renouncing his attempt because she had renounced hers; andshe could not recede. 

On the Wednesday she was to receive another letter. She had resolvedto let her father see the arrival of this one, be the consequenceswhat they might: the dread of losing her lover by this deed of honestyprevented her acting upon the resolve. Five minutes before the postman'sexpected arrival she slipped out, and down the lane to meet him. She methim immediately upon turning a sharp angle, which hid her from view inthe direction of the vicarage. The man smilingly handed one missive, andwas going on to hand another, a circular from some tradesman. 

'No, ' she said; 'take that on to the house. '

'Why, miss, you are doing what your father has done for the lastfortnight. '

She did not comprehend. 

'Why, come to this corner, and take a letter of me every morning, allwrit in the same handwriting, and letting any others for him go on tothe house. ' And on the postman went. 

No sooner had he turned the corner behind her back than she heardher father meet and address the man. She had saved her letter by twominutes. Her father audibly went through precisely the same performanceas she had just been guilty of herself. 

This stealthy conduct of his was, to say the least, peculiar. 

Given an impulsive inconsequent girl, neglected as to her inner life byher only parent, and the following forces alive within her; to determinea resultant:

First love acted upon by a deadly fear of separation from its object:inexperience, guiding onward a frantic wish to prevent the above-namedissue: misgivings as to propriety, met by hope of ultimate exoneration:indignation at parental inconsistency in first encouraging, thenforbidding: a chilling sense of disobedience, overpowered by aconscientious inability to brook a breaking of plighted faith with a manwho, in essentials, had remained unaltered from the beginning: a blessedhope that opposition would turn an erroneous judgement: a bright faiththat things would mend thereby, and wind up well. 

Probably the result would, after all, have been nil, had not thefollowing few remarks been made one day at breakfast. 

Her father was in his old hearty spirits. He smiled to himselfat stories too bad to tell, and called Elfride a little scamp forsurreptitiously preserving some blind kittens that ought to have beendrowned. After this expression, she said to him suddenly:

'If Mr. Smith had been already in the family, you would not have beenmade wretched by discovering he had poor relations?'

'Do you mean in the family by marriage?' he replied inattentively, andcontinuing to peel his egg. 

The accumulating scarlet told that was her meaning, as much as theaffirmative reply. 

'I should have put up with it, no doubt, ' Mr. Swancourt observed. 

'So that you would not have been driven into hopeless melancholy, buthave made the best of him?'

Elfride's erratic mind had from her youth upwards been constantly inthe habit of perplexing her father by hypothetical questions, based onabsurd conditions. The present seemed to be cast so precisely inthe mould of previous ones that, not being given to syntheses ofcircumstances, he answered it with customary complacency. 

'If he were allied to us irretrievably, of course I, or any sensibleman, should accept conditions that could not be altered; certainly notbe hopelessly melancholy about it. I don't believe anything in the worldwould make me hopelessly melancholy. And don't let anything make you so, either. '

'I won't, papa, ' she cried, with a serene brightness that pleased him. 

Certainly Mr. Swancourt must have been far from thinking that thebrightness came from an exhilarating intention to hold back no longerfrom the mad action she had planned. 

In the evening he drove away towards Stratleigh, quite alone. It wasan unusual course for him. At the door Elfride had been again almostimpelled by her feelings to pour out all. 

'Why are you going to Stratleigh, papa?' she said, and looked at himlongingly. 

'I will tell you to-morrow when I come back, ' he said cheerily; 'notbefore then, Elfride. Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know, andso far will I trust thee, gentle Elfride. '

She was repressed and hurt. 

'I will tell you my errand to Plymouth, too, when I come back, ' shemurmured. 

He went away. His jocularity made her intention seem the lighter, as hisindifference made her more resolved to do as she liked. 

It was a familiar September sunset, dark-blue fragments of cloud upon anorange-yellow sky. These sunsets used to tempt her to walk towards them, as any beautiful thing tempts a near approach. She went through thefield to the privet hedge, clambered into the middle of it, and reclinedupon the thick boughs. After looking westward for a considerable time, she blamed herself for not looking eastward to where Stephen was, andturned round. Ultimately her eyes fell upon the ground. 

A peculiarity was observable beneath her. A green field spread itselfon each side of the hedge, one belonging to the glebe, the other being apart of the land attached to the manor-house adjoining. On thevicarage side she saw a little footpath, the distinctive and altogetherexceptional feature of which consisted in its being only about ten yardslong; it terminated abruptly at each end. 

A footpath, suddenly beginning and suddenly ending, coming from nowhereand leading nowhere, she had never seen before. 

Yes, she had, on second thoughts. She had seen exactly such a pathtrodden in the front of barracks by the sentry. 

And this recollection explained the origin of the path here. Her fatherhad trodden it by pacing up and down, as she had once seen him doing. 

Sitting on the hedge as she sat now, her eyes commanded a view of bothsides of it. And a few minutes later, Elfride looked over to the manorside. 

Here was another sentry path. It was like the first in length, andit began and ended exactly opposite the beginning and ending of itsneighbour, but it was thinner, and less distinct. 

Two reasons existed for the difference. This one might have been troddenby a similar weight of tread to the other, exercised a less number oftimes; or it might have been walked just as frequently, but by lighterfeet. 

Probably a gentleman from Scotland-yard, had he been passing at thetime, might have considered the latter alternative as the more probable. Elfride thought otherwise, so far as she thought at all. But her owngreat To-Morrow was now imminent; all thoughts inspired by casual sightsof the eye were only allowed to exercise themselves in inferior cornersof her brain, previously to being banished altogether. 

Elfride was at length compelled to reason practically upon herundertaking. All her definite perceptions thereon, when the emotionaccompanying them was abstracted, amounted to no more than these:

'Say an hour and three-quarters to ride to St. Launce's. 

'Say half an hour at the Falcon to change my dress. 

'Say two hours waiting for some train and getting to Plymouth. 

'Say an hour to spare before twelve o'clock. 

'Total time from leaving Endelstow till twelve o'clock, five hours. 

'Therefore I shall have to start at seven. '

No surprise or sense of unwontedness entered the minds of the servantsat her early ride. The monotony of life we associate with people ofsmall incomes in districts out of the sound of the railway whistle, hasone exception, which puts into shade the experience of dwellers aboutthe great centres of population--that is, in travelling. Every journeythere is more or less an adventure; adventurous hours are necessarilychosen for the most commonplace outing. Miss Elfride had to leaveearly--that was all. 

Elfride never went out on horseback but she brought homesomething--something found, or something bought. If she trotted to townor village, her burden was books. If to hills, woods, or the seashore, it was wonderful mosses, abnormal twigs, a handkerchief of wet shells orseaweed. 

Once, in muddy weather, when Pansy was walking with her down the streetof Castle Boterel, on a fair-day, a packet in front of her and a packetunder her arm, an accident befell the packets, and they slipped down. On one side of her, three volumes of fiction lay kissing the mud; onthe other numerous skeins of polychromatic wools lay absorbing it. Unpleasant women smiled through windows at the mishap, the men alllooked round, and a boy, who was minding a ginger-bread stall whilstthe owner had gone to get drunk, laughed loudly. The blue eyes turned tosapphires, and the cheeks crimsoned with vexation. 

After that misadventure she set her wits to work, and was ingeniousenough to invent an arrangement of small straps about the saddle, bywhich a great deal could be safely carried thereon, in a small compass. Here she now spread out and fastened a plain dark walking-dress anda few other trifles of apparel. Worm opened the gate for her, and shevanished away. 

One of the brightest mornings of late summer shone upon her. The heatherwas at its purplest, the furze at its yellowest, the grasshopperschirped loud enough for birds, the snakes hissed like little engines, and Elfride at first felt lively. Sitting at ease upon Pansy, in herorthodox riding-habit and nondescript hat, she looked what she felt. Butthe mercury of those days had a trick of falling unexpectedly. First, only for one minute in ten had she a sense of depression. Then a largecloud, that had been hanging in the north like a black fleece, came andplaced itself between her and the sun. It helped on what was alreadyinevitable, and she sank into a uniformity of sadness. 

She turned in the saddle and looked back. They were now on an opentable-land, whose altitude still gave her a view of the sea byEndelstow. She looked longingly at that spot. 

During this little revulsion of feeling Pansy had been still advancing, and Elfride felt it would be absurd to turn her little mare's head theother way. 'Still, ' she thought, 'if I had a mamma at home I WOULD goback!'

And making one of those stealthy movements by which women let theirhearts juggle with their brains, she did put the horse's head about, asif unconsciously, and went at a hand-gallop towards home for more thana mile. By this time, from the inveterate habit of valuing what wehave renounced directly the alternative is chosen, the thought of herforsaken Stephen recalled her, and she turned about, and cantered on toSt. Launce's again. 

This miserable strife of thought now began to rage in all its wildness. Overwrought and trembling, she dropped the rein upon Pansy's shoulders, and vowed she would be led whither the horse would take her. 

Pansy slackened her pace to a walk, and walked on with her agitatedburden for three or four minutes. At the expiration of this time theyhad come to a little by-way on the right, leading down a slope to a poolof water. The pony stopped, looked towards the pool, and then advancedand stooped to drink. 

Elfride looked at her watch and discovered that if she were going toreach St. Launce's early enough to change her dress at the Falcon, and get a chance of some early train to Plymouth--there were only twoavailable--it was necessary to proceed at once. 

She was impatient. It seemed as if Pansy would never stop drinking; andthe repose of the pool, the idle motions of the insects and flies uponit, the placid waving of the flags, the leaf-skeletons, like Genoesefiligree, placidly sleeping at the bottom, by their contrast with herown turmoil made her impatience greater. 

Pansy did turn at last, and went up the slope again to the high-road. The pony came upon it, and stood cross-wise, looking up and down. Elfride's heart throbbed erratically, and she thought, 'Horses, if leftto themselves, make for where they are best fed. Pansy will go home. '

Pansy turned and walked on towards St. Launce's

Pansy at home, during summer, had little but grass to live on. After arun to St. Launce's she always had a feed of corn to support her on thereturn journey. Therefore, being now more than half way, she preferredSt. Launce's. 

But Elfride did not remember this now. All she cared to recognize was adreamy fancy that to-day's rash action was not her own. She was disabledby her moods, and it seemed indispensable to adhere to the programme. So strangely involved are motives that, more than by her promise toStephen, more even than by her love, she was forced on by a sense of thenecessity of keeping faith with herself, as promised in the inane vow often minutes ago. 

She hesitated no longer. Pansy went, like the steed of Adonis, as ifshe told the steps. Presently the quaint gables and jumbled roofs of St. Launce's were spread beneath her, and going down the hill she enteredthe courtyard of the Falcon. Mrs. Buckle, the landlady, came to the doorto meet her. 

The Swancourts were well known here. The transition from equestrianto the ordinary guise of railway travellers had been more than onceperformed by father and daughter in this establishment. 

In less than a quarter of an hour Elfride emerged from the door in herwalking dress, and went to the railway. She had not told Mrs. Buckleanything as to her intentions, and was supposed to have gone outshopping. 

An hour and forty minutes later, and she was in Stephen's arms at thePlymouth station. Not upon the platform--in the secret retreat of adeserted waiting-room. 

Stephen's face boded ill. He was pale and despondent. 

'What is the matter?' she asked. 

'We cannot be married here to-day, my Elfie! I ought to have known itand stayed here. In my ignorance I did not. I have the licence, but itcan only be used in my parish in London. I only came down last night, asyou know. '

'What shall we do?' she said blankly. 

'There's only one thing we can do, darling. '

'What's that?'

'Go on to London by a train just starting, and be married thereto-morrow. '

'Passengers for the 11. 5 up-train take their seats!' said a guard'svoice on the platform. 

'Will you go, Elfride?'

'I will. '

In three minutes the train had moved off, bearing away with it Stephenand Elfride. 

Chapter XII

 'Adieu! she cries, and waved her lily hand. '

The few tattered clouds of the morning enlarged and united, the sunwithdrew behind them to emerge no more that day, and the evening drew toa close in drifts of rain. The water-drops beat like duck shot againstthe window of the railway-carriage containing Stephen and Elfride. 

The journey from Plymouth to Paddington, by even the most headlongexpress, allows quite enough leisure for passion of any sort to cool. Elfride's excitement had passed off, and she sat in a kind of stuporduring the latter half of the journey. She was aroused by the clangingof the maze of rails over which they traced their way at the entrance tothe station. 

Is this London?' she said. 

'Yes, darling, ' said Stephen in a tone of assurance he was far fromfeeling. To him, no less than to her, the reality so greatly differedfrom the prefiguring. 

She peered out as well as the window, beaded with drops, would allowher, and saw only the lamps, which had just been lit, blinking in thewet atmosphere, and rows of hideous zinc chimney-pipes in dim reliefagainst the sky. She writhed uneasily, as when a thought is swelling inthe mind which must cause much pain at its deliverance in words. Elfridehad known no more about the stings of evil report than the nativewild-fowl knew of the effects of Crusoe's first shot. Now she saw alittle further, and a little further still. 

The train stopped. Stephen relinquished the soft hand he had held allthe day, and proceeded to assist her on to the platform. 

This act of alighting upon strange ground seemed all that was wanted tocomplete a resolution within her. 

She looked at her betrothed with despairing eyes. 

'O Stephen, ' she exclaimed, 'I am so miserable! I must go home again--Imust--I must! Forgive my wretched vacillation. I don't like it here--normyself--nor you!'

Stephen looked bewildered, and did not speak. 

'Will you allow me to go home?' she implored. 'I won't trouble you to gowith me. I will not be any weight upon you; only say you will agree tomy returning; that you will not hate me for it, Stephen! It is betterthat I should return again; indeed it is, Stephen. '

'But we can't return now, ' he said in a deprecatory tone. 

'I must! I will!'

'How? When do you want to go?'

'Now. Can we go at once?'

The lad looked hopelessly along the platform. 

'If you must go, and think it wrong to remain, dearest, ' said he sadly, 'you shall. You shall do whatever you like, my Elfride. But would you inreality rather go now than stay till to-morrow, and go as my wife?'

'Yes, yes--much--anything to go now. I must; I must!' she cried. 

'We ought to have done one of two things, ' he answered gloomily. 'Neverto have started, or not to have returned without being married. I don'tlike to say it, Elfride--indeed I don't; but you must be told this, thatgoing back unmarried may compromise your good name in the eyes of peoplewho may hear of it. '

'They will not; and I must go. '

'O Elfride! I am to blame for bringing you away. '

'Not at all. I am the elder. '

'By a month; and what's that? But never mind that now. ' He lookedaround. 'Is there a train for Plymouth to-night?' he inquired of aguard. The guard passed on and did not speak. 

'Is there a train for Plymouth to-night?' said Elfride to another. 

'Yes, miss; the 8. 10--leaves in ten minutes. You have come to the wrongplatform; it is the other side. Change at Bristol into the night mail. Down that staircase, and under the line. '

They ran down the staircase--Elfride first--to the booking-office, andinto a carriage with an official standing beside the door. 'Show yourtickets, please. ' They are locked in--men about the platform acceleratetheir velocities till they fly up and down like shuttles in a loom--awhistle--the waving of a flag--a human cry--a steam groan--and away theygo to Plymouth again, just catching these words as they glide off:

'Those two youngsters had a near run for it, and no mistake!'

Elfride found her breath. 

'And have you come too, Stephen? Why did you?'

'I shall not leave you till I see you safe at St. Launce's. Do not thinkworse of me than I am, Elfride. '

And then they rattled along through the night, back again by the waythey had come. The weather cleared, and the stars shone in upon them. Their two or three fellow-passengers sat for most of the time withclosed eyes. Stephen sometimes slept; Elfride alone was wakeful andpalpitating hour after hour. 

The day began to break, and revealed that they were by the sea. Redrocks overhung them, and, receding into distance, grew livid in the bluegrey atmosphere. The sun rose, and sent penetrating shafts of light inupon their weary faces. Another hour, and the world began to be busy. They waited yet a little, and the train slackened its speed in view ofthe platform at St. Launce's. 

She shivered, and mused sadly. 

'I did not see all the consequences, ' she said. 'Appearances are wofullyagainst me. If anybody finds me out, I am, I suppose, disgraced. '

'Then appearances will speak falsely; and how can that matter, even ifthey do? I shall be your husband sooner or later, for certain, and soprove your purity. '

'Stephen, once in London I ought to have married you, ' she saidfirmly. 'It was my only safe defence. I see more things now than I didyesterday. My only remaining chance is not to be discovered; and that wemust fight for most desperately. '

They stepped out. Elfride pulled a thick veil over her face. 

A woman with red and scaly eyelids and glistening eyes was sitting on abench just inside the office-door. She fixed her eyes upon Elfride withan expression whose force it was impossible to doubt, but the meaning ofwhich was not clear; then upon the carriage they had left. She seemed toread a sinister story in the scene. 

Elfride shrank back, and turned the other way. 

'Who is that woman?' said Stephen. 'She looked hard at you. '

'Mrs. Jethway--a widow, and mother of that young man whose tomb we saton the other night. Stephen, she is my enemy. Would that God had hadmercy enough upon me to have hidden this from HER!'

'Do not talk so hopelessly, ' he remonstrated. 'I don't think sherecognized us. '

'I pray that she did not. '

He put on a more vigorous mood. 

'Now, we will go and get some breakfast. '

'No, no!' she begged. 'I cannot eat. I MUST get back to Endelstow. '

Elfride was as if she had grown years older than Stephen now. 

'But you have had nothing since last night but that cup of tea atBristol. '

'I can't eat, Stephen. '

'Wine and biscuit?'

'No. '

'Nor tea, nor coffee?'

'No. '

'A glass of water?'

'No. I want something that makes people strong and energetic for thepresent, that borrows the strength of to-morrow for use to-day--leavingto-morrow without any at all for that matter; or even that would takeall life away to-morrow, so long as it enabled me to get home again now. Brandy, that's what I want. That woman's eyes have eaten my heart away!'

'You are wild; and you grieve me, darling. Must it be brandy?'

'Yes, if you please. '

'How much?'

'I don't know. I have never drunk more than a teaspoonful at once. All Iknow is that I want it. Don't get it at the Falcon. '

He left her in the fields, and went to the nearest inn in thatdirection. Presently he returned with a small flask nearly full, andsome slices of bread-and-butter, thin as wafers, in a paper-bag. Elfridetook a sip or two. 

'It goes into my eyes, ' she said wearily. 'I can't take any more. Yes, I will; I will close my eyes. Ah, it goes to them by an inside route. Idon't want it; throw it away. '

However, she could eat, and did eat. Her chief attention wasconcentrated upon how to get the horse from the Falcon stables withoutsuspicion. Stephen was not allowed to accompany her into the town. Sheacted now upon conclusions reached without any aid from him: his powerover her seemed to have departed. 

'You had better not be seen with me, even here where I am so littleknown. We have begun stealthily as thieves, and we must end stealthilyas thieves, at all hazards. Until papa has been told by me myself, adiscovery would be terrible. '

Walking and gloomily talking thus they waited till nearly nine o'clock, at which time Elfride thought she might call at the Falcon withoutcreating much surprise. Behind the railway-station was the river, spanned by an old Tudor bridge, whence the road diverged in twodirections, one skirting the suburbs of the town, and winding roundagain into the high-road to Endelstow. Beside this road Stephen sat, andawaited her return from the Falcon. 

He sat as one sitting for a portrait, motionless, watching the chequeredlights and shades on the tree-trunks, the children playing opposite theschool previous to entering for the morning lesson, the reapers in afield afar off. The certainty of possession had not come, and there wasnothing to mitigate the youth's gloom, that increased with the thoughtof the parting now so near. 

At length she came trotting round to him, in appearance much as on theromantic morning of their visit to the cliff, but shorn of the radiancewhich glistened about her then. However, her comparative immunityfrom further risk and trouble had considerably composed her. Elfride'scapacity for being wounded was only surpassed by her capacity forhealing, which rightly or wrongly is by some considered an index oftransientness of feeling in general. 

'Elfride, what did they say at the Falcon?'

'Nothing. Nobody seemed curious about me. They knew I went to Plymouth, and I have stayed there a night now and then with Miss Bicknell. Irather calculated upon that. '

And now parting arose like a death to these children, for it wasimperative that she should start at once. Stephen walked beside her fornearly a mile. During the walk he said sadly:

'Elfride, four-and-twenty hours have passed, and the thing is not done. '

'But you have insured that it shall be done. '

'How have I?'

'O Stephen, you ask how! Do you think I could marry another man on earthafter having gone thus far with you? Have I not shown beyond possibilityof doubt that I can be nobody else's? Have I not irretrievably committedmyself?--pride has stood for nothing in the face of my great love. Youmisunderstood my turning back, and I cannot explain it. It was wrong togo with you at all; and though it would have been worse to go further, it would have been better policy, perhaps. Be assured of this, thatwhenever you have a home for me--however poor and humble--and come andclaim me, I am ready. ' She added bitterly, 'When my father knows of thisday's work, he may be only too glad to let me go. '

'Perhaps he may, then, insist upon our marriage at once!' Stephenanswered, seeing a ray of hope in the very focus of her remorse. 'Ihope he may, even if we had still to part till I am ready for you, as weintended. '

Elfride did not reply. 

'You don't seem the same woman, Elfie, that you were yesterday. '

'Nor am I. But good-bye. Go back now. ' And she reined the horse forparting. 'O Stephen, ' she cried, 'I feel so weak! I don't know how tomeet him. Cannot you, after all, come back with me?'

'Shall I come?'

Elfride paused to think. 

'No; it will not do. It is my utter foolishness that makes me say suchwords. But he will send for you. '

'Say to him, ' continued Stephen, 'that we did this in the absolutedespair of our minds. Tell him we don't wish him to favour us--only todeal justly with us. If he says, marry now, so much the better. If not, say that all may be put right by his promise to allow me to have youwhen I am good enough for you--which may be soon. Say I have nothing tooffer him in exchange for his treasure--the more sorry I; but all thelove, and all the life, and all the labour of an honest man shall beyours. As to when this had better be told, I leave you to judge. '

His words made her cheerful enough to toy with her position. 

'And if ill report should come, Stephen, ' she said smiling, 'why, theorange-tree must save me, as it saved virgins in St. George's time fromthe poisonous breath of the dragon. There, forgive me for forwardness: Iam going. '

Then the boy and girl beguiled themselves with words of half-partingonly. 

'Own wifie, God bless you till we meet again!'

'Till we meet again, good-bye!'

And the pony went on, and she spoke to him no more. He saw her figurediminish and her blue veil grow gray--saw it with the agonizingsensations of a slow death. 

After thus parting from a man than whom she had known none greater asyet, Elfride rode rapidly onwards, a tear being occasionally shakenfrom her eyes into the road. What yesterday had seemed so desirable, sopromising, even trifling, had now acquired the complexion of a tragedy. 

She saw the rocks and sea in the neighbourhood of Endelstow, and heaveda sigh of relief. 

When she passed a field behind the vicarage she heard the voices ofUnity and William Worm. They were hanging a carpet upon a line. Unitywas uttering a sentence that concluded with 'when Miss Elfride comes. '

'When d'ye expect her?'

'Not till evening now. She's safe enough at Miss Bicknell's, bless ye. '

Elfride went round to the door. She did not knock or ring; and seeingnobody to take the horse, Elfride led her round to the yard, slipped offthe bridle and saddle, drove her towards the paddock, and turned her in. Then Elfride crept indoors, and looked into all the ground-floor rooms. Her father was not there. 

On the mantelpiece of the drawing-room stood a letter addressed to herin his handwriting. She took it and read it as she went upstairs tochange her habit. 

STRATLEIGH, Thursday. 

'DEAR ELFRIDE, --On second thoughts I will not return to-day, but onlycome as far as Wadcombe. I shall be at home by to-morrow afternoon, andbring a friend with me. --Yours, in haste, C. S. '

After making a quick toilet she felt more revived, though stillsuffering from a headache. On going out of the door she met Unity at thetop of the stair. 

'O Miss Elfride! I said to myself 'tis her sperrit! We didn't dream o'you not coming home last night. You didn't say anything about staying. '

'I intended to come home the same evening, but altered my plan. I wishedI hadn't afterwards. Papa will be angry, I suppose?'

'Better not tell him, miss, ' said Unity. 

'I do fear to, ' she murmured. 'Unity, would you just begin telling himwhen he comes home?'

'What! and get you into trouble?'

'I deserve it. '

'No, indeed, I won't, ' said Unity. 'It is not such a mighty matter, MissElfride. I says to myself, master's taking a hollerday, and because he'snot been kind lately to Miss Elfride, she----'

'Is imitating him. Well, do as you like. And will you now bring me someluncheon?'

After satisfying an appetite which the fresh marine air had given herin its victory over an agitated mind, she put on her hat and went tothe garden and summer-house. She sat down, and leant with her head in acorner. Here she fell asleep. 

Half-awake, she hurriedly looked at the time. She had been there threehours. At the same moment she heard the outer gate swing together, andwheels sweep round the entrance; some prior noise from the same sourcehaving probably been the cause of her awaking. Next her father's voicewas heard calling to Worm. 

Elfride passed along a walk towards the house behind a belt of shrubs. She heard a tongue holding converse with her father, which was not thatof either of the servants. Her father and the stranger were laughingtogether. Then there was a rustling of silk, and Mr. Swancourt and hiscompanion, or companions, to all seeming entered the door of thehouse, for nothing more of them was audible. Elfride had turned back tomeditate on what friends these could be, when she heard footsteps, andher father exclaiming behind her:

'O Elfride, here you are! I hope you got on well?'

Elfride's heart smote her, and she did not speak. 

'Come back to the summer-house a minute, ' continued Mr. Swancourt; 'Ihave to tell you of that I promised to. '

They entered the summer-house, and stood leaning over the knottywoodwork of the balustrade. 

'Now, ' said her father radiantly, 'guess what I have to say. ' He seemedto be regarding his own existence so intently, that he took no interestin nor even saw the complexion of hers. 

'I cannot, papa, ' she said sadly. 

'Try, dear. '

'I would rather not, indeed. '

'You are tired. You look worn. The ride was too much for you. Well, thisis what I went away for. I went to be married!'

'Married!' she faltered, and could hardly check an involuntary 'So didI. ' A moment after and her resolve to confess perished like a bubble. 

'Yes; to whom do you think? Mrs. Troyton, the new owner of the estateover the hedge, and of the old manor-house. It was only finally settledbetween us when I went to Stratleigh a few days ago. ' He lowered hisvoice to a sly tone of merriment. 'Now, as to your stepmother, you'llfind she is not much to look at, though a good deal to listen to. She istwenty years older than myself, for one thing. '

'You forget that I know her. She called here once, after we had been, and found her away from home. '

'Of course, of course. Well, whatever her looks are, she's as excellenta woman as ever breathed. She has had lately left her as absoluteproperty three thousand five hundred a year, besides the devise of thisestate--and, by the way, a large legacy came to her in satisfaction ofdower, as it is called. '

'Three thousand five hundred a year!'

'And a large--well, a fair-sized--mansion in town, and a pedigree aslong as my walking-stick; though that bears evidence of being rather araked-up affair--done since the family got rich--people do thosethings now as they build ruins on maiden estates and cast antiques atBirmingham. '

Elfride merely listened and said nothing. 

He continued more quietly and impressively. 'Yes, Elfride, she iswealthy in comparison with us, though with few connections. However, shewill introduce you to the world a little. We are going to exchange herhouse in Baker Street for one at Kensington, for your sake. Everybody isgoing there now, she says. At Easters we shall fly to town for the usualthree months--I shall have a curate of course by that time. Elfride, Iam past love, you know, and I honestly confess that I married her foryour sake. Why a woman of her standing should have thrown herselfaway upon me, God knows. But I suppose her age and plainness were toopronounced for a town man. With your good looks, if you now play yourcards well, you may marry anybody. Of course, a little contrivance willbe necessary; but there's nothing to stand between you and a husbandwith a title, that I can see. Lady Luxellian was only a squire'sdaughter. Now, don't you see how foolish the old fancy was? But come, she is indoors waiting to see you. It is as good as a play, too, 'continued the vicar, as they walked towards the house. 'I courted herthrough the privet hedge yonder: not entirely, you know, but we used towalk there of an evening--nearly every evening at last. But I needn'ttell you details now; everything was terribly matter-of-fact, I assureyou. At last, that day I saw her at Stratleigh, we determined to settleit off-hand. '

'And you never said a word to me, ' replied Elfride, not reproachfullyeither in tone or thought. Indeed, her feeling was the very reverse ofreproachful. She felt relieved and even thankful. Where confidence hadnot been given, how could confidence be expected?

Her father mistook her dispassionateness for a veil of politeness over asense of ill-usage. 'I am not altogether to blame, ' he said. 'Therewere two or three reasons for secrecy. One was the recent death of herrelative the testator, though that did not apply to you. But remember, Elfride, ' he continued in a stiffer tone, 'you had mixed yourself up sofoolishly with those low people, the Smiths--and it was just, too, whenMrs. Troyton and myself were beginning to understand each other--that Iresolved to say nothing even to you. How did I know how far you had gonewith them and their son? You might have made a point of taking tea withthem every day, for all that I knew. '

Elfride swallowed her feelings as she best could, and languidly thoughflatly asked a question. 

'Did you kiss Mrs. Troyton on the lawn about three weeks ago? Thatevening I came into the study and found you had just had candles in?'

Mr. Swancourt looked rather red and abashed, as middle-aged lovers areapt to do when caught in the tricks of younger ones. 

'Well, yes; I think I did, ' he stammered; 'just to please her, youknow. ' And then recovering himself he laughed heartily. 

'And was this what your Horatian quotation referred to?'

'It was, Elfride. '

They stepped into the drawing-room from the verandah. At that momentMrs. Swancourt came downstairs, and entered the same room by the door. 

'Here, Charlotte, is my little Elfride, ' said Mr. Swancourt, with theincreased affection of tone often adopted towards relations when newlyproduced. 

Poor Elfride, not knowing what to do, did nothing at all; but stoodreceptive of all that came to her by sight, hearing, and touch. 

Mrs. Swancourt moved forward, took her step-daughter's hand, then kissedher. 

'Ah, darling!' she exclaimed good-humouredly, 'you didn't think when youshowed a strange old woman over the conservatory a month or two ago, andexplained the flowers to her so prettily, that she would so soon be herein new colours. Nor did she, I am sure. '

The new mother had been truthfully enough described by Mr. Swancourt. She was not physically attractive. She was dark--very dark--incomplexion, portly in figure, and with a plentiful residuum of hair inthe proportion of half a dozen white ones to half a dozen black ones, though the latter were black indeed. No further observed, she was not awoman to like. But there was more to see. To the most superficial criticit was apparent that she made no attempt to disguise her age. She lookedsixty at the first glance, and close acquaintanceship never proved herolder. 

Another and still more winning trait was one attaching to the cornersof her mouth. Before she made a remark these often twitched gently: notbackwards and forwards, the index of nervousness; not down upon the jaw, the sign of determination; but palpably upwards, in precisely the curveadopted to represent mirth in the broad caricatures of schoolboys. Onlythis element in her face was expressive of anything within the woman, but it was unmistakable. It expressed humour subjective as well asobjective--which could survey the peculiarities of self in as whimsicala light as those of other people. 

This is not all of Mrs. Swancourt. She had held out to Elfride handswhose fingers were literally stiff with rings, signis auroque rigentes, like Helen's robe. These rows of rings were not worn in vanityapparently. They were mostly antique and dull, though a few were thereverse. 

RIGHT HAND. 

1st. Plainly set oval onyx, representing a devil's head. 2nd. Greenjasper intaglio, with red veins. 3rd. Entirely gold, bearing figure ofa hideous griffin. 4th. A sea-green monster diamond, with small diamondsround it. 5th. Antique cornelian intaglio of dancing figure of asatyr. 6th. An angular band chased with dragons' heads. 7th. A facettedcarbuncle accompanied by ten little twinkling emeralds; &c. &c. 

LEFT HAND. 

1st. A reddish-yellow toadstone. 2nd. A heavy ring enamelled in colours, and bearing a jacynth. 3rd. An amethystine sapphire. 4th. A polishedruby, surrounded by diamonds. 5th. The engraved ring of an abbess. 6th. A gloomy intaglio; &c. &c. 

Beyond this rather quaint array of stone and metal Mrs. Swancourt woreno ornament whatever. 

Elfride had been favourably impressed with Mrs. Troyton at their meetingabout two months earlier; but to be pleased with a woman as a momentaryacquaintance was different from being taken with her as a stepmother. However, the suspension of feeling was but for a moment. Elfride decidedto like her still. 

Mrs. Swancourt was a woman of the world as to knowledge, the reverseas to action, as her marriage suggested. Elfride and the lady were sooninextricably involved in conversation, and Mr. Swancourt left them tothemselves. 

'And what do you find to do with yourself here?' Mrs. Swancourt said, after a few remarks about the wedding. 'You ride, I know. '

'Yes, I ride. But not much, because papa doesn't like my going alone. '

'You must have somebody to look after you. '

'And I read, and write a little. '

'You should write a novel. The regular resource of people who don't goenough into the world to live a novel is to write one. '

'I have done it, ' said Elfride, looking dubiously at Mrs. Swancourt, asif in doubt whether she would meet with ridicule there. 

'That's right. Now, then, what is it about, dear?'

'About--well, it is a romance of the Middle Ages. '

'Knowing nothing of the present age, which everybody knows about, forsafety you chose an age known neither to you nor other people. That'sit, eh? No, no; I don't mean it, dear. '

'Well, I have had some opportunities of studying mediaeval art andmanners in the library and private museum at Endelstow House, and Ithought I should like to try my hand upon a fiction. I know the time forthese tales is past; but I was interested in it, very much interested. '

'When is it to appear?'

'Oh, never, I suppose. '

'Nonsense, my dear girl. Publish it, by all means. All ladies do thatsort of thing now; not for profit, you know, but as a guarantee ofmental respectability to their future husbands. '

'An excellent idea of us ladies. '

'Though I am afraid it rather resembles the melancholy ruse of throwingloaves over castle-walls at besiegers, and suggests desperation ratherthan plenty inside. '

'Did you ever try it?'

'No; I was too far gone even for that. '

'Papa says no publisher will take my book. '

'That remains to be proved. I'll give my word, my dear, that by thistime next year it shall be printed. '

'Will you, indeed?' said Elfride, partially brightening with pleasure, though she was sad enough in her depths. 'I thought brains were theindispensable, even if the only, qualification for admission to therepublic of letters. A mere commonplace creature like me will soon beturned out again. '

'Oh no; once you are there you'll be like a drop of water in a piece ofrock-crystal--your medium will dignify your commonness. '

'It will be a great satisfaction, ' Elfride murmured, and thought ofStephen, and wished she could make a great fortune by writing romances, and marry him and live happily. 

'And then we'll go to London, and then to Paris, ' said Mrs. Swancourt. 'I have been talking to your father about it. But we have first to moveinto the manor-house, and we think of staying at Torquay whilst thatis going on. Meanwhile, instead of going on a honeymoon scamper byourselves, we have come home to fetch you, and go all together to Bathfor two or three weeks. '

Elfride assented pleasantly, even gladly; but she saw that, by thismarriage, her father and herself had ceased for ever to be the closerelations they had been up to a few weeks ago. It was impossible now totell him the tale of her wild elopement with Stephen Smith. 

He was still snugly housed in her heart. His absence had regained forhim much of that aureola of saintship which had been nearly abstractedduring her reproachful mood on that miserable journey from London. Rapture is often cooled by contact with its cause, especially if underawkward conditions. And that last experience with Stephen had doneanything but make him shine in her eyes. His very kindness in lettingher return was his offence. Elfride had her sex's love of sheer forcein a man, however ill-directed; and at that critical juncture in LondonStephen's only chance of retaining the ascendancy over her that his faceand not his parts had acquired for him, would have been by doing what, for one thing, he was too youthful to undertake--that was, dragging herby the wrist to the rails of some altar, and peremptorily marryingher. Decisive action is seen by appreciative minds to be frequentlyobjectless, and sometimes fatal; but decision, however suicidal, hasmore charm for a woman than the most unequivocal Fabian success. 

However, some of the unpleasant accessories of that occasion were nowout of sight again, and Stephen had resumed not a few of his fancycolours. 

Chapter XIII

 'He set in order many proverbs. '

It is London in October--two months further on in the story. 

Bede's Inn has this peculiarity, that it faces, receives from, anddischarges into a bustling thoroughfare speaking only of wealthand respectability, whilst its postern abuts on as crowded andpoverty-stricken a network of alleys as are to be found anywhere in themetropolis. The moral consequences are, first, that those who occupychambers in the Inn may see a great deal of shirtless humanity's habitsand enjoyments without doing more than look down from a back window;and second they may hear wholesome though unpleasant social remindersthrough the medium of a harsh voice, an unequal footstep, the echo ofa blow or a fall, which originates in the person of some drunkard orwife-beater, as he crosses and interferes with the quiet of the square. Characters of this kind frequently pass through the Inn from a littlefoxhole of an alley at the back, but they never loiter there. 

It is hardly necessary to state that all the sights and movements properto the Inn are most orderly. On the fine October evening on which wefollow Stephen Smith to this place, a placid porter is sitting on astool under a sycamore-tree in the midst, with a little cane in hishand. We notice the thick coat of soot upon the branches, hangingunderneath them in flakes, as in a chimney. The blackness of theseboughs does not at present improve the tree--nearly forsaken by itsleaves as it is--but in the spring their green fresh beauty is madedoubly beautiful by the contrast. Within the railings is a flower-gardenof respectable dahlias and chrysanthemums, where a man is sweeping theleaves from the grass. 

Stephen selects a doorway, and ascends an old though wide woodenstaircase, with moulded balusters and handrail, which in a countrymanor-house would be considered a noteworthy specimen of Renaissanceworkmanship. He reaches a door on the first floor, over which ispainted, in black letters, 'Mr. Henry Knight'--'Barrister-at-law' beingunderstood but not expressed. The wall is thick, and there is a door atits outer and inner face. The outer one happens to be ajar: Stephen goesto the other, and taps. 

'Come in!' from distant penetralia. 

First was a small anteroom, divided from the inner apartment by awainscoted archway two or three yards wide. Across this archway hunga pair of dark-green curtains, making a mystery of all within the archexcept the spasmodic scratching of a quill pen. Here was groupeda chaotic assemblage of articles--mainly old framed prints andpaintings--leaning edgewise against the wall, like roofing slates ina builder's yard. All the books visible here were folios too big to bestolen--some lying on a heavy oak table in one corner, some on thefloor among the pictures, the whole intermingled with old coats, hats, umbrellas, and walking-sticks. 

Stephen pushed aside the curtain, and before him sat a man writing awayas if his life depended upon it--which it did. 

A man of thirty in a speckled coat, with dark brown hair, curly beard, and crisp moustache: the latter running into the beard on each side ofthe mouth, and, as usual, hiding the real expression of that organ undera chronic aspect of impassivity. 

'Ah, my dear fellow, I knew 'twas you, ' said Knight, looking up with asmile, and holding out his hand. 

Knight's mouth and eyes came to view now. Both features were good, andhad the peculiarity of appearing younger and fresher than the browand face they belonged to, which were getting sicklied o'er by theunmistakable pale cast. The mouth had not quite relinquished rotundityof curve for the firm angularities of middle life; and the eyes, thoughkeen, permeated rather than penetrated: what they had lost of theirboy-time brightness by a dozen years of hard reading lending a quietnessto their gaze which suited them well. 

A lady would have said there was a smell of tobacco in the room: a manthat there was not. 

Knight did not rise. He looked at a timepiece on the mantelshelf, thenturned again to his letters, pointing to a chair. 

'Well, I am glad you have come. I only returned to town yesterday; now, don't speak, Stephen, for ten minutes; I have just that time to the latepost. At the eleventh minute, I'm your man. '

Stephen sat down as if this kind of reception was by no means new, andaway went Knight's pen, beating up and down like a ship in a storm. 

Cicero called the library the soul of the house; here the house was allsoul. Portions of the floor, and half the wall-space, were taken up bybook-shelves ordinary and extraordinary; the remaining parts, togetherwith brackets, side-tables, &c. , being occupied by casts, statuettes, medallions, and plaques of various descriptions, picked up by the ownerin his wanderings through France and Italy. 

One stream only of evening sunlight came into the room from a windowquite in the corner, overlooking a court. An aquarium stood in thewindow. It was a dull parallelopipedon enough for living creatures atmost hours of the day; but for a few minutes in the evening, as now, anerrant, kindly ray lighted up and warmed the little world therein, whenthe many-coloured zoophytes opened and put forth their arms, the weedsacquired a rich transparency, the shells gleamed of a more goldenyellow, and the timid community expressed gladness more plainly than inwords. 

Within the prescribed ten minutes Knight flung down his pen, rang forthe boy to take the letters to the post, and at the closing of the doorexclaimed, 'There; thank God, that's done. Now, Stephen, pull your chairround, and tell me what you have been doing all this time. Have you keptup your Greek?'

'No. '

'How's that?'

'I haven't enough spare time. '

'That's nonsense. '

'Well, I have done a great many things, if not that. And I have done oneextraordinary thing. '

Knight turned full upon Stephen. 'Ah-ha! Now, then, let me look intoyour face, put two and two together, and make a shrewd guess. '

Stephen changed to a redder colour. 

'Why, Smith, ' said Knight, after holding him rigidly by the shoulders, and keenly scrutinising his countenance for a minute in silence, 'youhave fallen in love. '

'Well--the fact is----'

'Now, out with it. ' But seeing that Stephen looked rather distressed, hechanged to a kindly tone. 'Now Smith, my lad, you know me well enough bythis time, or you ought to; and you know very well that if you choose togive me a detailed account of the phenomenon within you, I shall listen;if you don't, I am the last man in the world to care to hear it. '

'I'll tell this much: I HAVE fallen in love, and I want to be MARRIED. '

Knight looked ominous as this passed Stephen's lips. 

'Don't judge me before you have heard more, ' cried Stephen anxiously, seeing the change in his friend's countenance. 

'I don't judge. Does your mother know about it?'

'Nothing definite. '

'Father?'

'No. But I'll tell you. The young person----'

'Come, that's dreadfully ungallant. But perhaps I understand the frameof mind a little, so go on. Your sweetheart----'

'She is rather higher in the world than I am. '

'As it should be. '

'And her father won't hear of it, as I now stand. '

'Not an uncommon case. '

'And now comes what I want your advice upon. Something has happened ather house which makes it out of the question for us to ask her fatheragain now. So we are keeping silent. In the meantime an architect inIndia has just written to Mr. Hewby to ask whether he can find for hima young assistant willing to go over to Bombay to prepare drawings forwork formerly done by the engineers. The salary he offers is 350 rupeesa month, or about 35 Pounds. Hewby has mentioned it to me, and I havebeen to Dr. Wray, who says I shall acclimatise without much illness. Now, would you go?'

'You mean to say, because it is a possible road to the young lady. '

'Yes; I was thinking I could go over and make a little money, and thencome back and ask for her. I have the option of practising for myselfafter a year. '

'Would she be staunch?'

'Oh yes! For ever--to the end of her life!'

'How do you know?'

'Why, how do people know? Of course, she will. '

Knight leant back in his chair. 'Now, though I know her thoroughly asshe exists in your heart, Stephen, I don't know her in the flesh. AllI want to ask is, is this idea of going to India based entirely upon abelief in her fidelity?'

'Yes; I should not go if it were not for her. '

'Well, Stephen, you have put me in rather an awkward position. If I givemy true sentiments, I shall hurt your feelings; if I don't, I shall hurtmy own judgment. And remember, I don't know much about women. '

'But you have had attachments, although you tell me very little aboutthem. '

'And I only hope you'll continue to prosper till I tell you more. '

Stephen winced at this rap. 'I have never formed a deep attachment, 'continued Knight. 'I never have found a woman worth it. Nor have I beenonce engaged to be married. '

'You write as if you had been engaged a hundred times, if I may beallowed to say so, ' said Stephen in an injured tone. 

'Yes, that may be. But, my dear Stephen, it is only those who half knowa thing that write about it. Those who know it thoroughly don't takethe trouble. All I know about women, or men either, is a mass ofgeneralities. I plod along, and occasionally lift my eyes and skim theweltering surface of mankind lying between me and the horizon, as a crowmight; no more. '

Knight stopped as if he had fallen into a train of thought, and Stephenlooked with affectionate awe at a master whose mind, he believed, couldswallow up at one meal all that his own head contained. 

There was affective sympathy, but no great intellectual fellowship, between Knight and Stephen Smith. Knight had seen his young friend whenthe latter was a cherry-cheeked happy boy, had been interested in him, had kept his eye upon him, and generously helped the lad to books, tillthe mere connection of patronage grew to acquaintance, and that ripenedto friendship. And so, though Smith was not at all the man Knight wouldhave deliberately chosen as a friend--or even for one of a group of adozen friends--he somehow was his friend. Circumstance, as usual, didit all. How many of us can say of our most intimate alter ego, leavingalone friends of the outer circle, that he is the man we should havechosen, as embodying the net result after adding up all the points inhuman nature that we love, and principles we hold, and subtracting allthat we hate? The man is really somebody we got to know by mere physicaljuxtaposition long maintained, and was taken into our confidence, andeven heart, as a makeshift. 

'And what do you think of her?' Stephen ventured to say, after asilence. 

'Taking her merits on trust from you, ' said Knight, 'as we do those ofthe Roman poets of whom we know nothing but that they lived, I stillthink she will not stick to you through, say, three years of absence inIndia. '

'But she will!' cried Stephen desperately. 'She is a girl all delicacyand honour. And no woman of that kind, who has committed herself so intoa man's hands as she has into mine, could possibly marry another. '

'How has she committed herself?' asked Knight cunously. 

Stephen did not answer. Knight had looked on his love so scepticallythat it would not do to say all that he had intended to say by anymeans. 

'Well, don't tell, ' said Knight. 'But you are begging the question, which is, I suppose, inevitable in love. '

'And I'll tell you another thing, ' the younger man pleaded. 'Youremember what you said to me once about women receiving a kiss. Don'tyou? Why, that instead of our being charmed by the fascination oftheir bearing at such a time, we should immediately doubt them if theirconfusion has any GRACE in it--that awkward bungling was the true charmof the occasion, implying that we are the first who has played such apart with them. '

'It is true, quite, ' said Knight musingly. 

It often happened that the disciple thus remembered the lessons of themaster long after the master himself had forgotten them. 

'Well, that was like her!' cried Stephen triumphantly. 'She was in sucha flurry that she didn't know what she was doing. '

'Splendid, splendid!' said Knight soothingly. 'So that all I have to sayis, that if you see a good opening in Bombay there's no reason why youshould not go without troubling to draw fine distinctions as to reasons. No man fully realizes what opinions he acts upon, or what his actionsmean. '

'Yes; I go to Bombay. I'll write a note here, if you don't mind. '

'Sleep over it--it is the best plan--and write to-morrow. Meantime, gothere to that window and sit down, and look at my Humanity Show. Iam going to dine out this evening, and have to dress here out of myportmanteau. I bring up my things like this to save the trouble of goingdown to my place at Richmond and back again. '

Knight then went to the middle of the room and flung open hisportmanteau, and Stephen drew near the window. The streak of sunlighthad crept upward, edged away, and vanished; the zoophytes slept: a duskygloom pervaded the room. And now another volume of light shone over thewindow. 

'There!' said Knight, 'where is there in England a spectacle to equalthat? I sit there and watch them every night before I go home. Softlyopen the sash. '

Beneath them was an alley running up to the wall, and thence turningsideways and passing under an arch, so that Knight's back windowwas immediately over the angle, and commanded a view of the alleylengthwise. Crowds--mostly of women--were surging, bustling, and pacingup and down. Gaslights glared from butchers' stalls, illuminating thelumps of flesh to splotches of orange and vermilion, like the wildcolouring of Turner's later pictures, whilst the purl and babble oftongues of every pitch and mood was to this human wild-wood what theripple of a brook is to the natural forest. 

Nearly ten minutes passed. Then Knight also came to the window. 

'Well, now, I call a cab and vanish down the street in the directionof Berkeley Square, ' he said, buttoning his waistcoat and kicking hismorning suit into a corner. Stephen rose to leave. 

'What a heap of literature!' remarked the young man, taking a finallonging survey round the room, as if to abide there for ever would bethe great pleasure of his life, yet feeling that he had almost outstayedhis welcome-while. His eyes rested upon an arm-chair piled full ofnewspapers, magazines, and bright new volumes in green and red. 

'Yes, ' said Knight, also looking at them and breathing a sigh ofweariness; 'something must be done with several of them soon, I suppose. Stephen, you needn't hurry away for a few minutes, you know, if you wantto stay; I am not quite ready. Overhaul those volumes whilst I put on mycoat, and I'll walk a little way with you. '

Stephen sat down beside the arm-chair and began to tumble the booksabout. Among the rest he found a novelette in one volume, THE COURT OFKELLYON CASTLE. By Ernest Field. 

'Are you going to review this?' inquired Stephen with apparentunconcern, and holding up Elfride's effusion. 

'Which? Oh, that! I may--though I don't do much light reviewing now. Butit is reviewable. '

'How do you mean?'

Knight never liked to be asked what he meant. 'Mean! I mean that themajority of books published are neither good enough nor bad enough toprovoke criticism, and that that book does provoke it. '

'By its goodness or its badness?' Stephen said with some anxiety on poorlittle Elfride's score. 

'Its badness. It seems to be written by some girl in her teens. '

Stephen said not another word. He did not care to speak plainly ofElfride after that unfortunate slip his tongue had made in respectof her having committed herself; and, apart from that, Knight'ssevere--almost dogged and self-willed--honesty in criticizing wasunassailable by the humble wish of a youthful friend like Stephen. 

Knight was now ready. Turning off the gas, and slamming together thedoor, they went downstairs and into the street. 

Chapter XIV

 'We frolic while 'tis May. '

It has now to be realized that nearly three-quarters of a year havepassed away. In place of the autumnal scenery which formed a setting tothe previous enactments, we have the culminating blooms of summer in theyear following. 

Stephen is in India, slaving away at an office in Bombay; occasionallygoing up the country on professional errands, and wondering why peoplewho had been there longer than he complained so much of the effect ofthe climate upon their constitutions. Never had a young man a finerstart than seemed now to present itself to Stephen. It was just in thatexceptional heyday of prosperity which shone over Bombay some few yearsago, that he arrived on the scene. Building and engineering partookof the general impetus. Speculation moved with an accelerated velocityevery successive day, the only disagreeable contingency connected withit being the possibility of a collapse. 

Elfride had never told her father of the four-and-twenty-hours' escapadewith Stephen, nor had it, to her knowledge, come to his ears by anyother route. It was a secret trouble and grief to the girl for a shorttime, and Stephen's departure was another ingredient in her sorrow. ButElfride possessed special facilities for getting rid of trouble after adecent interval. Whilst a slow nature was imbibing a misfortune littleby little, she had swallowed the whole agony of it at a draught and wasbrightening again. She could slough off a sadness and replace it by ahope as easily as a lizard renews a diseased limb. 

And two such excellent distractions had presented themselves. One wasbringing out the romance and looking for notices in the papers, which, though they had been significantly short so far, had served to diverther thoughts. The other was migrating from the vicarage to the morecommodious old house of Mrs. Swancourt's, overlooking the same valley. Mr. Swancourt at first disliked the idea of being transplanted tofeminine soil, but the obvious advantages of such an accession ofdignity reconciled him to the change. So there was a radical 'move;' thetwo ladies staying at Torquay as had been arranged, the vicar going toand fro. 

Mrs. Swancourt considerably enlarged Elfride's ideas in an aristocraticdirection, and she began to forgive her father for his politic marriage. Certainly, in a worldly sense, a handsome face at three-and-forty hadnever served a man in better stead. 

The new house at Kensington was ready, and they were all in town. 

The Hyde Park shrubs had been transplanted as usual, the chairs rankedin line, the grass edgings trimmed, the roads made to look as if theywere suffering from a heavy thunderstorm; carriages had been called forby the easeful, horses by the brisk, and the Drive and Row were againthe groove of gaiety for an hour. We gaze upon the spectacle, at sixo'clock on this midsummer afternoon, in a melon-frame atmosphere andbeneath a violet sky. The Swancourt equipage formed one in the stream. 

Mrs. Swancourt was a talker of talk of the incisive kind, which her lowmusical voice--the only beautiful point in the old woman--prevented frombeing wearisome. 

'Now, ' she said to Elfride, who, like AEneas at Carthage, was fullof admiration for the brilliant scene, 'you will find that ourcompanionless state will give us, as it does everybody, an extraordinarypower in reading the features of our fellow-creatures here. I alwaysam a listener in such places as these--not to the narratives told by myneighbours' tongues, but by their faces--the advantage of which is, thatwhether I am in Row, Boulevard, Rialto, or Prado, they all speak thesame language. I may have acquired some skill in this practice throughhaving been an ugly lonely woman for so many years, with nobody to giveme information; a thing you will not consider strange when the parallelcase is borne in mind, --how truly people who have no clocks will tellthe time of day. '

'Ay, that they will, ' said Mr. Swancourt corroboratively. 'I have knownlabouring men at Endelstow and other farms who had framed completesystems of observation for that purpose. By means of shadows, winds, clouds, the movements of sheep and oxen, the singing of birds, thecrowing of cocks, and a hundred other sights and sounds which peoplewith watches in their pockets never know the existence of, they areable to pronounce within ten minutes of the hour almost at any requiredinstant. That reminds me of an old story which I'm afraid is toobad--too bad to repeat. ' Here the vicar shook his head and laughedinwardly. 

'Tell it--do!' said the ladies. 

'I mustn't quite tell it. '

'That's absurd, ' said Mrs. Swancourt. 

'It was only about a man who, by the same careful system of observation, was known to deceive persons for more than two years into the beliefthat he kept a barometer by stealth, so exactly did he foretell allchanges in the weather by the braying of his ass and the temper of hiswife. '

Elfride laughed. 

'Exactly, ' said Mrs. Swancourt. 'And in just the way that those learntthe signs of nature, I have learnt the language of her illegitimatesister--artificiality; and the fibbing of eyes, the contempt ofnose-tips, the indignation of back hair, the laughter of clothes, thecynicism of footsteps, and the various emotions lying in walking-sticktwirls, hat-liftings, the elevation of parasols, the carriage ofumbrellas, become as A B C to me. 

'Just look at that daughter's sister class of mamma in the carriageacross there, ' she continued to Elfride, pointing with merely a turn ofher eye. 'The absorbing self-consciousness of her position that is shownby her countenance is most humiliating to a lover of one's country. Youwould hardly believe, would you, that members of a Fashionable World, whose professed zero is far above the highest degree of the humble, could be so ignorant of the elementary instincts of reticence. '

'How?'

'Why, to bear on their faces, as plainly as on a phylactery, theinscription, "Do, pray, look at the coronet on my panels. "'

'Really, Charlotte, ' said the vicar, 'you see as much in faces as Mr. Puff saw in Lord Burleigh's nod. '

Elfride could not but admire the beauty of her fellow countrywomen, especially since herself and her own few acquaintances had alwaysbeen slightly sunburnt or marked on the back of the hands by abramble-scratch at this time of the year. 

'And what lovely flowers and leaves they wear in their bonnets!' sheexclaimed. 

'Oh yes, ' returned Mrs. Swancourt. 'Some of them are even more strikingin colour than any real ones. Look at that beautiful rose worn by thelady inside the rails. Elegant vine-tendrils introduced upon the stem asan improvement upon prickles, and all growing so naturally just over herear--I say growing advisedly, for the pink of the petals and the pinkof her handsome cheeks are equally from Nature's hand to the eyes of themost casual observer. '

'But praise them a little, they do deserve it!' said generous Elfride. 

'Well, I do. See how the Duchess of----waves to and fro in her seat, utilizing the sway of her landau by looking around only when her headis swung forward, with a passive pride which forbids a resistance tothe force of circumstance. Look at the pretty pout on the mouths of thatfamily there, retaining no traces of being arranged beforehand, so wellis it done. Look at the demure close of the little fists holding theparasols; the tiny alert thumb, sticking up erect against the ivory stemas knowing as can be, the satin of the parasol invariably matching thecomplexion of the face beneath it, yet seemingly by an accident, which makes the thing so attractive. There's the red book lying on theopposite seat, bespeaking the vast numbers of their acquaintance. AndI particularly admire the aspect of that abundantly daughtered woman onthe other side--I mean her look of unconsciousness that the girlsare stared at by the walkers, and above all the look of the girlsthemselves--losing their gaze in the depths of handsome men's eyeswithout appearing to notice whether they are observing masculine eyes orthe leaves of the trees. There's praise for you. But I am only jesting, child--you know that. '

'Piph-ph-ph--how warm it is, to be sure!' said Mr. Swancourt, as if hismind were a long distance from all he saw. 'I declare that my watch isso hot that I can scarcely bear to touch it to see what the time is, andall the world smells like the inside of a hat. '

'How the men stare at you, Elfride!' said the elder lady. 'You will killme quite, I am afraid. '

'Kill you?'

'As a diamond kills an opal in the same setting. '

'I have noticed several ladies and gentlemen looking at me, ' saidElfride artlessly, showing her pleasure at being observed. 

'My dear, you mustn't say "gentlemen" nowadays, ' her stepmother answeredin the tones of arch concern that so well became her ugliness. 'We havehanded over "gentlemen" to the lower middle class, where the word isstill to be heard at tradesmen's balls and provincial tea-parties, Ibelieve. It is done with here. '

'What must I say, then?'

'"Ladies and MEN" always. '

At this moment appeared in the stream of vehicles moving in the contrarydirection a chariot presenting in its general surface the rich indigohue of a midnight sky, the wheels and margins being picked out indelicate lines of ultramarine; the servants' liveries were dark-bluecoats and silver lace, and breeches of neutral Indian red. The wholeconcern formed an organic whole, and moved along behind a pair of darkchestnut geldings, who advanced in an indifferently zealous trot, verydaintily performed, and occasionally shrugged divers points of theirveiny surface as if they were rather above the business. 

In this sat a gentleman with no decided characteristics more thanthat he somewhat resembled a good-natured commercial traveller ofthe superior class. Beside him was a lady with skim-milky eyes andcomplexion, belonging to the "interesting" class of women, where thatclass merges in the sickly, her greatest pleasure being apparently toenjoy nothing. Opposite this pair sat two little girls in white hats andblue feathers. 

The lady saw Elfride, smiled and bowed, and touched her husband's elbow, who turned and received Elfride's movement of recognition with a gallantelevation of his hat. Then the two children held up their arms toElfride, and laughed gleefully. 

'Who is that?'

'Why, Lord Luxellian, isn't it?' said Mrs. Swancourt, who with the vicarhad been seated with her back towards them. 

'Yes, ' replied Elfride. 'He is the one man of those I have seen herewhom I consider handsomer than papa. '

'Thank you, dear, ' said Mr. Swancourt. 

'Yes; but your father is so much older. When Lord Luxellian gets alittle further on in life, he won't be half so good-looking as our man. '

'Thank you, dear, likewise, ' said Mr. Swancourt. 

'See, ' exclaimed Elfride, still looking towards them, 'how those littledears want me! Actually one of them is crying for me to come. '

'We were talking of bracelets just now. Look at Lady Luxellian's, ' saidMrs. Swancourt, as that baroness lifted up her arm to support one of thechildren. 'It is slipping up her arm--too large by half. I hate to seedaylight between a bracelet and a wrist; I wonder women haven't bettertaste. '

'It is not on that account, indeed, ' Elfride expostulated. 'It is thather arm has got thin, poor thing. You cannot think how much she hasaltered in this last twelvemonth. '

The carriages were now nearer together, and there was an exchange ofmore familiar greetings between the two families. Then the Luxellianscrossed over and drew up under the plane-trees, just in the rear of theSwancourts. Lord Luxellian alighted, and came forward with a musicallaugh. 

It was his attraction as a man. People liked him for those tones, andforgot that he had no talents. Acquaintances remembered Mr. Swancourt byhis manner; they remembered Stephen Smith by his face, Lord Luxellian byhis laugh. 

Mr. Swancourt made some friendly remarks--among others things upon theheat. 

'Yes, ' said Lord Luxellian, 'we were driving by a furrier's window thisafternoon, and the sight filled us all with such a sense of suffocationthat we were glad to get away. Ha-ha!' He turned to Elfride. 'MissSwancourt, I have hardly seen or spoken to you since your literary featwas made public. I had no idea a chiel was taking notes down at quietEndelstow, or I should certainly have put myself and friends upon ourbest behaviour. Swancourt, why didn't you give me a hint!'

Elfride fluttered, blushed, laughed, said it was nothing to speak of, &c. &c. 

'Well, I think you were rather unfairly treated by the PRESENT, Icertainly do. Writing a heavy review like that upon an elegant triflelike the COURT OF KELLYON CASTLE was absurd. '

'What?' said Elfride, opening her eyes. 'Was I reviewed in the PRESENT?'

'Oh yes; didn't you see it? Why, it was four or five months ago!'

'No, I never saw it. How sorry I am! What a shame of my publishers! Theypromised to send me every notice that appeared. '

'Ah, then, I am almost afraid I have been giving you disagreeableinformation, intentionally withheld out of courtesy. Depend upon itthey thought no good would come of sending it, and so would not pain youunnecessarily. '

'Oh no; I am indeed glad you have told me, Lord Luxellian. It is quite amistaken kindness on their part. Is the review so much against me?' sheinquired tremulously. 

'No, no; not that exactly--though I almost forget its exact purportnow. It was merely--merely sharp, you know--ungenerous, I might say. Butreally my memory does not enable me to speak decidedly. '

'We'll drive to the PRESENT office, and get one directly; shall we, papa?'

'If you are so anxious, dear, we will, or send. But to-morrow will do. '

'And do oblige me in a little matter now, Elfride, ' said Lord Luxellianwarmly, and looking as if he were sorry he had brought news thatdisturbed her. 'I am in reality sent here as a special messenger by mylittle Polly and Katie to ask you to come into our carriage with themfor a short time. I am just going to walk across into Piccadilly, andmy wife is left alone with them. I am afraid they are rather spoiltchildren; but I have half promised them you shall come. '

The steps were let down, and Elfride was transferred--to the intensedelight of the little girls, and to the mild interest of loungers withred skins and long necks, who cursorily eyed the performance with theirwalking-sticks to their lips, occasionally laughing from far down theirthroats and with their eyes, their mouths not being concerned in theoperation at all. Lord Luxellian then told the coachman to drive on, lifted his hat, smiled a smile that missed its mark and alighted on atotal stranger, who bowed in bewilderment. Lord Luxellian looked long atElfride. 

The look was a manly, open, and genuine look of admiration; a momentarytribute of a kind which any honest Englishman might have paid tofairness without being ashamed of the feeling, or permitting it toencroach in the slightest degree upon his emotional obligations asa husband and head of a family. Then Lord Luxellian turned away, andwalked musingly to the upper end of the promenade. 

Mr. Swancourt had alighted at the same time with Elfride, crossing overto the Row for a few minutes to speak to a friend he recognized there;and his wife was thus left sole tenant of the carriage. 

Now, whilst this little act had been in course of performance, therestood among the promenading spectators a man of somewhat differentdescription from the rest. Behind the general throng, in the rear of thechairs, and leaning against the trunk of a tree, he looked at Elfridewith quiet and critical interest. 

Three points about this unobtrusive person showed promptly tothe exercised eye that he was not a Row man pur sang. First, anirrepressible wrinkle or two in the waist of his frock-coat--denotingthat he had not damned his tailor sufficiently to drive that tradesmanup to the orthodox high pressure of cunning workmanship. Second, aslight slovenliness of umbrella, occasioned by its owner's habit ofresting heavily upon it, and using it as a veritable walking-stick, instead of letting its point touch the ground in the most coquettish ofkisses, as is the proper Row manner to do. Third, and chief reason, thattry how you might, you could scarcely help supposing, on looking at hisface, that your eyes were not far from a well-finished mind, instead ofthe well-finished skin et praeterea nihil, which is by rights the Markof the Row. 

The probability is that, had not Mrs. Swancourt been left alone in hercarriage under the tree, this man would have remained in his unobservedseclusion. But seeing her thus, he came round to the front, stoopedunder the rail, and stood beside the carriage-door. 

Mrs. Swancourt looked reflectively at him for a quarter of a minute, then held out her hand laughingly:

'Why, Henry Knight--of course it is! My--second--third--fourthcousin--what shall I say? At any rate, my kinsman. '

'Yes, one of a remnant not yet cut off. I scarcely was certain of you, either, from where I was standing. '

'I have not seen you since you first went to Oxford; consider the numberof years! You know, I suppose, of my marriage?'

And there sprang up a dialogue concerning family matters of birth, death, and marriage, which it is not necessary to detail. Knightpresently inquired:

'The young lady who changed into the other carriage is, then, yourstepdaughter?'

'Yes, Elfride. You must know her. '

'And who was the lady in the carriage Elfride entered; who had anill-defined and watery look, as if she were only the reflection ofherself in a pool?'

'Lady Luxellian; very weakly, Elfride says. My husband is remotelyconnected with them; but there is not much intimacy on account of----. However, Henry, you'll come and see us, of course. 24 Chevron Square. Come this week. We shall only be in town a week or two longer. '

'Let me see. I've got to run up to Oxford to-morrow, where I shall befor several days; so that I must, I fear, lose the pleasure of seeingyou in London this year. '

'Then come to Endelstow; why not return with us?'

'I am afraid if I were to come before August I should have to leaveagain in a day or two. I should be delighted to be with you at thebeginning of that month; and I could stay a nice long time. I havethought of going westward all the summer. '

'Very well. Now remember that's a compact. And won't you wait now andsee Mr. Swancourt? He will not be away ten minutes longer. '

'No; I'll beg to be excused; for I must get to my chambers again thisevening before I go home; indeed, I ought to have been there now--I havesuch a press of matters to attend to just at present. You will explainto him, please. Good-bye. '

'And let us know the day of your appearance as soon as you can. '

'I will'

Chapter XV

 'A wandering voice. '

Though sheer and intelligible griefs are not charmed away by beingconfided to mere acquaintances, the process is a palliative to certainill-humours. Among these, perplexed vexation is one--a species oftrouble which, like a stream, gets shallower by the simple operation ofwidening it in any quarter. 

On the evening of the day succeeding that of the meeting in thePark, Elfride and Mrs. Swancourt were engaged in conversation in thedressing-room of the latter. Such a treatment of such a case was incourse of adoption here. 

Elfride had just before received an affectionate letter from StephenSmith in Bombay, which had been forwarded to her from Endelstow. Butsince this is not the case referred to, it is not worth while to pryfurther into the contents of the letter than to discover that, with rashthough pardonable confidence in coming times, he addressed her in highspirits as his darling future wife. Probably there cannot be instanced abriefer and surer rule-of-thumb test of a man's temperament--sanguineor cautious--than this: did he or does he ante-date the word wife incorresponding with a sweet-heart he honestly loves?

She had taken this epistle into her own room, read a little of it, thenSAVED the rest for to-morrow, not wishing to be so extravagant as toconsume the pleasure all at once. Nevertheless, she could not resist thewish to enjoy yet a little more, so out came the letter again, and inspite of misgivings as to prodigality the whole was devoured. The letterwas finally reperused and placed in her pocket. 

What was this? Also a newspaper for Elfride, which she had overlookedin her hurry to open the letter. It was the old number of the PRESENT, containing the article upon her book, forwarded as had been requested. 

Elfride had hastily read it through, shrunk perceptibly smaller, and hadthen gone with the paper in her hand to Mrs. Swancourt's dressing-room, to lighten or at least modify her vexation by a discriminating estimatefrom her stepmother. 

She was now looking disconsolately out of the window. 

'Never mind, my child, ' said Mrs. Swancourt after a careful perusal ofthe matter indicated. 'I don't see that the review is such a terribleone, after all. Besides, everybody has forgotten about it by this time. I'm sure the opening is good enough for any book ever written. Justlisten--it sounds better read aloud than when you pore over it silently:"THE COURT OF KELLYON CASTLE. A ROMANCE OF THE MIDDLE AGES. BY ERNESTFIELD. In the belief that we were for a while escaping the monotonousrepetition of wearisome details in modern social scenery, analyses ofuninteresting character, or the unnatural unfoldings of a sensationplot, we took this volume into our hands with a feeling of pleasure. Wewere disposed to beguile ourselves with the fancy that some new changemight possibly be rung upon donjon keeps, chain and plate armour, deeplyscarred cheeks, tender maidens disguised as pages, to which we had notlistened long ago. " Now, that's a very good beginning, in my opinion, and one to be proud of having brought out of a man who has never seenyou. '

'Ah, yes, ' murmured Elfride wofully. 'But, then, see further on!'

'Well the next bit is rather unkind, I must own, ' said Mrs. Swancourt, and read on. '"Instead of this we found ourselves in the hands of someyoung lady, hardly arrived at years of discretion, to judge by the sillydevice it has been thought worth while to adopt on the title-page, withthe idea of disguising her sex. "'

'I am not "silly"!' said Elfride indignantly. 'He might have called meanything but that. '

'You are not, indeed. Well:--"Hands of a young lady. .. Whose chapters aresimply devoted to impossible tournaments, towers, and escapades, whichread like flat copies of like scenes in the stories of Mr. G. P. R. James, and the most unreal portions of IVANHOE. The bait is so palpablyartificial that the most credulous gudgeon turns away. " Now, my dear, I don't see overmuch to complain of in that. It proves that you wereclever enough to make him think of Sir Walter Scott, which is a greatdeal. '

'Oh yes; though I cannot romance myself, I am able to remind him ofthose who can!' Elfride intended to hurl these words sarcasticallyat her invisible enemy, but as she had no more satirical power than awood-pigeon, they merely fell in a pretty murmur from lips shaped to apout. 

'Certainly: and that's something. Your book is good enough to be bad inan ordinary literary manner, and doesn't stand by itself in a melancholyposition altogether worse than assailable. --"That interest in anhistorical romance may nowadays have any chance of being sustained, itis indispensable that the reader find himself under the guidance ofsome nearly extinct species of legendary, who, in addition to an impulsetowards antiquarian research and an unweakened faith in the mediaevalhalo, shall possess an inventive faculty in which delicacy of sentimentis far overtopped by a power of welding to stirring incident a spiritedvariety of the elementary human passions. " Well, that long-windedeffusion doesn't refer to you at all, Elfride, merely something put into fill up. Let me see, when does he come to you again;. .. Not till thevery end, actually. Here you are finally polished off:

'"But to return to the little work we have used as the text of thisarticle. We are far from altogether disparaging the author's powers. Shehas a certain versatility that enables her to use with effect a styleof narration peculiar to herself, which may be called a murmuring ofdelicate emotional trifles, the particular gift of those to whom thesocial sympathies of a peaceful time are as daily food. Hence, wherematters of domestic experience, and the natural touches which makepeople real, can be introduced without anachronisms too striking, she isoccasionally felicitous; and upon the whole we feel justified in sayingthat the book will bear looking into for the sake of those portionswhich have nothing whatever to do with the story. "

'Well, I suppose it is intended for satire; but don't think anythingmore of it now, my dear. It is seven o'clock. ' And Mrs. Swancourt rangfor her maid. 

Attack is more piquant than concord. Stephen's letter was concerningnothing but oneness with her: the review was the very reverse. And astranger with neither name nor shape, age nor appearance, but a mightyvoice, is naturally rather an interesting novelty to a lady he choosesto address. When Elfride fell asleep that night she was loving thewriter of the letter, but thinking of the writer of that article. 

Chapter XVI

 'Then fancy shapes--as fancy can. '

On a day about three weeks later, the Swancourt trio were sittingquietly in the drawing-room of The Crags, Mrs. Swancourt's house atEndelstow, chatting, and taking easeful survey of their previous monthor two of town--a tangible weariness even to people whose acquaintancesthere might be counted on the fingers. 

A mere season in London with her practised step-mother had so advancedElfride's perceptions, that her courtship by Stephen seemed emotionallymeagre, and to have drifted back several years into a childish past. In regarding our mental experiences, as in visual observation, our ownprogress reads like a dwindling of that we progress from. 

She was seated on a low chair, looking over her romance with melancholyinterest for the first time since she had become acquainted with theremarks of the PRESENT thereupon. 

'Still thinking of that reviewer, Elfie?'

'Not of him personally; but I am thinking of his opinion. Really, onlooking into the volume after this long time has elapsed, he seems tohave estimated one part of it fairly enough. '

'No, no; I wouldn't show the white feather now! Fancy that of all peoplein the world the writer herself should go over to the enemy. How shallMonmouth's men fight when Monmouth runs away?'

'I don't do that. But I think he is right in some of his arguments, though wrong in others. And because he has some claim to my respect Iregret all the more that he should think so mistakenly of my motives inone or two instances. It is more vexing to be misunderstood than tobe misrepresented; and he misunderstands me. I cannot be easy whilsta person goes to rest night after night attributing to me intentions Inever had. '

'He doesn't know your name, or anything about you. And he has doubtlessforgotten there is such a book in existence by this time. '

'I myself should certainly like him to be put right upon one or twomatters, ' said the vicar, who had hitherto been silent. 'You see, critics go on writing, and are never corrected or argued with, andtherefore are never improved. '

'Papa, ' said Elfride brightening, 'write to him!'

'I would as soon write to him as look at him, for the matter of that, 'said Mr. Swancourt. 

'Do! And say, the young person who wrote the book did not adopt amasculine pseudonym in vanity or conceit, but because she was afraid itwould be thought presumptuous to publish her name, and that she did notmean the story for such as he, but as a sweetener of history for youngpeople, who might thereby acquire a taste for what went on in their owncountry hundreds of years ago, and be tempted to dive deeper into thesubject. Oh, there is so much to explain; I wish I might write myself!'

'Now, Elfie, I'll tell you what we will do, ' answered Mr. Swancourt, tickled with a sort of bucolic humour at the idea of criticizing thecritic. 'You shall write a clear account of what he is wrong in, and Iwill copy it and send it as mine. '

'Yes, now, directly!' said Elfride, jumping up. 'When will you send it, papa?'

'Oh, in a day or two, I suppose, ' he returned. Then the vicar paused andslightly yawned, and in the manner of elderly people began to cool fromhis ardour for the undertaking now that it came to the point. 'But, really, it is hardly worth while, ' he said. 

'O papa!' said Elfride, with much disappointment. 'You said you would, and now you won't. That is not fair!'

'But how can we send it if we don't know whom to send it to?'

'If you really want to send such a thing it can easily be done, ' saidMrs. Swancourt, coming to her step-daughter's rescue. 'An envelopeaddressed, "To the Critic of THE COURT OF KELLYON CASTLE, care of theEditor of the PRESENT, " would find him. '

'Yes, I suppose it would. '

'Why not write your answer yourself, Elfride?' Mrs. Swancourt inquired. 

'I might, ' she said hesitatingly; 'and send it anonymously: that wouldbe treating him as he has treated me. '

'No use in the world!'

'But I don't like to let him know my exact name. Suppose I put myinitials only? The less you are known the more you are thought of. '

'Yes; you might do that. '

Elfride set to work there and then. Her one desire for the lastfortnight seemed likely to be realized. As happens with sensitive andsecluded minds, a continual dwelling upon the subject had magnified tocolossal proportions the space she assumed herself to occupy or to haveoccupied in the occult critic's mind. At noon and at night she hadbeen pestering herself with endeavours to perceive more distinctly hisconception of her as a woman apart from an author: whether he reallydespised her; whether he thought more or less of her than of ordinaryyoung women who never ventured into the fire of criticism at all. Nowshe would have the satisfaction of feeling that at any rate he knewher true intent in crossing his path, and annoying him so by herperformance, and be taught perhaps to despise it a little less. 

Four days later an envelope, directed to Miss Swancourt in a strangehand, made its appearance from the post-bag. 

'Oh, ' said Elfride, her heart sinking within her. 'Can it be from thatman--a lecture for impertinence? And actually one for Mrs. Swancourt inthe same hand-writing!' She feared to open hers. 'Yet how can he know myname? No; it is somebody else. '

'Nonsense!' said her father grimly. 'You sent your initials, and theDirectory was available. Though he wouldn't have taken the trouble tolook there unless he had been thoroughly savage with you. I thoughtyou wrote with rather more asperity than simple literary discussionrequired. ' This timely clause was introduced to save the character ofthe vicar's judgment under any issue of affairs. 

'Well, here I go, ' said Elfride, desperately tearing open the seal. 

'To be sure, of course, ' exclaimed Mrs. Swancourt; and looking upfrom her own letter. 'Christopher, I quite forgot to tell you, whenI mentioned that I had seen my distant relative, Harry Knight, that Iinvited him here for whatever length of time he could spare. And now hesays he can come any day in August. '

'Write, and say the first of the month, ' replied the indiscriminatevicar. 

She read on, 'Goodness me--and that isn't all. He is actually thereviewer of Elfride's book. How absurd, to be sure! I had no ideahe reviewed novels or had anything to do with the PRESENT. He is abarrister--and I thought he only wrote in the Quarterlies. Why, Elfride, you have brought about an odd entanglement! What does he say to you?'

Elfride had put down her letter with a dissatisfied flush on her face. 'I don't know. The idea of his knowing my name and all about me!. .. Why, he says nothing particular, only this--

'"MY DEAR MADAM, --Though I am sorry that my remarks should have seemedharsh to you, it is a pleasure to find that they have been the means ofbringing forth such an ingeniously argued reply. Unfortunately, it isso long since I wrote my review, that my memory does not serve mesufficiently to say a single word in my defence, even supposing thereremains one to be said, which is doubtful. You will find from a letterI have written to Mrs. Swancourt, that we are not such strangers to eachother as we have been imagining. Possibly, I may have the pleasure ofseeing you soon, when any argument you choose to advance shall receiveall the attention it deserves. "

'That is dim sarcasm--I know it is. '

'Oh no, Elfride. '

'And then, his remarks didn't seem harsh--I mean I did not say so. '

'He thinks you are in a frightful temper, ' said Mr. Swancourt, chucklingin undertones. 

'And he will come and see me, and find the authoress as contemptible inspeech as she has been impertinent in manner. I do heartily wish I hadnever written a word to him!'

'Never mind, ' said Mrs. Swancourt, also laughing in low quiet jerks; 'itwill make the meeting such a comical affair, and afford splendid by-playfor your father and myself. The idea of our running our heads againstHarry Knight all the time! I cannot get over that. '

The vicar had immediately remembered the name to be that of StephenSmith's preceptor and friend; but having ceased to concern himself inthe matter he made no remark to that effect, consistently forbearingto allude to anything which could restore recollection of the (to him)disagreeable mistake with regard to poor Stephen's lineage and position. Elfride had of course perceived the same thing, which added to thecomplication of relationship a mesh that her stepmother knew nothing of. 

The identification scarcely heightened Knight's attractions now, thougha twelvemonth ago she would only have cared to see him for the interesthe possessed as Stephen's friend. Fortunately for Knight's advent, sucha reason for welcome had only begun to be awkward to her at a timewhen the interest he had acquired on his own account made it no longernecessary. 

These coincidences, in common with all relating to him, tended to keepElfride's mind upon the stretch concerning Knight. As was her customwhen upon the horns of a dilemma, she walked off by herself among thelaurel bushes, and there, standing still and splitting up a leaf withoutremoving it from its stalk, fetched back recollections of Stephen'sfrequent words in praise of his friend, and wished she had listenedmore attentively. Then, still pulling the leaf, she would blush at somefancied mortification that would accrue to her from his words when theymet, in consequence of her intrusiveness, as she now considered it, inwriting to him. 

The next development of her meditations was the subject of what thisman's personal appearance might be--was he tall or short, dark or fair, gay or grim? She would have asked Mrs. Swancourt but for the risk shemight thereby incur of some teasing remark being returned. UltimatelyElfride would say, 'Oh, what a plague that reviewer is to me!' and turnher face to where she imagined India lay, and murmur to herself, 'Ah, my little husband, what are you doing now? Let me see, where areyou--south, east, where? Behind that hill, ever so far behind!'

Chapter XVII

 'Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase. '

'There is Henry Knight, I declare!' said Mrs. Swancourt one day. 

They were gazing from the jutting angle of a wild enclosure not far fromThe Crags, which almost overhung the valley already described as leadingup from the sea and little port of Castle Boterel. The stony escarpmentupon which they stood had the contour of a man's face, and it wascovered with furze as with a beard. People in the field above werepreserved from an accidental roll down these prominences and hollowsby a hedge on the very crest, which was doing that kindly service forElfride and her mother now. 

Scrambling higher into the hedge and stretching her neck further overthe furze, Elfride beheld the individual signified. He was walkingleisurely along the little green path at the bottom, beside the stream, a satchel slung upon his left hip, a stout walking-stick in his hand, and a brown-holland sun-hat upon his head. The satchel was worn and old, and the outer polished surface of the leather was cracked and peelingoff. 

Knight having arrived over the hills to Castle Boterel upon the top of acrazy omnibus, preferred to walk the remaining two miles up the valley, leaving his luggage to be brought on. 

Behind him wandered, helter-skelter, a boy of whom Knight had brieflyinquired the way to Endelstow; and by that natural law of physics whichcauses lesser bodies to gravitate towards the greater, this boy hadkept near to Knight, and trotted like a little dog close at his heels, whistling as he went, with his eyes fixed upon Knight's boots as theyrose and fell. 

When they had reached a point precisely opposite that in which Mrs. AndMiss Swancourt lay in ambush, Knight stopped and turned round. 

'Look here, my boy, ' he said. 

The boy parted his lips, opened his eyes, and answered nothing. 

'Here's sixpence for you, on condition that you don't again come withintwenty yards of my heels, all the way up the valley. '

The boy, who apparently had not known he had been looking at Knight'sheels at all, took the sixpence mechanically, and Knight went on again, wrapt in meditation. 

'A nice voice, ' Elfride thought; 'but what a singular temper!'

'Now we must get indoors before he ascends the slope, ' said Mrs. Swancourt softly. And they went across by a short cut over a stile, entering the lawn by a side door, and so on to the house. 

Mr. Swancourt had gone into the village with the curate, and Elfridefelt too nervous to await their visitor's arrival in the drawing-roomwith Mrs. Swancourt. So that when the elder lady entered, Elfride madesome pretence of perceiving a new variety of crimson geranium, andlingered behind among the flower beds. 

There was nothing gained by this, after all, she thought; and a fewminutes after boldly came into the house by the glass side-door. Shewalked along the corridor, and entered the drawing-room. Nobody wasthere. 

A window at the angle of the room opened directly into an octagonalconservatory, enclosing the corner of the building. From theconservatory came voices in conversation--Mrs. Swancourt's and thestranger's. 

She had expected him to talk brilliantly. To her surprise he was askingquestions in quite a learner's manner, on subjects connected with theflowers and shrubs that she had known for years. When after the lapse ofa few minutes he spoke at some length, she considered there was a hardsquare decisiveness in the shape of his sentences, as if, unlike her ownand Stephen's, they were not there and then newly constructed, but weredrawn forth from a large store ready-made. They were now approaching thewindow to come in again. 

'That is a flesh-coloured variety, ' said Mrs. Swancourt. 'But oleanders, though they are such bulky shrubs, are so very easily wounded as to beunprunable--giants with the sensitiveness of young ladies. Oh, here isElfride!'

Elfride looked as guilty and crestfallen as Lady Teazle at the droppingof the screen. Mrs. Swancourt presented him half comically, and Knightin a minute or two placed himself beside the young lady. 

A complexity of instincts checked Elfride's conventional smiles ofcomplaisance and hospitality; and, to make her still less comfortable, Mrs. Swancourt immediately afterwards left them together to seek herhusband. Mr. Knight, however, did not seem at all incommoded by hisfeelings, and he said with light easefulness:

'So, Miss Swancourt, I have met you at last. You escaped me by a fewminutes only when we were in London. '

'Yes. I found that you had seen Mrs. Swancourt. '

'And now reviewer and reviewed are face to face, ' he addedunconcernedly. 

'Yes: though the fact of your being a relation of Mrs. Swancourt's takesoff the edge of it. It was strange that you should be one of her familyall the time. ' Elfride began to recover herself now, and to look intoKnight's face. 'I was merely anxious to let you know my REAL meaning inwriting the book--extremely anxious. '

'I can quite understand the wish; and I was gratified that my remarksshould have reached home. They very seldom do, I am afraid. '

Elfride drew herself in. Here he was, sticking to his opinions asfirmly as if friendship and politeness did not in the least require animmediate renunciation of them. 

'You made me very uneasy and sorry by writing such things!' shemurmured, suddenly dropping the mere cacueterie of a fashionable firstintroduction, and speaking with some of the dudgeon of a child towards asevere schoolmaster. 

'That is rather the object of honest critics in such a case. Not tocause unnecessary sorrow, but: "To make you sorry after a proper manner, that ye may receive damage by us in nothing, " as a powerful pen oncewrote to the Gentiles. Are you going to write another romance?'

'Write another?' she said. 'That somebody may pen a condemnation and"nail't wi' Scripture" again, as you do now, Mr. Knight?'

'You may do better next time, ' he said placidly: 'I think you will. ButI would advise you to confine yourself to domestic scenes. '

'Thank you. But never again!'

'Well, you may be right. That a young woman has taken to writing is notby any means the best thing to hear about her. '

'What is the best?'

'I prefer not to say. '

'Do you know? Then, do tell me, please. '

'Well'--(Knight was evidently changing his meaning)--'I suppose to hearthat she has married. '

Elfride hesitated. 'And what when she has been married?' she said atlast, partly in order to withdraw her own person from the argument. 

'Then to hear no more about her. It is as Smeaton said of hislighthouse: her greatest real praise, when the novelty of herinauguration has worn off, is that nothing happens to keep the talk ofher alive. '

'Yes, I see, ' said Elfride softly and thoughtfully. 'But of course it isdifferent quite with men. Why don't you write novels, Mr. Knight?'

'Because I couldn't write one that would interest anybody. '

'Why?'

'For several reasons. It requires a judicious omission of your realthoughts to make a novel popular, for one thing. '

'Is that really necessary? Well, I am sure you could learn to do thatwith practice, ' said Elfride with an ex-cathedra air, as became a personwho spoke from experience in the art. 'You would make a great name forcertain, ' she continued. 

'So many people make a name nowadays, that it is more distinguished toremain in obscurity. '

'Tell me seriously--apart from the subject--why don't you write a volumeinstead of loose articles?' she insisted. 

'Since you are pleased to make me talk of myself, I will tell youseriously, ' said Knight, not less amused at this catechism by his youngfriend than he was interested in her appearance. 'As I have implied, Ihave not the wish. And if I had the wish, I could not now concentratesufficiently. We all have only our one cruse of energy given us to makethe best of. And where that energy has been leaked away week by week, quarter by quarter, as mine has for the last nine or ten years, there isnot enough dammed back behind the mill at any given period to supplythe force a complete book on any subject requires. Then there is theself-confidence and waiting power. Where quick results have growncustomary, they are fatal to a lively faith in the future. '

'Yes, I comprehend; and so you choose to write in fragments?'

'No, I don't choose to do it in the sense you mean; choosing from awhole world of professions, all possible. It was by the constraint ofaccident merely. Not that I object to the accident. '

'Why don't you object--I mean, why do you feel so quiet about things?'Elfride was half afraid to question him so, but her intense curiosity tosee what the inside of literary Mr. Knight was like, kept her going on. 

Knight certainly did not mind being frank with her. Instances of thistrait in men who are not without feeling, but are reticent from habit, may be recalled by all of us. When they find a listener who can by nopossibility make use of them, rival them, or condemn them, reserved andeven suspicious men of the world become frank, keenly enjoying the innerside of their frankness. 

'Why I don't mind the accidental constraint, ' he replied, 'is because, in making beginnings, a chance limitation of direction is often betterthan absolute freedom. '

'I see--that is, I should if I quite understood what all thosegeneralities mean. '

'Why, this: That an arbitrary foundation for one's work, which no lengthof thought can alter, leaves the attention free to fix itself on thework itself, and make the best of it. '

'Lateral compression forcing altitude, as would be said in that tongue, 'she said mischievously. 'And I suppose where no limit exists, as in thecase of a rich man with a wide taste who wants to do something, it willbe better to choose a limit capriciously than to have none. '

'Yes, ' he said meditatively. 'I can go as far as that. '

'Well, ' resumed Elfride, 'I think it better for a man's nature if hedoes nothing in particular. '

'There is such a case as being obliged to. '

'Yes, yes; I was speaking of when you are not obliged for any otherreason than delight in the prospect of fame. I have thought many timeslately that a thin widespread happiness, commencing now, and of a piecewith the days of your life, is preferable to an anticipated heap faraway in the future, and none now. '

'Why, that's the very thing I said just now as being the principle ofall ephemeral doers like myself. '

'Oh, I am sorry to have parodied you, ' she said with some confusion. 'Yes, of course. That is what you meant about not trying to be famous. 'And she added, with the quickness of conviction characteristic of hermind: 'There is much littleness in trying to be great. A man must thinka good deal of himself, and be conceited enough to believe in himself, before he tries at all. '

'But it is soon enough to say there is harm in a man's thinking a gooddeal of himself when it is proved he has been thinking wrong, and toosoon then sometimes. Besides, we should not conclude that a man whostrives earnestly for success does so with a strong sense of his ownmerit. He may see how little success has to do with merit, and hismotive may be his very humility. '

This manner of treating her rather provoked Elfride. No sooner did sheagree with him than he ceased to seem to wish it, and took the otherside. 'Ah, ' she thought inwardly, 'I shall have nothing to do with a manof this kind, though he is our visitor. '

'I think you will find, ' resumed Knight, pursuing the conversationmore for the sake of finishing off his thoughts on the subject than forengaging her attention, 'that in actual life it is merely a matter ofinstinct with men--this trying to push on. They awake to a recognitionthat they have, without premeditation, begun to try a little, and theysay to themselves, "Since I have tried thus much, I will try a littlemore. " They go on because they have begun. '

Elfride, in her turn, was not particularly attending to his words atthis moment. She had, unconsciously to herself, a way of seizing anypoint in the remarks of an interlocutor which interested her, anddwelling upon it, and thinking thoughts of her own thereupon, totallyoblivious of all that he might say in continuation. On such occasionsshe artlessly surveyed the person speaking; and then there was a timefor a painter. Her eyes seemed to look at you, and past you, as you werethen, into your future; and past your future into your eternity--notreading it, but gazing in an unused, unconscious way--her mind stillclinging to its original thought. 

This is how she was looking at Knight. 

Suddenly Elfride became conscious of what she was doing, and waspainfully confused. 

'What were you so intent upon in me?' he inquired. 

'As far as I was thinking of you at all, I was thinking how clever youare, ' she said, with a want of premeditation that was startling in itshonesty and simplicity. 

Feeling restless now that she had so unwittingly spoken, she arose andstepped to the window, having heard the voices of her father and Mrs. Swancourt coming up below the terrace. 'Here they are, ' she said, goingout. Knight walked out upon the lawn behind her. She stood upon the edgeof the terrace, close to the stone balustrade, and looked towards thesun, hanging over a glade just now fair as Tempe's vale, up which herfather was walking. 

Knight could not help looking at her. The sun was within ten degreesof the horizon, and its warm light flooded her face and heightened thebright rose colour of her cheeks to a vermilion red, their moderate pinkhue being only seen in its natural tone where the cheek curved roundinto shadow. The ends of her hanging hair softly dragged themselvesbackwards and forwards upon her shoulder as each faint breeze thrustagainst or relinquished it. Fringes and ribbons of her dress, moved bythe same breeze, licked like tongues upon the parts around them, andfluttering forward from shady folds caught likewise their share of thelustrous orange glow. 

Mr. Swancourt shouted out a welcome to Knight from a distance ofabout thirty yards, and after a few preliminary words proceeded to aconversation of deep earnestness on Knight's fine old family name, andtheories as to lineage and intermarriage connected therewith. Knight'sportmanteau having in the meantime arrived, they soon retired to preparefor dinner, which had been postponed two hours later than the usual timeof that meal. 

An arrival was an event in the life of Elfride, now that they were againin the country, and that of Knight necessarily an engrossing one. Andthat evening she went to bed for the first time without thinking ofStephen at all. 

Chapter XVIII

 'He heard her musical pants. '

The old tower of West Endelstow Church had reached the last weeks of itsexistence. It was to be replaced by a new one from the designs of Mr. Hewby, the architect who had sent down Stephen. Planks and poles hadarrived in the churchyard, iron bars had been thrust into the venerablecrack extending down the belfry wall to the foundation, the bells hadbeen taken down, the owls had forsaken this home of their forefathers, and six iconoclasts in white fustian, to whom a cracked edifice was aspecies of Mumbo Jumbo, had taken lodgings in the village previous tobeginning the actual removal of the stones. 

This was the day after Knight's arrival. To enjoy for the last time theprospect seaward from the summit, the vicar, Mrs. Swancourt, Knight, andElfride, all ascended the winding turret--Mr. Swancourt steppingforward with many loud breaths, his wife struggling along silently, butsuffering none the less. They had hardly reached the top when a largelurid cloud, palpably a reservoir of rain, thunder, and lightning, wasseen to be advancing overhead from the north. 

The two cautious elders suggested an immediate return, and proceeded toput it in practice as regarded themselves. 

'Dear me, I wish I had not come up, ' exclaimed Mrs. Swancourt. 

'We shall be slower than you two in going down, ' the vicar said over hisshoulder, 'and so, don't you start till we are nearly at the bottom, oryou will run over us and break our necks somewhere in the darkness ofthe turret. '

Accordingly Elfride and Knight waited on the leads till the staircaseshould be clear. Knight was not in a talkative mood that morning. Elfride was rather wilful, by reason of his inattention, which sheprivately set down to his thinking her not worth talking to. WhilstKnight stood watching the rise of the cloud, she sauntered to the otherside of the tower, and there remembered a giddy feat she had performedthe year before. It was to walk round upon the parapet of thetower--which was quite without battlement or pinnacle, and presented asmooth flat surface about two feet wide, forming a pathway on all thefour sides. Without reflecting in the least upon what she was doing shenow stepped upon the parapet in the old way, and began walking along. 

'We are down, cousin Henry, ' cried Mrs. Swancourt up the turret. 'Followus when you like. '

Knight turned and saw Elfride beginning her elevated promenade. His faceflushed with mingled concern and anger at her rashness. 

'I certainly gave you credit for more common sense, ' he said. 

She reddened a little and walked on. 

'Miss Swancourt, I insist upon your coming down, ' he exclaimed. 

'I will in a minute. I am safe enough. I have done it often. '

At that moment, by reason of a slight perturbation his words had causedin her, Elfride's foot caught itself in a little tuft of grass growingin a joint of the stone-work, and she almost lost her balance. Knightsprang forward with a face of horror. By what seemed the specialinterposition of a considerate Providence she tottered to the inner edgeof the parapet instead of to the outer, and reeled over upon the leadroof two or three feet below the wall. 

Knight seized her as in a vice, and he said, panting, 'That ever Ishould have met a woman fool enough to do a thing of that kind! GoodGod, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!'

The close proximity of the Shadow of Death had made her sick and paleas a corpse before he spoke. Already lowered to that state, his wordscompletely over-powered her, and she swooned away as he held her. 

Elfride's eyes were not closed for more than forty seconds. She openedthem, and remembered the position instantly. His face had altered itsexpression from stern anger to pity. But his severe remarks had ratherfrightened her, and she struggled to be free. 

'If you can stand, of course you may, ' he said, and loosened his arms. 'I hardly know whether most to laugh at your freak or to chide you forits folly. '

She immediately sank upon the lead-work. Knight lifted her again. 'Areyou hurt?' he said. 

She murmured an incoherent expression, and tried to smile; saying, witha fitful aversion of her face, 'I am only frightened. Put me down, doput me down!'

'But you can't walk, ' said Knight. 

'You don't know that; how can you? I am only frightened, I tell you, 'she answered petulantly, and raised her hand to her forehead. Knightthen saw that she was bleeding from a severe cut in her wrist, apparently where it had descended upon a salient corner of thelead-work. Elfride, too, seemed to perceive and feel this now for thefirst time, and for a minute nearly lost consciousness again. Knightrapidly bound his handkerchief round the place, and to add to thecomplication, the thundercloud he had been watching began to shed someheavy drops of rain. Knight looked up and saw the vicar striding towardsthe house, and Mrs. Swancourt waddling beside him like a hard-drivenduck. 

'As you are so faint, it will be much better to let me carry you down, 'said Knight; 'or at any rate inside out of the rain. ' But her objectionto be lifted made it impossible for him to support her for more thanfive steps. 

'This is folly, great folly, ' he exclaimed, setting her down. 

'Indeed!' she murmured, with tears in her eyes. 'I say I will not becarried, and you say this is folly!'

'So it is. '

'No, it isn't!'

'It is folly, I think. At any rate, the origin of it all is. '

'I don't agree to it. And you needn't get so angry with me; I am notworth it. '

'Indeed you are. You are worth the enmity of princes, as was said ofsuch another. Now, then, will you clasp your hands behind my neck, thatI may carry you down without hurting you?'

'No, no. '

'You had better, or I shall foreclose. '

'What's that!'

'Deprive you of your chance. '

Elfride gave a little toss. 

'Now, don't writhe so when I attempt to carry you. '

'I can't help it. '

'Then submit quietly. '

'I don't care. I don't care, ' she murmured in languid tones and withclosed eyes. 

He took her into his arms, entered the turret, and with slow andcautious steps descended round and round. Then, with the gentleness ofa nursing mother, he attended to the cut on her arm. During his progressthrough the operations of wiping it and binding it up anew, her facechanged its aspect from pained indifference to something like bashfulinterest, interspersed with small tremors and shudders of a triflingkind. 

In the centre of each pale cheek a small red spot the size of a waferhad now made its appearance, and continued to grow larger. Elfridemomentarily expected a recurrence to the lecture on her foolishness, butKnight said no more than this--

'Promise me NEVER to walk on that parapet again. '

'It will be pulled down soon: so I do. ' In a few minutes she continuedin a lower tone, and seriously, 'You are familiar of course, aseverybody is, with those strange sensations we sometimes have, that ourlife for the moment exists in duplicate. '

'That we have lived through that moment before?'

'Or shall again. Well, I felt on the tower that something similar tothat scene is again to be common to us both. '

'God forbid!' said Knight. 'Promise me that you will never again walk onany such place on any consideration. '

'I do. '

'That such a thing has not been before, we know. That it shall not beagain, you vow. Therefore think no more of such a foolish fancy. '

There had fallen a great deal of rain, but unaccompanied by lightning. Afew minutes longer, and the storm had ceased. 

'Now, take my arm, please. '

'Oh no, it is not necessary. ' This relapse into wilfulness was becausehe had again connected the epithet foolish with her. 

'Nonsense: it is quite necessary; it will rain again directly, and youare not half recovered. ' And without more ado Knight took her hand, drewit under his arm, and held it there so firmly that she could not haveremoved it without a struggle. Feeling like a colt in a halter for thefirst time, at thus being led along, yet afraid to be angry, it was toher great relief that she saw the carriage coming round the corner tofetch them. 

Her fall upon the roof was necessarily explained to some extent upontheir entering the house; but both forbore to mention a word of what shehad been doing to cause such an accident. During the remainder of theafternoon Elfride was invisible; but at dinner-time she appeared asbright as ever. 

In the drawing-room, after having been exclusively engaged with Mr. AndMrs. Swancourt through the intervening hour, Knight again found himselfthrown with Elfride. She had been looking over a chess problem in one ofthe illustrated periodicals. 

'You like chess, Miss Swancourt?'

'Yes. It is my favourite scientific game; indeed, excludes every other. Do you play?'

'I have played; though not lately. '

'Challenge him, Elfride, ' said the vicar heartily. 'She plays very wellfor a lady, Mr. Knight. '

'Shall we play?' asked Elfride tentatively. 

'Oh, certainly. I shall be delighted. '

The game began. Mr. Swancourt had forgotten a similar performance withStephen Smith the year before. Elfride had not; but she had begun totake for her maxim the undoubted truth that the necessity of continuingfaithful to Stephen, without suspicion, dictated a fickle behaviouralmost as imperatively as fickleness itself; a fact, however, whichwould give a startling advantage to the latter quality should it everappear. 

Knight, by one of those inexcusable oversights which will sometimesafflict the best of players, placed his rook in the arms of one of herpawns. It was her first advantage. She looked triumphant--even ruthless. 

'By George! what was I thinking of?' said Knight quietly; and thendismissed all concern at his accident. 

'Club laws we'll have, won't we, Mr. Knight?' said Elfride suasively. 

'Oh yes, certainly, ' said Mr. Knight, a thought, however, just occurringto his mind, that he had two or three times allowed her to replace aman on her religiously assuring him that such a move was an absoluteblunder. 

She immediately took up the unfortunate rook and the contest proceeded, Elfride having now rather the better of the game. Then he won theexchange, regained his position, and began to press her hard. Elfridegrew flurried, and placed her queen on his remaining rook's file. 

'There--how stupid! Upon my word, I did not see your rook. Of coursenobody but a fool would have put a queen there knowingly!'

She spoke excitedly, half expecting her antagonist to give her back themove. 

'Nobody, of course, ' said Knight serenely, and stretched out his handtowards his royal victim. 

'It is not very pleasant to have it taken advantage of, then, ' she saidwith some vexation. 

'Club laws, I think you said?' returned Knight blandly, and mercilesslyappropriating the queen. 

She was on the brink of pouting, but was ashamed to show it; tearsalmost stood in her eyes. She had been trying so hard--so veryhard--thinking and thinking till her brain was in a whirl; and it seemedso heartless of him to treat her so, after all. 

'I think it is----' she began. 

'What?'

--'Unkind to take advantage of a pure mistake I make in that way. '

'I lost my rook by even a purer mistake, ' said the enemy in aninexorable tone, without lifting his eyes. 

'Yes, but----' However, as his logic was absolutely unanswerable, shemerely registered a protest. 'I cannot endure those cold-blooded ways ofclubs and professional players, like Staunton and Morphy. Just as if itreally mattered whether you have raised your fingers from a man or no!'

Knight smiled as pitilessly as before, and they went on in silence. 

'Checkmate, ' said Knight. 

'Another game, ' said Elfride peremptorily, and looking very warm. 

'With all my heart, ' said Knight. 

'Checkmate, ' said Knight again at the end of forty minutes. 

'Another game, ' she returned resolutely. 

'I'll give you the odds of a bishop, ' Knight said to her kindly. 

'No, thank you, ' Elfride replied in a tone intended for courteousindifference; but, as a fact, very cavalier indeed. 

'Checkmate, ' said her opponent without the least emotion. 

Oh, the difference between Elfride's condition of mind now, and when shepurposely made blunders that Stephen Smith might win!

It was bedtime. Her mind as distracted as if it would throb itself outof her head, she went off to her chamber, full of mortification at beingbeaten time after time when she herself was the aggressor. Having fortwo or three years enjoyed the reputation throughout the globe of herfather's brain--which almost constituted her entire world--of being anexcellent player, this fiasco was intolerable; for unfortunately theperson most dogged in the belief in a false reputation is always thatone, the possessor, who has the best means of knowing that it is nottrue. 

In bed no sleep came to soothe her; that gentle thing being the verymiddle-of-summer friend in this respect of flying away at the meresttroublous cloud. After lying awake till two o'clock an idea seemed tostrike her. She softly arose, got a light, and fetched a Chess Praxisfrom the library. Returning and sitting up in bed, she diligentlystudied the volume till the clock struck five, and her eyelids feltthick and heavy. She then extinguished the light and lay down again. 

'You look pale, Elfride, ' said Mrs. Swancourt the next morning atbreakfast. 'Isn't she, cousin Harry?'

A young girl who is scarcely ill at all can hardly help becoming so whenregarded as such by all eyes turning upon her at the table in obedienceto some remark. Everybody looked at Elfride. She certainly was pale. 

'Am I pale?' she said with a faint smile. 'I did not sleep much. I couldnot get rid of armies of bishops and knights, try how I would. '

'Chess is a bad thing just before bedtime; especially for excitablepeople like yourself, dear. Don't ever play late again. '

'I'll play early instead. Cousin Knight, ' she said in imitation of Mrs. Swancourt, 'will you oblige me in something?'

'Even to half my kingdom. '

'Well, it is to play one game more. '

'When?'

'Now, instantly; the moment we have breakfasted. '

'Nonsense, Elfride, ' said her father. 'Making yourself a slave to thegame like that. '

'But I want to, papa! Honestly, I am restless at having been soignominiously overcome. And Mr. Knight doesn't mind. So what harm canthere be?'

'Let us play, by all means, if you wish it, ' said Knight. 

So, when breakfast was over, the combatants withdrew to the quiet of thelibrary, and the door was closed. Elfride seemed to have an ideathat her conduct was rather ill-regulated and startlingly free fromconventional restraint. And worse, she fancied upon Knight's face aslightly amused look at her proceedings. 

'You think me foolish, I suppose, ' she said recklessly; 'but I want todo my very best just once, and see whether I can overcome you. '

'Certainly: nothing more natural. Though I am afraid it is not the planadopted by women of the world after a defeat. '

'Why, pray?'

'Because they know that as good as overcoming is skill in effacingrecollection of being overcome, and turn their attention to thatentirely. '

'I am wrong again, of course. '

'Perhaps your wrong is more pleasing than their right. '

'I don't quite know whether you mean that, or whether you are laughingat me, ' she said, looking doubtingly at him, yet inclining to accept themore flattering interpretation. 'I am almost sure you think it vanity inme to think I am a match for you. Well, if you do, I say that vanity isno crime in such a case. '

'Well, perhaps not. Though it is hardly a virtue. '

'Oh yes, in battle! Nelson's bravery lay in his vanity. '

'Indeed! Then so did his death. '

Oh no, no! For it is written in the book of the prophet Shakespeare--

 "Fear and be slain? no worse can come to fight; And fight and die, is death destroying death!"

And down they sat, and the contest began, Elfride having the first move. The game progressed. Elfride's heart beat so violently that she couldnot sit still. Her dread was lest he should hear it. And he did discoverit at last--some flowers upon the table being set throbbing by itspulsations. 

'I think we had better give over, ' said Knight, looking at her gently. 'It is too much for you, I know. Let us write down the position, andfinish another time. '

'No, please not, ' she implored. 'I should not rest if I did not know theresult at once. It is your move. '

Ten minutes passed. 

She started up suddenly. 'I know what you are doing?' she cried, anangry colour upon her cheeks, and her eyes indignant. 'You were thinkingof letting me win to please me!'

'I don't mind owning that I was, ' Knight responded phlegmatically, andappearing all the more so by contrast with her own turmoil. 

'But you must not! I won't have it. '

'Very well. '

'No, that will not do; I insist that you promise not to do any suchabsurd thing. It is insulting me!'

'Very well, madam. I won't do any such absurd thing. You shall not win. '

'That is to be proved!' she returned proudly; and the play went on. 

Nothing is now heard but the ticking of a quaint old timepiece on thesummit of a bookcase. Ten minutes pass; he captures her knight; shetakes his knight, and looks a very Rhadamanthus. 

More minutes tick away; she takes his pawn and has the advantage, showing her sense of it rather prominently. 

Five minutes more: he takes her bishop: she brings things even by takinghis knight. 

Three minutes: she looks bold, and takes his queen: he looks placid, andtakes hers. 

Eight or ten minutes pass: he takes a pawn; she utters a little pooh!but not the ghost of a pawn can she take in retaliation. 

Ten minutes pass: he takes another pawn and says, 'Check!' She flushes, extricates herself by capturing his bishop, and looks triumphant. Heimmediately takes her bishop: she looks surprised. 

Five minutes longer: she makes a dash and takes his only remainingbishop; he replies by taking her only remaining knight. 

Two minutes: he gives check; her mind is now in a painful state oftension, and she shades her face with her hand. 

Yet a few minutes more: he takes her rook and checks again. Sheliterally trembles now lest an artful surprise she has in store for himshall be anticipated by the artful surprise he evidently has in storefor her. 

Five minutes: 'Checkmate in two moves!' exclaims Elfride. 

'If you can, ' says Knight. 

'Oh, I have miscalculated; that is cruel!'

'Checkmate, ' says Knight; and the victory is won. 

Elfride arose and turned away without letting him see her face. Once inthe hall she ran upstairs and into her room, and flung herself down uponher bed, weeping bitterly. 

'Where is Elfride?' said her father at luncheon. 

Knight listened anxiously for the answer. He had been hoping to see heragain before this time. 

'She isn't well, sir, ' was the reply. 

Mrs. Swancourt rose and left the room, going upstairs to Elfride'sapartment. 

At the door was Unity, who occupied in the new establishment a positionbetween young lady's maid and middle-housemaid. 

'She is sound asleep, ma'am, ' Unity whispered. 

Mrs. Swancourt opened the door. Elfride was lying full-dressed on thebed, her face hot and red, her arms thrown abroad. At intervals of aminute she tossed restlessly from side to side, and indistinctly moanedwords used in the game of chess. 

Mrs. Swancourt had a turn for doctoring, and felt her pulse. It wastwanging like a harp-string, at the rate of nearly a hundred and fiftya minute. Softly moving the sleeping girl to a little less crampedposition, she went downstairs again. 

'She is asleep now, ' said Mrs. Swancourt. 'She does not seem very well. Cousin Knight, what were you thinking of? her tender brain won't bearcudgelling like your great head. You should have strictly forbidden herto play again. '

In truth, the essayist's experience of the nature of young women wasfar less extensive than his abstract knowledge of them led himself andothers to believe. He could pack them into sentences like a workman, butpractically was nowhere. 

'I am indeed sorry, ' said Knight, feeling even more than he expressed. 'But surely, the young lady knows best what is good for her!'

'Bless you, that's just what she doesn't know. She never thinks of suchthings, does she, Christopher? Her father and I have to command her andkeep her in order, as you would a child. She will say things worthy of aFrench epigrammatist, and act like a robin in a greenhouse. But I thinkwe will send for Dr. Granson--there can be no harm. '

A man was straightway despatched on horseback to Castle Boterel, and thegentleman known as Dr. Granson came in the course of the afternoon. He pronounced her nervous system to be in a decided state of disorder;forwarded some soothing draught, and gave orders that on no accountwhatever was she to play chess again. 

The next morning Knight, much vexed with himself, waited with acuriously compounded feeling for her entry to breakfast. The womenservants came in to prayers at irregular intervals, and as each entered, he could not, to save his life, avoid turning his head with the hopethat she might be Elfride. Mr. Swancourt began reading without waitingfor her. Then somebody glided in noiselessly; Knight softly glanced up:it was only the little kitchen-maid. Knight thought reading prayers abore. 

He went out alone, and for almost the first time failed to recognizethat holding converse with Nature's charms was not solitude. On nearingthe house again he perceived his young friend crossing a slope by a pathwhich ran into the one he was following in the angle of the field. Herethey met. Elfride was at once exultant and abashed: coming into hispresence had upon her the effect of entering a cathedral. 

Knight had his note-book in his hand, and had, in fact, been in the veryact of writing therein when they came in view of each other. He left offin the midst of a sentence, and proceeded to inquire warmly concerningher state of health. She said she was perfectly well, and indeed hadnever looked better. Her health was as inconsequent as her actions. Herlips were red, WITHOUT the polish that cherries have, and their rednessmargined with the white skin in a clearly defined line, which hadnothing of jagged confusion in it. Altogether she stood as the lastperson in the world to be knocked over by a game of chess, because tooephemeral-looking to play one. 

'Are you taking notes?' she inquired with an alacrity plainly arisingless from interest in the subject than from a wish to divert histhoughts from herself. 

'Yes; I was making an entry. And with your permission I will completeit. ' Knight then stood still and wrote. Elfride remained beside him amoment, and afterwards walked on. 

'I should like to see all the secrets that are in that book, ' she gailyflung back to him over her shoulder. 

'I don't think you would find much to interest you. '

'I know I should. '

'Then of course I have no more to say. '

'But I would ask this question first. Is it a book of mere factsconcerning journeys and expenditure, and so on, or a book of thoughts?'

'Well, to tell the truth, it is not exactly either. It consists forthe most part of jottings for articles and essays, disjointed anddisconnected, of no possible interest to anybody but myself. '

'It contains, I suppose, your developed thoughts in embryo?'

'Yes. '

'If they are interesting when enlarged to the size of an article, whatmust they be in their concentrated form? Pure rectified spirit, aboveproof; before it is lowered to be fit for human consumption: "words thatburn" indeed. '

'Rather like a balloon before it is inflated: flabby, shapeless, dead. You could hardly read them. '

'May I try?' she said coaxingly. 'I wrote my poor romance in that way--Imean in bits, out of doors--and I should like to see whether your way ofentering things is the same as mine. '

'Really, that's rather an awkward request. I suppose I can hardly refusenow you have asked so directly; but----'

'You think me ill-mannered in asking. But does not this justify me--yourwriting in my presence, Mr. Knight? If I had lighted upon your book bychance, it would have been different; but you stand before me, and say, "Excuse me, " without caring whether I do or not, and write on, and thentell me they are not private facts but public ideas. '

'Very well, Miss Swancourt. If you really must see, the consequencesbe upon your own head. Remember, my advice to you is to leave my bookalone. '

'But with that caution I have your permission?'

'Yes. '

She hesitated a moment, looked at his hand containing the book, thenlaughed, and saying, 'I must see it, ' withdrew it from his fingers. 

Knight rambled on towards the house, leaving her standing in the pathturning over the leaves. By the time he had reached the wicket-gate hesaw that she had moved, and waited till she came up. 

Elfride had closed the note-book, and was carrying it disdainfully bythe corner between her finger and thumb; her face wore a nettled look. She silently extended the volume towards him, raising her eyes no higherthan her hand was lifted. 

'Take it, ' said Elfride quickly. 'I don't want to read it. '

'Could you understand it?' said Knight. 

'As far as I looked. But I didn't care to read much. '

'Why, Miss Swancourt?'

'Only because I didn't wish to--that's all. '

'I warned you that you might not. '

'Yes, but I never supposed you would have put me there. '

'Your name is not mentioned once within the four corners. '

'Not my name--I know that. '

'Nor your description, nor anything by which anybody would recognizeyou. '

'Except myself. For what is this?' she exclaimed, taking it from him andopening a page. 'August 7. That's the day before yesterday. But I won'tread it, ' Elfride said, closing the book again with pretty hauteur. 'Whyshould I? I had no business to ask to see your book, and it serves meright. '

Knight hardly recollected what he had written, and turned over the bookto see. He came to this:

'Aug. 7. Girl gets into her teens, and her self-consciousness is born. After a certain interval passed in infantine helplessness it begins toact. Simple, young, and inexperienced at first. Persons of observationcan tell to a nicety how old this consciousness is by the skill it hasacquired in the art necessary to its success--the art of hidingitself. Generally begins career by actions which are popularly termedshowing-off. Method adopted depends in each case upon the disposition, rank, residence, of the young lady attempting it. Town-bred girl willutter some moral paradox on fast men, or love. Country miss adopts themore material media of taking a ghastly fence, whistling, or making yourblood run cold by appearing to risk her neck. (MEM. On Endelstow Tower. )

'An innocent vanity is of course the origin of these displays. "Lookat me, " say these youthful beginners in womanly artifice, withoutreflecting whether or not it be to their advantage to show so very muchof themselves. (Amplify and correct for paper on Artless Arts. )'

'Yes, I remember now, ' said Knight. 'The notes were certainly suggestedby your manoeuvre on the church tower. But you must not think too muchof such random observations, ' he continued encouragingly, as he noticedher injured looks. 'A mere fancy passing through my head assumes afactitious importance to you, because it has been made permanent bybeing written down. All mankind think thoughts as bad as those of peoplethey most love on earth, but such thoughts never getting embodied onpaper, it becomes assumed that they never existed. I daresay that youyourself have thought some disagreeable thing or other of me, whichwould seem just as bad as this if written. I challenge you, now, to tellme. '

'The worst thing I have thought of you?'

'Yes. '

'I must not. '

'Oh yes. '

'I thought you were rather round-shouldered. '

Knight looked slightly redder. 

'And that there was a little bald spot on the top of your head. '

'Heh-heh! Two ineradicable defects, ' said Knight, there being a faintghastliness discernible in his laugh. 'They are much worse in a lady'seye than being thought self-conscious, I suppose. '

'Ah, that's very fine, ' she said, too inexperienced to perceive her hit, and hence not quite disposed to forgive his notes. 'You alluded to me inthat entry as if I were such a child, too. Everybody does that. I cannotunderstand it. I am quite a woman, you know. How old do you think I am?'

'How old? Why, seventeen, I should say. All girls are seventeen. '

'You are wrong. I am nearly nineteen. Which class of women do you likebest, those who seem younger, or those who seem older than they are?'

'Off-hand I should be inclined to say those who seem older. '

So it was not Elfride's class. 

'But it is well known, ' she said eagerly, and there was somethingtouching in the artless anxiety to be thought much of which she revealedby her words, 'that the slower a nature is to develop, the richer thenature. Youths and girls who are men and women before they come of ageare nobodies by the time that backward people have shown their fullcompass. '

'Yes, ' said Knight thoughtfully. 'There is really something in thatremark. But at the risk of offence I must remind you that you there takeit for granted that the woman behind her time at a given age has notreached the end of her tether. Her backwardness may be not because sheis slow to develop, but because she soon exhausted her capacity fordeveloping. '

Elfride looked disappointed. By this time they were indoors. Mrs. Swancourt, to whom match-making by any honest means was meat anddrink, had now a little scheme of that nature concerning this pair. Themorning-room, in which they both expected to find her, was empty; theold lady having, for the above reason, vacated it by the second door asthey entered by the first. 

Knight went to the chimney-piece, and carelessly surveyed two portraitson ivory. 

'Though these pink ladies had very rudimentary features, judging by whatI see here, ' he observed, 'they had unquestionably beautiful heads ofhair. '

'Yes; and that is everything, ' said Elfride, possibly conscious of herown, possibly not. 

'Not everything; though a great deal, certainly. '

'Which colour do you like best?' she ventured to ask. 

'More depends on its abundance than on its colour. '

'Abundances being equal, may I inquire your favourite colour?'

'Dark. '

'I mean for women, ' she said, with the minutest fall of countenance, anda hope that she had been misunderstood. 

'So do I, ' Knight replied. 

It was impossible for any man not to know the colour of Elfride's hair. In women who wear it plainly such a feature may be overlooked by men notgiven to ocular intentness. But hers was always in the way. You saw herhair as far as you could see her sex, and knew that it was the palestbrown. She knew instantly that Knight, being perfectly aware of this, had an independent standard of admiration in the matter. 

Elfride was thoroughly vexed. She could not but be struck with thehonesty of his opinions, and the worst of it was, that the more theywent against her, the more she respected them. And now, like a recklessgambler, she hazarded her last and best treasure. Her eyes: they wereher all now. 

'What coloured eyes do you like best, Mr. Knight?' she said slowly. 

'Honestly, or as a compliment?'

'Of course honestly; I don't want anybody's compliment!'

And yet Elfride knew otherwise: that a compliment or word of approvalfrom that man then would have been like a well to a famished Arab. 

'I prefer hazel, ' he said serenely. 

She had played and lost again. 

Chapter XIX

 'Love was in the next degree. '

Knight had none of those light familiarities of speech which, byjudicious touches of epigrammatic flattery, obliterate a woman'srecollection of the speaker's abstract opinions. So no more was said byeither on the subject of hair, eyes, or development. Elfride's mindhad been impregnated with sentiments of her own smallness to anuncomfortable degree of distinctness, and her discomfort was visible inher face. The whole tendency of the conversation latterly had been toquietly but surely disparage her; and she was fain to take Stephen intofavour in self-defence. He would not have been so unloving, she said, as to admire an idiosyncrasy and features different from her own. True, Stephen had declared he loved her: Mr. Knight had never done anythingof the sort. Somehow this did not mend matters, and the sensation ofher smallness in Knight's eyes still remained. Had the position beenreversed--had Stephen loved her in spite of a differing taste, and hadKnight been indifferent in spite of her resemblance to his ideal, itwould have engendered far happier thoughts. As matters stood, Stephen'sadmiration might have its root in a blindness the result of passion. Perhaps any keen man's judgment was condemnatory of her. 

During the remainder of Saturday they were more or less thrown withtheir seniors, and no conversation arose which was exclusively theirown. When Elfride was in bed that night her thoughts recurred to thesame subject. At one moment she insisted that it was ill-natured of himto speak so decisively as he had done; the next, that it was sterlinghonesty. 

'Ah, what a poor nobody I am!' she said, sighing. 'People like him, whogo about the great world, don't care in the least what I am like eitherin mood or feature. '

Perhaps a man who has got thoroughly into a woman's mind in this manner, is half way to her heart; the distance between those two stations isproverbially short. 

'And are you really going away this week?' said Mrs. Swancourt to Knighton the following evening, which was Sunday. 

They were all leisurely climbing the hill to the church, where a lastservice was now to be held at the rather exceptional time of eveninginstead of in the afternoon, previous to the demolition of the ruinousportions. 

'I am intending to cross to Cork from Bristol, ' returned Knight; 'andthen I go on to Dublin. '

'Return this way, and stay a little longer with us, ' said the vicar. 'Aweek is nothing. We have hardly been able to realize your presence yet. I remember a story which----'

The vicar suddenly stopped. He had forgotten it was Sunday, and wouldprobably have gone on in his week-day mode of thought had not a turn inthe breeze blown the skirt of his college gown within the range of hisvision, and so reminded him. He at once diverted the current of hisnarrative with the dexterity the occasion demanded. 

'The story of the Levite who journeyed to Bethlehem-judah, from whichI took my text the Sunday before last, is quite to the point, ' hecontinued, with the pronunciation of a man who, far from having intendedto tell a week-day story a moment earlier, had thought of nothing butSabbath matters for several weeks. 'What did he gain after all by hisrestlessness? Had he remained in the city of the Jebusites, and not beenso anxious for Gibeah, none of his troubles would have arisen. '

'But he had wasted five days already, ' said Knight, closing his eyesto the vicar's commendable diversion. 'His fault lay in beginning thetarrying system originally. '

'True, true; my illustration fails. '

'But not the hospitality which prompted the story. '

'So you are to come just the same, ' urged Mrs. Swancourt, for she hadseen an almost imperceptible fall of countenance in her stepdaughter atKnight's announcement. 

Knight half promised to call on his return journey; but the uncertaintywith which he spoke was quite enough to fill Elfride with a regretfulinterest in all he did during the few remaining hours. The curate havingalready officiated twice that day in the two churches, Mr. Swancourt hadundertaken the whole of the evening service, and Knight read the lessonsfor him. The sun streamed across from the dilapidated west window, andlighted all the assembled worshippers with a golden glow, Knight as heread being illuminated by the same mellow lustre. Elfride at the organregarded him with a throbbing sadness of mood which was fed by a senseof being far removed from his sphere. As he went deliberately throughthe chapter appointed--a portion of the history of Elijah--and ascendedthat magnificent climax of the wind, the earthquake, the fire, andthe still small voice, his deep tones echoed past with such apparentdisregard of her existence, that his presence inspired her with aforlorn sense of unapproachableness, which his absence would hardly havebeen able to cause. 

At the same time, turning her face for a moment to catch the glory ofthe dying sun as it fell on his form, her eyes were arrested by theshape and aspect of a woman in the west gallery. It was the bleak barrencountenance of the widow Jethway, whom Elfride had not seen much ofsince the morning of her return with Stephen Smith. Possessing thesmallest of competencies, this unhappy woman appeared to spend her lifein journeyings between Endelstow Churchyard and that of a village nearSouthampton, where her father and mother were laid. 

She had not attended the service here for a considerable time, and shenow seemed to have a reason for her choice of seat. From the gallerywindow the tomb of her son was plainly visible--standing as the nearestobject in a prospect which was closed outwardly by the changelesshorizon of the sea. 

The streaming rays, too, flooded her face, now bent towards Elfride witha hard and bitter expression that the solemnity of the place raised toa tragic dignity it did not intrinsically possess. The girl resumed hernormal attitude with an added disquiet. 

Elfride's emotion was cumulative, and after a while would assert itselfon a sudden. A slight touch was enough to set it free--a poem, a sunset, a cunningly contrived chord of music, a vague imagining, being the usualaccidents of its exhibition. The longing for Knight's respect, whichwas leading up to an incipient yearning for his love, made the presentconjuncture a sufficient one. Whilst kneeling down previous to leaving, when the sunny streaks had gone upward to the roof, and the lowerpart of the church was in soft shadow, she could not help thinkingof Coleridge's morbid poem 'The Three Graves, ' and shuddering as shewondered if Mrs. Jethway were cursing her, she wept as if her heartwould break. 

They came out of church just as the sun went down, leaving the landscapelike a platform from which an eloquent speaker has retired, and nothingremains for the audience to do but to rise and go home. Mr. And Mrs. Swancourt went off in the carriage, Knight and Elfride preferring towalk, as the skilful old matchmaker had imagined. They descended thehill together. 

'I liked your reading, Mr. Knight, ' Elfride presently found herselfsaying. 'You read better than papa. '

'I will praise anybody that will praise me. You played excellently, MissSwancourt, and very correctly. '

'Correctly--yes. '

'It must be a great pleasure to you to take an active part in theservice. '

'I want to be able to play with more feeling. But I have not a goodselection of music, sacred or secular. I wish I had a nice littlemusic-library--well chosen, and that the only new pieces sent me werethose of genuine merit. '

'I am glad to hear such a wish from you. It is extraordinary how manywomen have no honest love of music as an end and not as a means, evenleaving out those who have nothing in them. They mostly like it for itsaccessories. I have never met a woman who loves music as do ten or adozen men I know. '

'How would you draw the line between women with something and women withnothing in them?'

'Well, ' said Knight, reflecting a moment, 'I mean by nothing in themthose who don't care about anything solid. This is an instance: I knew aman who had a young friend in whom he was much interested; in fact, theywere going to be married. She was seemingly poetical, and he offered hera choice of two editions of the British poets, which she pretended towant badly. He said, "Which of them would you like best for me to send?"She said, "A pair of the prettiest earrings in Bond Street, if you don'tmind, would be nicer than either. " Now I call her a girl with not muchin her but vanity; and so do you, I daresay. '

'Oh yes, ' replied Elfride with an effort. 

Happening to catch a glimpse of her face as she was speaking, andnoticing that her attempt at heartiness was a miserable failure, heappeared to have misgivings. 

'You, Miss Swancourt, would not, under such circumstances, havepreferred the nicknacks?'

'No, I don't think I should, indeed, ' she stammered. 

'I'll put it to you, ' said the inflexible Knight. 'Which will you haveof these two things of about equal value--the well-chosen little libraryof the best music you spoke of--bound in morocco, walnut case, lock andkey--or a pair of the very prettiest earrings in Bond Street windows?'

'Of course the music, ' Elfride replied with forced earnestness. 

'You are quite certain?' he said emphatically. 

'Quite, ' she faltered; 'if I could for certain buy the earringsafterwards. '

Knight, somewhat blamably, keenly enjoyed sparring with the palpitatingmobile creature, whose excitable nature made any such thing a species ofcruelty. 

He looked at her rather oddly, and said, 'Fie!'

'Forgive me, ' she said, laughing a little, a little frightened, andblushing very deeply. 

'Ah, Miss Elfie, why didn't you say at first, as any firm woman wouldhave said, I am as bad as she, and shall choose the same?'

'I don't know, ' said Elfride wofully, and with a distressful smile. 

'I thought you were exceptionally musical?'

'So I am, I think. But the test is so severe--quite painful. '

'I don't understand. '

'Music doesn't do any real good, or rather----'

'That IS a thing to say, Miss Swancourt! Why, what----'

'You don't understand! you don't understand!'

'Why, what conceivable use is there in jimcrack jewellery?'

'No, no, no, no!' she cried petulantly; 'I didn't mean what you think. Ilike the music best, only I like----'

'Earrings better--own it!' he said in a teasing tone. 'Well, I think Ishould have had the moral courage to own it at once, without pretendingto an elevation I could not reach. '

Like the French soldiery, Elfride was not brave when on the defensive. So it was almost with tears in her eyes that she answered desperately:

'My meaning is, that I like earrings best just now, because I lost oneof my prettiest pair last year, and papa said he would not buy any more, or allow me to myself, because I was careless; and now I wish I had somelike them--that's what my meaning is--indeed it is, Mr. Knight. '

'I am afraid I have been very harsh and rude, ' said Knight, with a lookof regret at seeing how disturbed she was. 'But seriously, if women onlyknew how they ruin their good looks by such appurtenances, I am surethey would never want them. '

'They were lovely, and became me so!'

'Not if they were like the ordinary hideous things women stuff theirears with nowadays--like the governor of a steam-engine, or a pairof scales, or gold gibbets and chains, and artists' palettes, andcompensation pendulums, and Heaven knows what besides. '

'No; they were not one of those things. So pretty--like this, ' she saidwith eager animation. And she drew with the point of her parasol anenlarged view of one of the lamented darlings, to a scale that wouldhave suited a giantess half-a-mile high. 

'Yes, very pretty--very, ' said Knight dryly. 'How did you come to losesuch a precious pair of articles?'

'I only lost one--nobody ever loses both at the same time. '

She made this remark with embarrassment, and a nervous movement ofthe fingers. Seeing that the loss occurred whilst Stephen Smith wasattempting to kiss her for the first time on the cliff, her confusionwas hardly to be wondered at. The question had been awkward, andreceived no direct answer. 

Knight seemed not to notice her manner. 

'Oh, nobody ever loses both--I see. And certainly the fact that it was acase of loss takes away all odour of vanity from your choice. '

'As I never know whether you are in earnest, I don't now, ' she said, looking up inquiringly at the hairy face of the oracle. And cominggallantly to her own rescue, 'If I really seem vain, it is that I amonly vain in my ways--not in my heart. The worst women are those vain intheir hearts, and not in their ways. '

'An adroit distinction. Well, they are certainly the more objectionableof the two, ' said Knight. 

'Is vanity a mortal or a venial sin? You know what life is: tell me. '

'I am very far from knowing what life is. A just conception of life istoo large a thing to grasp during the short interval of passing throughit. '

'Will the fact of a woman being fond of jewellery be likely to make herlife, in its higher sense, a failure?'

'Nobody's life is altogether a failure. '

'Well, you know what I mean, even though my words are badly selected andcommonplace, ' she said impatiently. 'Because I utter commonplace words, you must not suppose I think only commonplace thoughts. My poor stockof words are like a limited number of rough moulds I have to cast all mymaterials in, good and bad; and the novelty or delicacy of the substanceis often lost in the coarse triteness of the form. '

'Very well; I'll believe that ingenious representation. As to thesubject in hand--lives which are failures--you need not troubleyourself. Anybody's life may be just as romantic and strange andinteresting if he or she fails as if he or she succeed. All thedifference is, that the last chapter is wanting in the story. If a manof power tries to do a great deed, and just falls short of it by anaccident not his fault, up to that time his history had as much in it asthat of a great man who has done his great deed. It is whimsical of theworld to hold that particulars of how a lad went to school and so onshould be as an interesting romance or as nothing to them, precisely inproportion to his after renown. '

They were walking between the sunset and the moonrise. With the droppingof the sun a nearly full moon had begun to raise itself. Their shadows, as cast by the western glare, showed signs of becoming obliterated inthe interest of a rival pair in the opposite direction which the moonwas bringing to distinctness. 

'I consider my life to some extent a failure, ' said Knight again after apause, during which he had noticed the antagonistic shadows. 

'You! How?'

'I don't precisely know. But in some way I have missed the mark. '

'Really? To have done it is not much to be sad about, but to feel thatyou have done it must be a cause of sorrow. Am I right?'

'Partly, though not quite. For a sensation of being profoundlyexperienced serves as a sort of consolation to people who are consciousof having taken wrong turnings. Contradictory as it seems, there isnothing truer than that people who have always gone right don't knowhalf as much about the nature and ways of going right as those do whohave gone wrong. However, it is not desirable for me to chill yoursummer-time by going into this. '

'You have not told me even now if I am really vain. '

'If I say Yes, I shall offend you; if I say No, you'll think I don'tmean it, ' he replied, looking curiously into her face. 

'Ah, well, ' she replied, with a little breath of distress, '"That whichis exceeding deep, who will find it out?" I suppose I must take you as Ido the Bible--find out and understand all I can; and on the strength ofthat, swallow the rest in a lump, by simple faith. Think me vain, if youwill. Worldly greatness requires so much littleness to grow up in, thatan infirmity more or less is not a matter for regret. '

'As regards women, I can't say, ' answered Knight carelessly; 'but it iswithout doubt a misfortune for a man who has a living to get, to be bornof a truly noble nature. A high soul will bring a man to the workhouse;so you may be right in sticking up for vanity. '

'No, no, I don't do that, ' she said regretfully. 

Mr. Knight, when you are gone, will you send me something you havewritten? I think I should like to see whether you write as you havelately spoken, or in your better mood. Which is your true self--thecynic you have been this evening, or the nice philosopher you were up toto-night?'

'Ah, which? You know as well as I. '

Their conversation detained them on the lawn and in the portico till thestars blinked out. Elfride flung back her head, and said idly--

'There's a bright star exactly over me. '

'Each bright star is overhead somewhere. '

'Is it? Oh yes, of course. Where is that one?' and she pointed with herfinger. 

'That is poised like a white hawk over one of the Cape Verde Islands. '

'And that?'

'Looking down upon the source of the Nile. '

'And that lonely quiet-looking one?'

'He watches the North Pole, and has no less than the whole equator forhis horizon. And that idle one low down upon the ground, that we havealmost rolled away from, is in India--over the head of a young friend ofmine, who very possibly looks at the star in our zenith, as it hangslow upon his horizon, and thinks of it as marking where his true lovedwells. '

Elfride glanced at Knight with misgiving. Did he mean her? She could notsee his features; but his attitude seemed to show unconsciousness. 

'The star is over MY head, ' she said with hesitation. 

'Or anybody else's in England. '

'Oh yes, I see:' she breathed her relief. 

'His parents, I believe, are natives of this county. I don't knowthem, though I have been in correspondence with him for many years tilllately. Fortunately or unfortunately for him he fell in love, and thenwent to Bombay. Since that time I have heard very little of him. '

Knight went no further in his volunteered statement, and though Elfrideat one moment was inclined to profit by the lessons in honesty he hadjust been giving her, the flesh was weak, and the intention dispersedinto silence. There seemed a reproach in Knight's blind words, and yetshe was not able to clearly define any disloyalty that she had beenguilty of. 

Chapter XX

 'A distant dearness in the hill. '

Knight turned his back upon the parish of Endelstow, and crossed over toCork. 

One day of absence superimposed itself on another, and proportionatelyweighted his heart. He pushed on to the Lakes of Killarney, rambled amidtheir luxuriant woods, surveyed the infinite variety of island, hill, and dale there to be found, listened to the marvellous echoes of thatromantic spot; but altogether missed the glory and the dream he formerlyfound in such favoured regions. 

Whilst in the company of Elfride, her girlish presence had notperceptibly affected him to any depth. He had not been conscious thather entry into his sphere had added anything to himself; but nowthat she was taken away he was very conscious of a great deal beingabstracted. The superfluity had become a necessity, and Knight was inlove. 

Stephen fell in love with Elfride by looking at her: Knight by ceasingto do so. When or how the spirit entered into him he knew not: certainhe was that when on the point of leaving Endelstow he had felt none ofthat exquisite nicety of poignant sadness natural to such severances, seeing how delightful a subject of contemplation Elfride had been eversince. Had he begun to love her when she met his eye after her mishapon the tower? He had simply thought her weak. Had he grown to love herwhilst standing on the lawn brightened all over by the evening sun? Hehad thought her complexion good: no more. Was it her conversationthat had sown the seed? He had thought her words ingenious, and verycreditable to a young woman, but not noteworthy. Had the chess-playinganything to do with it? Certainly not: he had thought her at that time arather conceited child. 

Knight's experience was a complete disproof of the assumption thatlove always comes by glances of the eye and sympathetic touches of thefingers: that, like flame, it makes itself palpable at the moment ofgeneration. Not till they were parted, and she had become sublimated inhis memory, could he be said to have even attentively regarded her. 

Thus, having passively gathered up images of her which his mind did notact upon till the cause of them was no longer before him, he appearedto himself to have fallen in love with her soul, which had temporarilyassumed its disembodiment to accompany him on his way. 

She began to rule him so imperiously now that, accustomed to analysis, he almost trembled at the possible result of the introduction of thisnew force among the nicely adjusted ones of his ordinary life. He becamerestless: then he forgot all collateral subjects in the pleasure ofthinking about her. 

Yet it must be said that Knight loved philosophically rather than withromance. 

He thought of her manner towards him. Simplicity verges on coquetry. Wasshe flirting? he said to himself. No forcible translation of favour intosuspicion was able to uphold such a theory. The performance had beentoo well done to be anything but real. It had the defects without whichnothing is genuine. No actress of twenty years' standing, no bald-neckedlady whose earliest season 'out' was lost in the discreet mist ofevasive talk, could have played before him the part of ingenuous girlas Elfride lived it. She had the little artful ways which partly make upingenuousness. 

There are bachelors by nature and bachelors by circumstance: spinstersthere doubtless are also of both kinds, though some think only thoseof the latter. However, Knight had been looked upon as a bachelor bynature. What was he coming to? It was very odd to himself to look at histheories on the subject of love, and reading them now by the full lightof a new experience, to see how much more his sentences meant than hehad felt them to mean when they were written. People often discover thereal force of a trite old maxim only when it is thrust upon them by achance adventure; but Knight had never before known the case of a manwho learnt the full compass of his own epigrams by such means. 

He was intensely satisfied with one aspect of the affair. Inbred in himwas an invincible objection to be any but the first comer in a woman'sheart. He had discovered within himself the condition that if everhe did make up his mind to marry, it must be on the certainty thatno cropping out of inconvenient old letters, no bow and blush toa mysterious stranger casually met, should be a possible source ofdiscomposure. Knight's sentiments were only the ordinary ones of a manof his age who loves genuinely, perhaps exaggerated a little by hispursuits. When men first love as lads, it is with the very centre oftheir hearts, nothing else being concerned in the operation. With addedyears, more of the faculties attempt a partnership in the passion, tillat Knight's age the understanding is fain to have a hand in it. It mayas well be left out. A man in love setting up his brains as a gauge ofhis position is as one determining a ship's longitude from a light atthe mast-head. 

Knight argued from Elfride's unwontedness of manner, which was matterof fact, to an unwontedness in love, which was matter of inference only. Incredules les plus credules. 'Elfride, ' he said, 'had hardly lookedupon a man till she saw me. '

He had never forgotten his severity to her because she preferredornament to edification, and had since excused her a hundred timesby thinking how natural to womankind was a love of adornment, and hownecessary became a mild infusion of personal vanity to complete thedelicate and fascinating dye of the feminine mind. So at the end of theweek's absence, which had brought him as far as Dublin, he resolved tocurtail his tour, return to Endelstow, and commit himself by making areality of the hypothetical offer of that Sunday evening. 

Notwithstanding that he had concocted a great deal of paper theory onsocial amenities and modern manners generally, the special ounce ofpractice was wanting, and now for his life Knight could not recollectwhether it was considered correct to give a young lady personalornaments before a regular engagement to marry had been initiated. But the day before leaving Dublin he looked around anxiously for ahigh-class jewellery establishment, in which he purchased what heconsidered would suit her best. 

It was with a most awkward and unwonted feeling that after entering andclosing the door of his room he sat down, opened the morocco case, andheld up each of the fragile bits of gold-work before his eyes. Manythings had become old to the solitary man of letters, but these werenew, and he handled like a child an outcome of civilization which hadnever before been touched by his fingers. A sudden fastidious decisionthat the pattern chosen would not suit her after all caused him to risein a flurry and tear down the street to change them for others. Aftera great deal of trouble in reselecting, during which his mind became sobewildered that the critical faculty on objects of art seemed to havevacated his person altogether, Knight carried off another pair ofear-rings. These remained in his possession till the afternoon, when, after contemplating them fifty times with a growing misgiving that thelast choice was worse than the first, he felt that no sleep would visithis pillow till he had improved upon his previous purchases yet again. In a perfect heat of vexation with himself for such tergiversation, hewent anew to the shop-door, was absolutely ashamed to enter and givefurther trouble, went to another shop, bought a pair at an enormouslyincreased price, because they seemed the very thing, asked thegoldsmiths if they would take the other pair in exchange, was told thatthey could not exchange articles bought of another maker, paid down themoney, and went off with the two pairs in his possession, wondering whaton earth to do with the superfluous pair. He almost wished he couldlose them, or that somebody would steal them, and was burdened with aninterposing sense that, as a capable man, with true ideas of economy, he must necessarily sell them somewhere, which he did at last for a meresong. Mingled with a blank feeling of a whole day being lost to him inrunning about the city on this new and extraordinary class of errand, and of several pounds being lost through his bungling, was a slightsense of satisfaction that he had emerged for ever from his antediluvianignorance on the subject of ladies' jewellery, as well as secured atruly artistic production at last. During the remainder of that dayhe scanned the ornaments of every lady he met with the profoundlyexperienced eye of an appraiser. 

Next morning Knight was again crossing St. George's Channel--notreturning to London by the Holyhead route as he had originally intended, but towards Bristol--availing himself of Mr. And Mrs. Swancourt'sinvitation to revisit them on his homeward journey. 

We flit forward to Elfride. 

Woman's ruling passion--to fascinate and influence those more powerfulthan she--though operant in Elfride, was decidedly purposeless. She hadwanted her friend Knight's good opinion from the first: how much morethan that elementary ingredient of friendship she now desired, her fearswould hardly allow her to think. In originally wishing to pleasethe highest class of man she had ever intimately known, there was nodisloyalty to Stephen Smith. She could not--and few women can--realizethe possible vastness of an issue which has only an insignificantbegetting. 

Her letters from Stephen were necessarily few, and her sense of fidelityclung to the last she had received as a wrecked mariner clings toflotsam. The young girl persuaded herself that she was glad Stephenhad such a right to her hand as he had acquired (in her eyes) by theelopement. She beguiled herself by saying, 'Perhaps if I had not socommitted myself I might fall in love with Mr. Knight. '

All this made the week of Knight's absence very gloomy and distastefulto her. She retained Stephen in her prayers, and his old letters werere-read--as a medicine in reality, though she deceived herself into thebelief that it was as a pleasure. 

These letters had grown more and more hopeful. He told her that hefinished his work every day with a pleasant consciousness of havingremoved one more stone from the barrier which divided them. Then he drewimages of what a fine figure they two would cut some day. People wouldturn their heads and say, 'What a prize he has won!' She was not to besad about that wild runaway attempt of theirs (Elfride had repeatedlysaid that it grieved her). Whatever any other person who knew of itmight think, he knew well enough the modesty of her nature. The onlyreproach was a gentle one for not having written quite so devotedlyduring her visit to London. Her letter had seemed to have a livelinessderived from other thoughts than thoughts of him. 

Knight's intention of an early return to Endelstow having originallybeen faint, his promise to do so had been fainter. He was a man who kepthis words well to the rear of his possible actions. The vicar was rathersurprised to see him again so soon: Mrs. Swancourt was not. Knightfound, on meeting them all, after his arrival had been announced, thatthey had formed an intention to go to St. Leonards for a few days at theend of the month. 

No satisfactory conjuncture offered itself on this first evening of hisreturn for presenting Elfride with what he had been at such pains toprocure. He was fastidious in his reading of opportunities for such anintended act. The next morning chancing to break fine after a week ofcloudy weather, it was proposed and decided that they should all driveto Barwith Strand, a local lion which neither Mrs. Swancourt nor Knighthad seen. Knight scented romantic occasions from afar, and foresaw thatsuch a one might be expected before the coming night. 

The journey was along a road by neutral green hills, upon whichhedgerows lay trailing like ropes on a quay. Gaps in these uplandsrevealed the blue sea, flecked with a few dashes of white and a solitarywhite sail, the whole brimming up to a keen horizon which lay like aline ruled from hillside to hillside. Then they rolled down a pass, thechocolate-toned rocks forming a wall on both sides, from one of whichfell a heavy jagged shade over half the roadway. A spout of fresh waterburst from an occasional crevice, and pattering down upon broad greenleaves, ran along as a rivulet at the bottom. Unkempt locks of heatheroverhung the brow of each steep, whence at divers points a bramble swungforth into mid-air, snatching at their head-dresses like a claw. 

They mounted the last crest, and the bay which was to be the end oftheir pilgrimage burst upon them. The ocean blueness deepened its colouras it stretched to the foot of the crags, where it terminated in afringe of white--silent at this distance, though moving and heavinglike a counterpane upon a restless sleeper. The shadowed hollows of thepurple and brown rocks would have been called blue had not that tintbeen so entirely appropriated by the water beside them. 

The carriage was put up at a little cottage with a shed attached, andan ostler and the coachman carried the hamper of provisions down to theshore. 

Knight found his opportunity. 'I did not forget your wish, ' he began, when they were apart from their friends. 

Elfride looked as if she did not understand. 

'And I have brought you these, ' he continued, awkwardly pulling out thecase, and opening it while holding it towards her. 

'O Mr. Knight!' said Elfride confusedly, and turning to a lively red; 'Ididn't know you had any intention or meaning in what you said. I thoughtit a mere supposition. I don't want them. '

A thought which had flashed into her mind gave the reply a greaterdecisiveness than it might otherwise have possessed. To-morrow was theday for Stephen's letter. 

'But will you not accept them?' Knight returned, feeling less her masterthan heretofore. 

'I would rather not. They are beautiful--more beautiful than any Ihave ever seen, ' she answered earnestly, looking half-wishfully at thetemptation, as Eve may have looked at the apple. 'But I don't want tohave them, if you will kindly forgive me, Mr. Knight. '

'No kindness at all, ' said Mr. Knight, brought to a full stop at thisunexpected turn of events. 

A silence followed. Knight held the open case, looking rather wofullyat the glittering forms he had forsaken his orbit to procure; turning itabout and holding it up as if, feeling his gift to be slighted by her, he were endeavouring to admire it very much himself. 

'Shut them up, and don't let me see them any longer--do!' she saidlaughingly, and with a quaint mixture of reluctance and entreaty. 

'Why, Elfie?'

'Not Elfie to you, Mr. Knight. Oh, because I shall want them. There, I am silly, I know, to say that! But I have a reason for not takingthem--now. ' She kept in the last word for a moment, intending to implythat her refusal was finite, but somehow the word slipped out, and undidall the rest. 

'You will take them some day?'

'I don't want to. '

'Why don't you want to, Elfride Swancourt?'

'Because I don't. I don't like to take them. '

'I have read a fact of distressing significance in that, ' said Knight. 'Since you like them, your dislike to having them must be towards me?'

'No, it isn't. '

'What, then? Do you like me?'

Elfride deepened in tint, and looked into the distance with featuresshaped to an expression of the nicest criticism as regarded her answer. 

'I like you pretty well, ' she at length murmured mildly. 

'Not very much?'

'You are so sharp with me, and say hard things, and so how can I?' shereplied evasively. 

'You think me a fogey, I suppose?'

'No, I don't--I mean I do--I don't know what I think you, I mean. Let usgo to papa, ' responded Elfride, with somewhat of a flurried delivery. 

'Well, I'll tell you my object in getting the present, ' said Knight, with a composure intended to remove from her mind any possibleimpression of his being what he was--her lover. 'You see it was the veryleast I could do in common civility. '

Elfride felt rather blank at this lucid statement. 

Knight continued, putting away the case: 'I felt as anybody naturallywould have, you know, that my words on your choice the other day wereinvidious and unfair, and thought an apology should take a practicalshape. '

'Oh yes. '

Elfride was sorry--she could not tell why--that he gave such alegitimate reason. It was a disappointment that he had all the time acool motive, which might be stated to anybody without raising a smile. Had she known they were offered in that spirit, she would certainlyhave accepted the seductive gift. And the tantalizing feature was thatperhaps he suspected her to imagine them offered as a lover's token, which was mortifying enough if they were not. 

Mrs. Swancourt came now to where they were sitting, to select a flatboulder for spreading their table-cloth upon, and, amid the discussionon that subject, the matter pending between Knight and Elfride wasshelved for a while. He read her refusal so certainly as the bashfulnessof a girl in a novel position, that, upon the whole, he could toleratesuch a beginning. Could Knight have been told that it was a sense offidelity struggling against new love, whilst no less assuring as to hisultimate victory, it might have entirely abstracted the wish to secureit. 

At the same time a slight constraint of manner was visible betweenthem for the remainder of the afternoon. The tide turned, and they wereobliged to ascend to higher ground. The day glided on to its end withthe usual quiet dreamy passivity of such occasions--when every deed doneand thing thought is in endeavouring to avoid doing and thinkingmore. Looking idly over the verge of a crag, they beheld their stonedining-table gradually being splashed upon and their crumbs andfragments all washed away by the incoming sea. The vicar drew a morallesson from the scene; Knight replied in the same satisfied strain. Andthen the waves rolled in furiously--the neutral green-and-blue tonguesof water slid up the slopes, and were metamorphosed into foam by acareless blow, falling back white and faint, and leaving trailingfollowers behind. 

The passing of a heavy shower was the next scene--driving them toshelter in a shallow cave--after which the horses were put in, and theystarted to return homeward. By the time they reached the higher levelsthe sky had again cleared, and the sunset rays glanced directly uponthe wet uphill road they had climbed. The ruts formed by theircarriage-wheels on the ascent--a pair of Liliputian canals--were asshining bars of gold, tapering to nothing in the distance. Upon thisalso they turned their backs, and night spread over the sea. 

The evening was chilly, and there was no moon. Knight sat close toElfride, and, when the darkness rendered the position of a person amatter of uncertainty, particularly close. Elfride edged away. 

'I hope you allow me my place ungrudgingly?' he whispered. 

'Oh yes; 'tis the least I can do in common civility, ' she said, accenting the words so that he might recognize them as his own returned. 

Both of them felt delicately balanced between two possibilities. Thusthey reached home. 

To Knight this mild experience was delightful. It was to him a gentleinnocent time--a time which, though there may not be much in it, seldomrepeats itself in a man's life, and has a peculiar dearness when glancedat retrospectively. He is not inconveniently deep in love, and is lulledby a peaceful sense of being able to enjoy the most trivial thing witha childlike enjoyment. The movement of a wave, the colour of a stone, anything, was enough for Knight's drowsy thoughts of that day toprecipitate themselves upon. Even the sermonizing platitudes thevicar had delivered himself of--chiefly because something seemed tobe professionally required of him in the presence of a man of Knight'sproclivities--were swallowed whole. The presence of Elfride led him notmerely to tolerate that kind of talk from the necessities of ordinarycourtesy; but he listened to it--took in the ideas with an enjoyablemake-believe that they were proper and necessary, and indulged in aconservative feeling that the face of things was complete. 

Entering her room that evening Elfride found a packet for herself onthe dressing-table. How it came there she did not know. She tremblinglyundid the folds of white paper that covered it. Yes; it was the treasureof a morocco case, containing those treasures of ornament she hadrefused in the daytime. 

Elfride dressed herself in them for a moment, looked at herself in theglass, blushed red, and put them away. They filled her dreams all thatnight. Never had she seen anything so lovely, and never was it moreclear that as an honest woman she was in duty bound to refuse them. Why it was not equally clear to her that duty required more vigorousco-ordinate conduct as well, let those who dissect her say. 

The next morning glared in like a spectre upon her. It was Stephen'sletter-day, and she was bound to meet the postman--to stealthily do adeed she had never liked, to secure an end she now had ceased to desire. 

But she went. 

There were two letters. 

One was from the bank at St. Launce's, in which she had a small privatedeposit--probably something about interest. She put that in herpocket for a moment, and going indoors and upstairs to be safer fromobservation, tremblingly opened Stephen's. 

What was this he said to her?

She was to go to the St. Launce's Bank and take a sum of money whichthey had received private advices to pay her. 

The sum was two hundred pounds. 

There was no check, order, or anything of the nature of guarantee. Infact the information amounted to this: the money was now in the St. Launce's Bank, standing in her name. 

She instantly opened the other letter. It contained a deposit-note fromthe bank for the sum of two hundred pounds which had that day beenadded to her account. Stephen's information, then, was correct, and thetransfer made. 

'I have saved this in one year, ' Stephen's letter went on to say, 'andwhat so proper as well as pleasant for me to do as to hand it over toyou to keep for your use? I have plenty for myself, independently ofthis. Should you not be disposed to let it lie idle in the bank, getyour father to invest it in your name on good security. It is a littlepresent to you from your more than betrothed. He will, I think, Elfride, feel now that my pretensions to your hand are anything but the dream ofa silly boy not worth rational consideration. '

With a natural delicacy, Elfride, in mentioning her father's marriage, had refrained from all allusion to the pecuniary resources of the lady. 

Leaving this matter-of-fact subject, he went on, somewhat after hisboyish manner:

'Do you remember, darling, that first morning of my arrival at yourhouse, when your father read at prayers the miracle of healing the sickof the palsy--where he is told to take up his bed and walk? I do, and Ican now so well realize the force of that passage. The smallest piece ofmat is the bed of the Oriental, and yesterday I saw a native perform thevery action, which reminded me to mention it. But you are better readthan I, and perhaps you knew all this long ago. .. . One day I bought somesmall native idols to send home to you as curiosities, but afterwardsfinding they had been cast in England, made to look old, and shippedover, I threw them away in disgust. 

'Speaking of this reminds me that we are obliged to import all ourhouse-building ironwork from England. Never was such foresight requiredto be exercised in building houses as here. Before we begin, we haveto order every column, lock, hinge, and screw that will be required. We cannot go into the next street, as in London, and get them cast ata minute's notice. Mr. L. Says somebody will have to go to England verysoon and superintend the selection of a large order of this kind. I onlywish I may be the man. '

There before her lay the deposit-receipt for the two hundred pounds, and beside it the elegant present of Knight. Elfride grew cold--then hercheeks felt heated by beating blood. If by destroying the piece of paperthe whole transaction could have been withdrawn from her experience, shewould willingly have sacrificed the money it represented. She didnot know what to do in either case. She almost feared to let the twoarticles lie in juxtaposition: so antagonistic were the interests theyrepresented that a miraculous repulsion of one by the other was almostto be expected. 

That day she was seen little of. By the evening she had come to aresolution, and acted upon it. The packet was sealed up--with a tearof regret as she closed the case upon the pretty forms itcontained--directed, and placed upon the writing-table in Knight's room. And a letter was written to Stephen, stating that as yet she hardlyunderstood her position with regard to the money sent; but declaringthat she was ready to fulfil her promise to marry him. After this letterhad been written she delayed posting it--although never ceasing to feelstrenuously that the deed must be done. 

Several days passed. There was another Indian letter for Elfride. Comingunexpectedly, her father saw it, but made no remark--why, she could nottell. The news this time was absolutely overwhelming. Stephen, as hehad wished, had been actually chosen as the most fitting to execute theiron-work commission he had alluded to as impending. This duty completedhe would have three months' leave. His letter continued that he shouldfollow it in a week, and should take the opportunity to plainly askher father to permit the engagement. Then came a page expressive of hisdelight and hers at the reunion; and finally, the information that hewould write to the shipping agents, asking them to telegraph and tellher when the ship bringing him home should be in sight--knowing howacceptable such information would be. 

Elfride lived and moved now as in a dream. Knight had at first becomealmost angry at her persistent refusal of his offering--and no less withthe manner than the fact of it. But he saw that she began to look wornand ill--and his vexation lessened to simple perplexity. 

He ceased now to remain in the house for long hours together as before, but made it a mere centre for antiquarian and geological excursions inthe neighbourhood. Throw up his cards and go away he fain would havedone, but could not. And, thus, availing himself of the privileges ofa relative, he went in and out the premises as fancy led him--but stilllingered on. 

'I don't wish to stay here another day if my presence is distasteful, 'he said one afternoon. 'At first you used to imply that I was severewith you; and when I am kind you treat me unfairly. '

'No, no. Don't say so. '

The origin of their acquaintanceship had been such as to render theirmanner towards each other peculiar and uncommon. It was of a kind tocause them to speak out their minds on any feelings of objection anddifference: to be reticent on gentler matters. 

'I have a good mind to go away and never trouble you again, ' continuedKnight. 

She said nothing, but the eloquent expression of her eyes and wan facewas enough to reproach him for harshness. 

'Do you like me to be here, then?' inquired Knight gently. 

'Yes, ' she said. Fidelity to the old love and truth to the new wereranged on opposite sides, and truth virtuelessly prevailed. 

'Then I'll stay a little longer, ' said Knight. 

'Don't be vexed if I keep by myself a good deal, will you? Perhapssomething may happen, and I may tell you something. '

'Mere coyness, ' said Knight to himself; and went away with a lighterheart. The trick of reading truly the enigmatical forces at work inwomen at given times, which with some men is an unerring instinct, ispeculiar to minds less direct and honest than Knight's. 

The next evening, about five o'clock, before Knight had returned froma pilgrimage along the shore, a man walked up to the house. He was amessenger from Camelton, a town a few miles off, to which place therailway had been advanced during the summer. 

'A telegram for Miss Swancourt, and three and sixpence to pay for thespecial messenger. ' Miss Swancourt sent out the money, signed the paper, and opened her letter with a trembling hand. She read:

'Johnson, Liverpool, to Miss Swancourt, Endelstow, near Castle Boterel. 

'Amaryllis telegraphed off Holyhead, four o'clock. Expect will dock andland passengers at Canning's Basin ten o'clock to-morrow morning. '

Her father called her into the study. 

'Elfride, who sent you that message?' he asked suspiciously. 

'Johnson. ' 'Who is Johnson, for Heaven's sake?'

'I don't know. '

'The deuce you don't! Who is to know, then?'

'I have never heard of him till now. '

'That's a singular story, isn't it. '

'I don't know. '

'Come, come, miss! What was the telegram?'

'Do you really wish to know, papa?'

'Well, I do. '

'Remember, I am a full-grown woman now. '

'Well, what then?'

'Being a woman, and not a child, I may, I think, have a secret or two. '

'You will, it seems. '

'Women have, as a rule. '

'But don't keep them. So speak out. '

'If you will not press me now, I give my word to tell you the meaning ofall this before the week is past. '

'On your honour?'

'On my honour. '

'Very well. I have had a certain suspicion, you know; and I shall beglad to find it false. I don't like your manner lately. '

'At the end of the week, I said, papa. '

Her father did not reply, and Elfride left the room. 

She began to look out for the postman again. Three mornings later hebrought an inland letter from Stephen. It contained very little matter, having been written in haste; but the meaning was bulky enough. Stephensaid that, having executed a commission in Liverpool, he should arriveat his father's house, East Endelstow, at five or six o'clock that sameevening; that he would after dusk walk on to the next village, and meether, if she would, in the church porch, as in the old time. He proposedthis plan because he thought it unadvisable to call formally at herhouse so late in the evening; yet he could not sleep without having seenher. The minutes would seem hours till he clasped her in his arms. 

Elfride was still steadfast in her opinion that honour compelled her tomeet him. Probably the very longing to avoid him lent additional weightto the conviction; for she was markedly one of those who sigh for theunattainable--to whom, superlatively, a hope is pleasing because not apossession. And she knew it so well that her intellect was inclined toexaggerate this defect in herself. 

So during the day she looked her duty steadfastly in the face; readWordsworth's astringent yet depressing ode to that Deity; committedherself to her guidance; and still felt the weight of chance desires. 

But she began to take a melancholy pleasure in contemplating thesacrifice of herself to the man whom a maidenly sense of proprietycompelled her to regard as her only possible husband. She would meethim, and do all that lay in her power to marry him. To guard againsta relapse, a note was at once despatched to his father's cottage forStephen on his arrival, fixing an hour for the interview. 

Chapter XXI

 'On thy cold grey stones, O sea!'

Stephen had said that he should come by way of Bristol, and thence by asteamer to Castle Boterel, in order to avoid the long journey over thehills from St. Launce's. He did not know of the extension of the railwayto Camelton. 

During the afternoon a thought occurred to Elfride, that from any cliffalong the shore it would be possible to see the steamer some hoursbefore its arrival. 

She had accumulated religious force enough to do an act ofsupererogation. The act was this--to go to some point of land and watchfor the ship that brought her future husband home. 

It was a cloudy afternoon. Elfride was often diverted from a purpose bya dull sky; and though she used to persuade herself that the weather wasas fine as possible on the other side of the clouds, she could not bringabout any practical result from this fancy. Now, her mood was such thatthe humid sky harmonized with it. 

Having ascended and passed over a hill behind the house, Elfride came toa small stream. She used it as a guide to the coast. It was smaller thanthat in her own valley, and flowed altogether at a higher level. Busheslined the slopes of its shallow trough; but at the bottom, where thewater ran, was a soft green carpet, in a strip two or three yards wide. 

In winter, the water flowed over the grass; in summer, as now, ittrickled along a channel in the midst. 

Elfride had a sensation of eyes regarding her from somewhere. Sheturned, and there was Mr. Knight. He had dropped into the valley fromthe side of the hill. She felt a thrill of pleasure, and rebelliouslyallowed it to exist. 

'What utter loneliness to find you in!'

'I am going to the shore by tracking the stream. I believe it emptiesitself not far off, in a silver thread of water, over a cascade of greatheight. '

'Why do you load yourself with that heavy telescope?'

'To look over the sea with it, ' she said faintly. 

'I'll carry it for you to your journey's end. ' And he took the glassfrom her unresisting hands. 'It cannot be half a mile further. See, there is the water. ' He pointed to a short fragment of level muddy-graycolour, cutting against the sky. 

Elfride had already scanned the small surface of ocean visible, and hadseen no ship. 

They walked along in company, sometimes with the brook between them--forit was no wider than a man's stride--sometimes close together. The greencarpet grew swampy, and they kept higher up. 

One of the two ridges between which they walked dwindled lower andbecame insignificant. That on the right hand rose with their advance, and terminated in a clearly defined edge against the light, as if itwere abruptly sawn off. A little further, and the bed of the rivuletended in the same fashion. 

They had come to a bank breast-high, and over it the valley was nolonger to be seen. It was withdrawn cleanly and completely. In itsplace was sky and boundless atmosphere; and perpendicularly down beneaththem--small and far off--lay the corrugated surface of the Atlantic. 

The small stream here found its death. Running over the precipice it wasdispersed in spray before it was half-way down, and falling like rainupon projecting ledges, made minute grassy meadows of them. At thebottom the water-drops soaked away amid the debris of the cliff. Thiswas the inglorious end of the river. 

'What are you looking for? said Knight, following the direction of hereyes. 

She was gazing hard at a black object--nearer to the shore than to thehorizon--from the summit of which came a nebulous haze, stretching likegauze over the sea. 

'The Puffin, a little summer steamboat--from Bristol to Castle Boterel, 'she said. 'I think that is it--look. Will you give me the glass?'

Knight pulled open the old-fashioned but powerful telescope, and handedit to Elfride, who had looked on with heavy eyes. 

'I can't keep it up now, ' she said. 

'Rest it on my shoulder. '

'It is too high. '

'Under my arm. '

'Too low. You may look instead, ' she murmured weakly. 

Knight raised the glass to his eye, and swept the sea till the Puffinentered its field. 

'Yes, it is the Puffin--a tiny craft. I can see her figure-headdistinctly--a bird with a beak as big as its head. '

'Can you see the deck?'

'Wait a minute; yes, pretty clearly. And I can see the black formsof the passengers against its white surface. One of them has takensomething from another--a glass, I think--yes, it is--and he islevelling it in this direction. Depend upon it we are conspicuousobjects against the sky to them. Now, it seems to rain upon them, andthey put on overcoats and open umbrellas. They vanish and go below--allbut that one who has borrowed the glass. He is a slim young fellow, andstill watches us. '

Elfride grew pale, and shifted her little feet uneasily. 

Knight lowered the glass. 

'I think we had better return, ' he said. 'That cloud which is raining onthem may soon reach us. Why, you look ill. How is that?'

'Something in the air affects my face. '

'Those fair cheeks are very fastidious, I fear, ' returned Knighttenderly. 'This air would make those rosy that were never so before, onewould think--eh, Nature's spoilt child?'

Elfride's colour returned again. 

'There is more to see behind us, after all, ' said Knight. 

She turned her back upon the boat and Stephen Smith, and saw, toweringstill higher than themselves, the vertical face of the hill on theright, which did not project seaward so far as the bed of the valley, but formed the back of a small cove, and so was visible like a concavewall, bending round from their position towards the left. 

The composition of the huge hill was revealed to its backbone and marrowhere at its rent extremity. It consisted of a vast stratification ofblackish-gray slate, unvaried in its whole height by a single change ofshade. 

It is with cliffs and mountains as with persons; they have what iscalled a presence, which is not necessarily proportionate to theiractual bulk. A little cliff will impress you powerfully; a great one notat all. It depends, as with man, upon the countenance of the cliff. 

'I cannot bear to look at that cliff, ' said Elfride. 'It has a horridpersonality, and makes me shudder. We will go. '

'Can you climb?' said Knight. 'If so, we will ascend by that path overthe grim old fellow's brow. '

'Try me, ' said Elfride disdainfully. 'I have ascended steeper slopesthan that. '

From where they had been loitering, a grassy path wound along inside abank, placed as a safeguard for unwary pedestrians, to the top of theprecipice, and over it along the hill in an inland direction. 

'Take my arm, Miss Swancourt, ' said Knight. 

'I can get on better without it, thank you. '

When they were one quarter of the way up, Elfride stopped to takebreath. Knight stretched out his hand. 

She took it, and they ascended the remaining slope together. Reachingthe very top, they sat down to rest by mutual consent. 

'Heavens, what an altitude!' said Knight between his pants, and lookingfar over the sea. The cascade at the bottom of the slope appeared a merespan in height from where they were now. 

Elfride was looking to the left. The steamboat was in full view again, and by reason of the vast surface of sea their higher position uncoveredit seemed almost close to the shore. 

'Over that edge, ' said Knight, 'where nothing but vacancy appears, is amoving compact mass. The wind strikes the face of the rock, runs up it, rises like a fountain to a height far above our heads, curls over usin an arch, and disperses behind us. In fact, an inverted cascade isthere--as perfect as the Niagara Falls--but rising instead of falling, and air instead of water. Now look here. '

Knight threw a stone over the bank, aiming it as if to go onward overthe cliff. Reaching the verge, it towered into the air like a bird, turned back, and alighted on the ground behind them. They themselveswere in a dead calm. 

'A boat crosses Niagara immediately at the foot of the falls, wherethe water is quite still, the fallen mass curving under it. We are inprecisely the same position with regard to our atmospheric cataracthere. If you run back from the cliff fifty yards, you will be in a briskwind. Now I daresay over the bank is a little backward current. '

Knight rose and leant over the bank. No sooner was his head above itthan his hat appeared to be sucked from his head--slipping over hisforehead in a seaward direction. 

'That's the backward eddy, as I told you, ' he cried, and vanished overthe little bank after his hat. 

Elfride waited one minute; he did not return. She waited another, andthere was no sign of him. 

A few drops of rain fell, then a sudden shower. 

She arose, and looked over the bank. On the other side were two or threeyards of level ground--then a short steep preparatory slope--then theverge of the precipice. 

On the slope was Knight, his hat on his head. He was on his hands andknees, trying to climb back to the level ground. The rain had wetted theshaly surface of the incline. A slight superficial wetting of the soilhereabout made it far more slippery to stand on than the same soilthoroughly drenched. The inner substance was still hard, and waslubricated by the moistened film. 

'I find a difficulty in getting back, ' said Knight. 

Elfride's heart fell like lead. 

'But you can get back?' she wildly inquired. 

Knight strove with all his might for two or three minutes, and the dropsof perspiration began to bead his brow. 

'No, I am unable to do it, ' he answered. 

Elfride, by a wrench of thought, forced away from her mind the sensationthat Knight was in bodily danger. But attempt to help him she must. Sheventured upon the treacherous incline, propped herself with the closedtelescope, and gave him her hand before he saw her movements. 

'O Elfride! why did you?' said he. 'I am afraid you have only endangeredyourself. '

And as if to prove his statement, in making an endeavour by herassistance they both slipped lower, and then he was again stayed. Hisfoot was propped by a bracket of quartz rock, balanced on the verge ofthe precipice. Fixed by this, he steadied her, her head being about afoot below the beginning of the slope. Elfride had dropped the glass; itrolled to the edge and vanished over it into a nether sky. 

'Hold tightly to me, ' he said. 

She flung her arms round his neck with such a firm grasp that whilst heremained it was impossible for her to fall. 

'Don't be flurried, ' Knight continued. 'So long as we stay above thisblock we are perfectly safe. Wait a moment whilst I consider what we hadbetter do. '

He turned his eyes to the dizzy depths beneath them, and surveyed theposition of affairs. 

Two glances told him a tale with ghastly distinctness. It was that, unless they performed their feat of getting up the slope with theprecision of machines, they were over the edge and whirling in mid-air. 

For this purpose it was necessary that he should recover the breath andstrength which his previous efforts had cost him. So he still waited, and looked in the face of the enemy. 

The crest of this terrible natural facade passed among the neighbouringinhabitants as being seven hundred feet above the water it overhung. It had been proved by actual measurement to be not a foot less than sixhundred and fifty. 

That is to say, it is nearly three times the height of Flamborough, halfas high again as the South Foreland, a hundred feet higher thanBeachy Head--the loftiest promontory on the east or south side of thisisland--twice the height of St. Aldhelm's, thrice as high as the Lizard, and just double the height of St. Bee's. One sea-bord point on thewestern coast is known to surpass it in altitude, but only by a fewfeet. This is Great Orme's Head, in Caernarvonshire. 

And it must be remembered that the cliff exhibits an intensifyingfeature which some of those are without--sheer perpendicularity from thehalf-tide level. 

Yet this remarkable rampart forms no headland: it rather walls in aninlet--the promontory on each side being much lower. Thus, far frombeing salient, its horizontal section is concave. The sea, rollingdirect from the shores of North America, has in fact eaten a chasm intothe middle of a hill, and the giant, embayed and unobtrusive, stands inthe rear of pigmy supporters. Not least singularly, neither hill, chasm, nor precipice has a name. On this account I will call the precipice theCliff without a Name. *

 * See Preface

What gave an added terror to its height was its blackness. And upon thisdark face the beating of ten thousand west winds had formed a kind ofbloom, which had a visual effect not unlike that of a Hambro' grape. Moreover it seemed to float off into the atmosphere, and inspire terrorthrough the lungs. 

'This piece of quartz, supporting my feet, is on the very nose ofthe cliff, ' said Knight, breaking the silence after his rigid stoicalmeditation. 'Now what you are to do is this. Clamber up my body tillyour feet are on my shoulders: when you are there you will, I think, beable to climb on to level ground. '

'What will you do?'

'Wait whilst you run for assistance. '

'I ought to have done that in the first place, ought I not?'

'I was in the act of slipping, and should have reached no stand-pointwithout your weight, in all probability. But don't let us talk. Bebrave, Elfride, and climb. '

She prepared to ascend, saying, 'This is the moment I anticipated whenon the tower. I thought it would come!'

'This is not a time for superstition, ' said Knight. 'Dismiss all that. '

'I will, ' she said humbly. 

'Now put your foot into my hand: next the other. That's good--well done. Hold to my shoulder. '

She placed her feet upon the stirrup he made of his hand, and was highenough to get a view of the natural surface of the hill over the bank. 

'Can you now climb on to level ground?'

'I am afraid not. I will try. '

'What can you see?'

'The sloping common. '

'What upon it?'

'Purple heather and some grass. '

'Nothing more--no man or human being of any kind?'

'Nobody. '

'Now try to get higher in this way. You see that tuft of sea-pink aboveyou. Get that well into your hand, but don't trust to it entirely. Thenstep upon my shoulder, and I think you will reach the top. '

With trembling limbs she did exactly as he told her. The preternaturalquiet and solemnity of his manner overspread upon herself, and gave hera courage not her own. She made a spring from the top of his shoulder, and was up. 

Then she turned to look at him. 

By an ill fate, the force downwards of her bound, added to his ownweight, had been too much for the block of quartz upon which his feetdepended. It was, indeed, originally an igneous protrusion into theenormous masses of black strata, which had since been worn away from thesides of the alien fragment by centuries of frost and rain, and now leftit without much support. 

It moved. Knight seized a tuft of sea-pink with each hand. 

The quartz rock which had been his salvation was worse than useless now. It rolled over, out of sight, and away into the same nether sky that hadengulfed the telescope. 

One of the tufts by which he held came out at the root, and Knight beganto follow the quartz. It was a terrible moment. Elfride uttered a lowwild wail of agony, bowed her head, and covered her face with her hands. 

Between the turf-covered slope and the gigantic perpendicular rockintervened a weather-worn series of jagged edges, forming a face yetsteeper than the former slope. As he slowly slid inch by inch uponthese, Knight made a last desperate dash at the lowest tuft ofvegetation--the last outlying knot of starved herbage ere the rockappeared in all its bareness. It arrested his further descent. Knightwas now literally suspended by his arms; but the incline of thebrow being what engineers would call about a quarter in one, it wassufficient to relieve his arms of a portion of his weight, but was veryfar from offering an adequately flat face to support him. 

In spite of this dreadful tension of body and mind, Knight found timefor a moment of thankfulness. Elfride was safe. 

She lay on her side above him--her fingers clasped. Seeing him againsteady, she jumped upon her feet. 

'Now, if I can only save you by running for help!' she cried. 'Oh, Iwould have died instead! Why did you try so hard to deliver me?' And sheturned away wildly to run for assistance. 

'Elfride, how long will it take you to run to Endelstow and back?'

'Three-quarters of an hour. '

'That won't do; my hands will not hold out ten minutes. And is therenobody nearer?'

'No; unless a chance passer may happen to be. '

'He would have nothing with him that could save me. Is there a pole orstick of any kind on the common?'

She gazed around. The common was bare of everything but heather andgrass. 

A minute--perhaps more time--was passed in mute thought by both. On asudden the blank and helpless agony left her face. She vanished over thebank from his sight. 

Knight felt himself in the presence of a personalized loneliness. 

Chapter XXII

 'A woman's way. '

Haggard cliffs, of every ugly altitude, are as common as sea-fowl alongthe line of coast between Exmoor and Land's End; but this outflanked andencompassed specimen was the ugliest of them all. Their summits are notsafe places for scientific experiment on the principles of air-currents, as Knight had now found, to his dismay. 

He still clutched the face of the escarpment--not with the frenziedhold of despair, but with a dogged determination to make the most ofhis every jot of endurance, and so give the longest possible scope toElfride's intentions, whatever they might be. 

He reclined hand in hand with the world in its infancy. Not a blade, notan insect, which spoke of the present, was between him and the past. Theinveterate antagonism of these black precipices to all strugglers forlife is in no way more forcibly suggested than by the paucity of tuftsof grass, lichens, or confervae on their outermost ledges. 

Knight pondered on the meaning of Elfride's hasty disappearance, butcould not avoid an instinctive conclusion that there existed but adoubtful hope for him. As far as he could judge, his sole chance ofdeliverance lay in the possibility of a rope or pole being brought; andthis possibility was remote indeed. The soil upon these high downs wasleft so untended that they were unenclosed for miles, except by acasual bank or dry wall, and were rarely visited but for the purposeof collecting or counting the flock which found a scanty means ofsubsistence thereon. 

At first, when death appeared improbable, because it had never visitedhim before, Knight could think of no future, nor of anything connectedwith his past. He could only look sternly at Nature's treacherousattempt to put an end to him, and strive to thwart her. 

From the fact that the cliff formed the inner face of the segment of ahuge cylinder, having the sky for a top and the sea for a bottom, whichenclosed the cove to the extent of more than a semicircle, he could seethe vertical face curving round on each side of him. He looked far downthe facade, and realized more thoroughly how it threatened him. Grimnesswas in every feature, and to its very bowels the inimical shape wasdesolation. 

By one of those familiar conjunctions of things wherewith the inanimateworld baits the mind of man when he pauses in moments of suspense, opposite Knight's eyes was an imbedded fossil, standing forth in lowrelief from the rock. It was a creature with eyes. The eyes, dead andturned to stone, were even now regarding him. It was one of the earlycrustaceans called Trilobites. Separated by millions of years in theirlives, Knight and this underling seemed to have met in their death. Itwas the single instance within reach of his vision of anything that hadever been alive and had had a body to save, as he himself had now. 

The creature represented but a low type of animal existence, for neverin their vernal years had the plains indicated by those numberless slatylayers been traversed by an intelligence worthy of the name. Zoophytes, mollusca, shell-fish, were the highest developments of those ancientdates. The immense lapses of time each formation represented had knownnothing of the dignity of man. They were grand times, but they were meantimes too, and mean were their relics. He was to be with the small inhis death. 

Knight was a geologist; and such is the supremacy of habit overoccasion, as a pioneer of the thoughts of men, that at this dreadfuljuncture his mind found time to take in, by a momentary sweep, thevaried scenes that had had their day between this creature's epoch andhis own. There is no place like a cleft landscape for bringing home suchimaginings as these. 

Time closed up like a fan before him. He saw himself at one extremityof the years, face to face with the beginning and all the intermediatecenturies simultaneously. Fierce men, clothed in the hides of beasts, and carrying, for defence and attack, huge clubs and pointed spears, rose from the rock, like the phantoms before the doomed Macbeth. They lived in hollows, woods, and mud huts--perhaps in caves of theneighbouring rocks. Behind them stood an earlier band. No man was there. Huge elephantine forms, the mastodon, the hippopotamus, the tapir, antelopes of monstrous size, the megatherium, and the myledon--all, forthe moment, in juxtaposition. Further back, and overlapped by these, were perched huge-billed birds and swinish creatures as large as horses. Still more shadowy were the sinister crocodilian outlines--alligatorsand other uncouth shapes, culminating in the colossal lizard, theiguanodon. Folded behind were dragon forms and clouds of flyingreptiles: still underneath were fishy beings of lower development; andso on, till the lifetime scenes of the fossil confronting him werea present and modern condition of things. These images passed beforeKnight's inner eye in less than half a minute, and he was againconsidering the actual present. Was he to die? The mental picture ofElfride in the world, without himself to cherish her, smote his heartlike a whip. He had hoped for deliverance, but what could a girl do? Hedared not move an inch. Was Death really stretching out his hand? Theprevious sensation, that it was improbable he would die, was fainternow. 

However, Knight still clung to the cliff. 

To those musing weather-beaten West-country folk who pass the greaterpart of their days and nights out of doors, Nature seems to have moodsin other than a poetical sense: predilections for certain deeds atcertain times, without any apparent law to govern or season to accountfor them. She is read as a person with a curious temper; as one who doesnot scatter kindnesses and cruelties alternately, impartially, and inorder, but heartless severities or overwhelming generosities in lawlesscaprice. Man's case is always that of the prodigal's favourite or themiser's pensioner. In her unfriendly moments there seems a feline funin her tricks, begotten by a foretaste of her pleasure in swallowing thevictim. 

Such a way of thinking had been absurd to Knight, but he began to adoptit now. He was first spitted on to a rock. New tortures followed. Therain increased, and persecuted him with an exceptional persistency whichhe was moved to believe owed its cause to the fact that he was in sucha wretched state already. An entirely new order of things could beobserved in this introduction of rain upon the scene. It rained upwardsinstead of down. The strong ascending air carried the rain-drops withit in its race up the escarpment, coming to him with such velocity thatthey stuck into his flesh like cold needles. Each drop was virtually ashaft, and it pierced him to his skin. The water-shafts seemed to lifthim on their points: no downward rain ever had such a torturing effect. In a brief space he was drenched, except in two places. These were onthe top of his shoulders and on the crown of his hat. 

The wind, though not intense in other situations was strong here. Ittugged at his coat and lifted it. We are mostly accustomed to look uponall opposition which is not animate, as that of the stolid, inexorablehand of indifference, which wears out the patience more than thestrength. Here, at any rate, hostility did not assume that slow andsickening form. It was a cosmic agency, active, lashing, eager forconquest: determination; not an insensate standing in the way. 

Knight had over-estimated the strength of his hands. They were gettingweak already. 'She will never come again; she has been gone tenminutes, ' he said to himself. 

This mistake arose from the unusual compression of his experiences justnow: she had really been gone but three. 

'As many more minutes will be my end, ' he thought. 

Next came another instance of the incapacity of the mind to makecomparisons at such times. 

'This is a summer afternoon, ' he said, 'and there can never have beensuch a heavy and cold rain on a summer day in my life before. '

He was again mistaken. The rain was quite ordinary in quantity; the airin temperature. It was, as is usual, the menacing attitude in which theyapproached him that magnified their powers. 

He again looked straight downwards, the wind and the water-dasheslifting his moustache, scudding up his cheeks, under his eyelids, and into his eyes. This is what he saw down there: the surface ofthe sea--visually just past his toes, and under his feet; actuallyone-eighth of a mile, or more than two hundred yards, below them. Wecolour according to our moods the objects we survey. The sea would havebeen a deep neutral blue, had happier auspices attended the gazer it wasnow no otherwise than distinctly black to his vision. That narrow whiteborder was foam, he knew well; but its boisterous tosses were so distantas to appear a pulsation only, and its plashing was barely audible. Awhite border to a black sea--his funeral pall and its edging. 

The world was to some extent turned upside down for him. Rain descendedfrom below. Beneath his feet was aerial space and the unknown; above himwas the firm, familiar ground, and upon it all that he loved best. 

Pitiless nature had then two voices, and two only. The nearer was thevoice of the wind in his ears rising and falling as it mauled and thrusthim hard or softly. The second and distant one was the moan of thatunplummetted ocean below and afar--rubbing its restless flank againstthe Cliff without a Name. 

Knight perseveringly held fast. Had he any faith in Elfride? Perhaps. Love is faith, and faith, like a gathered flower, will rootlessly liveon. 

Nobody would have expected the sun to shine on such an evening as this. Yet it appeared, low down upon the sea. Not with its natural goldenfringe, sweeping the furthest ends of the landscape, not with thestrange glare of whiteness which it sometimes puts on as an alternativeto colour, but as a splotch of vermilion red upon a leaden ground--a redface looking on with a drunken leer. 

Most men who have brains know it, and few are so foolish as to disguisethis fact from themselves or others, even though an ostentatious displaymay be called self-conceit. Knight, without showing it much, knew thathis intellect was above the average. And he thought--he could not helpthinking--that his death would be a deliberate loss to earth of goodmaterial; that such an experiment in killing might have been practisedupon some less developed life. 

A fancy some people hold, when in a bitter mood, is that inexorablecircumstance only tries to prevent what intelligence attempts. Renouncea desire for a long-contested position, and go on another tack, andafter a while the prize is thrown at you, seemingly in disappointmentthat no more tantalizing is possible. 

Knight gave up thoughts of life utterly and entirely, and turned tocontemplate the Dark Valley and the unknown future beyond. Into theshadowy depths of these speculations we will not follow him. Let itsuffice to state what ensued. 

At that moment of taking no more thought for this life, somethingdisturbed the outline of the bank above him. A spot appeared. It was thehead of Elfride. 

Knight immediately prepared to welcome life again. 

The expression of a face consigned to utter loneliness, when a friendfirst looks in upon it, is moving in the extreme. In rowing seaward toa light-ship or sea-girt lighthouse, where, without any immediate terrorof death, the inmates experience the gloom of monotonous seclusion, thegrateful eloquence of their countenances at the greeting, expressive ofthankfulness for the visit, is enough to stir the emotions of the mostcareless observer. 

Knight's upward look at Elfride was of a nature with, but fartranscending, such an instance as this. The lines of his face haddeepened to furrows, and every one of them thanked her visibly. His lipsmoved to the word 'Elfride, ' though the emotion evolved no sound. Hiseyes passed all description in their combination of the whole diapasonof eloquence, from lover's deep love to fellow-man's gratitude for atoken of remembrance from one of his kind. 

Elfride had come back. What she had come to do he did not know. Shecould only look on at his death, perhaps. Still, she had come back, andnot deserted him utterly, and it was much. 

It was a novelty in the extreme to see Henry Knight, to whom Elfridewas but a child, who had swayed her as a tree sways a bird's nest, whomastered her and made her weep most bitterly at her own insignificance, thus thankful for a sight of her face. She looked down upon him, herface glistening with rain and tears. He smiled faintly. 

'How calm he is!' she thought. 'How great and noble he is to be socalm!' She would have died ten times for him then. 

The gliding form of the steamboat caught her eye: she heeded it nolonger. 

'How much longer can you wait?' came from her pale lips and along thewind to his position. 

'Four minutes, ' said Knight in a weaker voice than her own. 

'But with a good hope of being saved?'

'Seven or eight. '

He now noticed that in her arms she bore a bundle of white linen, andthat her form was singularly attenuated. So preternaturally thin andflexible was Elfride at this moment, that she appeared to bend under thelight blows of the rain-shafts, as they struck into her sides and bosom, and splintered into spray on her face. There is nothing like a thoroughdrenching for reducing the protuberances of clothes, but Elfride'sseemed to cling to her like a glove. 

Without heeding the attack of the clouds further than by raising herhand and wiping away the spirts of rain when they went more particularlyinto her eyes, she sat down and hurriedly began rending the linen intostrips. These she knotted end to end, and afterwards twisted them likethe strands of a cord. In a short space of time she had formed a perfectrope by this means, six or seven yards long. 

'Can you wait while I bind it?' she said, anxiously extending her gazedown to him. 

'Yes, if not very long. Hope has given me a wonderful instalment ofstrength. '

Elfride dropped her eyes again, tore the remaining material into narrowtape-like ligaments, knotted each to each as before, but on a smallerscale, and wound the lengthy string she had thus formed round and roundthe linen rope, which, without this binding, had a tendency to spreadabroad. 

'Now, ' said Knight, who, watching the proceedings intently, had by thistime not only grasped her scheme, but reasoned further on, 'I canhold three minutes longer yet. And do you use the time in testing thestrength of the knots, one by one. '

She at once obeyed, tested each singly by putting her foot on the ropebetween each knot, and pulling with her hands. One of the knots slipped. 

'Oh, think! It would have broken but for your forethought, ' Elfrideexclaimed apprehensively. 

She retied the two ends. The rope was now firm in every part. 

'When you have let it down, ' said Knight, already resuming his positionof ruling power, 'go back from the edge of the slope, and over the bankas far as the rope will allow you. Then lean down, and hold the end withboth hands. '

He had first thought of a safer plan for his own deliverance, but itinvolved the disadvantage of possibly endangering her life. 

'I have tied it round my waist, ' she cried, 'and I will lean directlyupon the bank, holding with my hands as well. '

It was the arrangement he had thought of, but would not suggest. 

'I will raise and drop it three times when I am behind the bank, ' shecontinued, 'to signify that I am ready. Take care, oh, take the greatestcare, I beg you!'

She dropped the rope over him, to learn how much of its length itwould be necessary to expend on that side of the bank, went back, anddisappeared as she had done before. 

The rope was trailing by Knight's shoulders. In a few moments ittwitched three times. 

He waited yet a second or two, then laid hold. 

The incline of this upper portion of the precipice, to the length onlyof a few feet, useless to a climber empty-handed, was invaluable now. Not more than half his weight depended entirely on the linen rope. Halfa dozen extensions of the arms, alternating with half a dozen seizuresof the rope with his feet, brought him up to the level of the soil. 

He was saved, and by Elfride. 

He extended his cramped limbs like an awakened sleeper, and sprang overthe bank. 

At sight of him she leapt to her feet with almost a shriek of joy. Knight's eyes met hers, and with supreme eloquence the glance of eachtold a long-concealed tale of emotion in that short half-moment. Movedby an impulse neither could resist, they ran together and into eachother's arms. 

At the moment of embracing, Elfride's eyes involuntarily flashed towardsthe Puffin steamboat. It had doubled the point, and was no longer to beseen. 

An overwhelming rush of exultation at having delivered the man sherevered from one of the most terrible forms of death, shook the gentlegirl to the centre of her soul. It merged in a defiance of duty toStephen, and a total recklessness as to plighted faith. Every nerveof her will was now in entire subjection to her feeling--volition as aguiding power had forsaken her. To remain passive, as she remained now, encircled by his arms, was a sufficiently complete result--a gloriouscrown to all the years of her life. Perhaps he was only grateful, anddid not love her. No matter: it was infinitely more to be even the slaveof the greater than the queen of the less. Some such sensation as this, though it was not recognized as a finished thought, raced along theimpressionable soul of Elfride. 

Regarding their attitude, it was impossible for two persons to go nearerto a kiss than went Knight and Elfride during those minutes of impulsiveembrace in the pelting rain. Yet they did not kiss. Knight's peculiarityof nature was such that it would not allow him to take advantage of theunguarded and passionate avowal she had tacitly made. 

Elfride recovered herself, and gently struggled to be free. 

He reluctantly relinquished her, and then surveyed her from crown totoe. She seemed as small as an infant. He perceived whence she hadobtained the rope. 

'Elfride, my Elfride!' he exclaimed in gratified amazement. 

'I must leave you now, ' she said, her face doubling its red, withan expression between gladness and shame 'You follow me, but at somedistance. '

'The rain and wind pierce you through; the chill will kill you. Godbless you for such devotion! Take my coat and put it on. '

'No; I shall get warm running. '

Elfride had absolutely nothing between her and the weather but herexterior robe or 'costume. ' The door had been made upon a woman's wit, and it had found its way out. Behind the bank, whilst Knight reclinedupon the dizzy slope waiting for death, she had taken off her wholeclothing, and replaced only her outer bodice and skirt. Every thread ofthe remainder lay upon the ground in the form of a woollen and cottonrope. 

'I am used to being wet through, ' she added. 'I have been drenched onPansy dozens of times. Good-bye till we meet, clothed and in our rightminds, by the fireside at home!'

She then ran off from him through the pelting rain like a hare; or morelike a pheasant when, scampering away with a lowered tail, it has a mindto fly, but does not. Elfride was soon out of sight. 

Knight felt uncomfortably wet and chilled, but glowing with fervournevertheless. He fully appreciated Elfride's girlish delicacy inrefusing his escort in the meagre habiliments she wore, yet feltthat necessary abstraction of herself for a short half-hour as a mostgrievous loss to him. 

He gathered up her knotted and twisted plumage of linen, lace, andembroidery work, and laid it across his arm. He noticed on the groundan envelope, limp and wet. In endeavouring to restore this to its propershape, he loosened from the envelope a piece of paper it had contained, which was seized by the wind in falling from Knight's hand. It was blownto the right, blown to the left--it floated to the edge of the cliff andover the sea, where it was hurled aloft. It twirled in the air, and thenflew back over his head. 

Knight followed the paper, and secured it. Having done so, he looked todiscover if it had been worth securing. 

The troublesome sheet was a banker's receipt for two hundred pounds, placed to the credit of Miss Swancourt, which the impractical girl hadtotally forgotten she carried with her. 

Knight folded it as carefully as its moist condition would allow, put itin his pocket, and followed Elfride. 

Chapter XXIII

 'Should auld acquaintance be forgot?'

By this time Stephen Smith had stepped out upon the quay at CastleBoterel, and breathed his native air. 

A darker skin, a more pronounced moustache, and an incipient beard, werethe chief additions and changes noticeable in his appearance. 

In spite of the falling rain, which had somewhat lessened, he took asmall valise in his hand, and, leaving the remainder of his luggage atthe inn, ascended the hills towards East Endelstow. This place lay ina vale of its own, further inland than the west village, and though sonear it, had little of physical feature in common with the latter. EastEndelstow was more wooded and fertile: it boasted of Lord Luxellian'smansion and park, and was free from those bleak open uplands which lentsuch an air of desolation to the vicinage of the coast--always exceptingthe small valley in which stood the vicarage and Mrs. Swancourt's oldhouse, The Crags. 

Stephen had arrived nearly at the summit of the ridge when the rainagain increased its volume, and, looking about for temporary shelter, heascended a steep path which penetrated dense hazel bushes in the lowerpart of its course. Further up it emerged upon a ledge immediately overthe turnpike-road, and sheltered by an overhanging face of rubble rock, with bushes above. For a reason of his own he made this spot his refugefrom the storm, and turning his face to the left, conned the landscapeas a book. 

He was overlooking the valley containing Elfride's residence. 

From this point of observation the prospect exhibited the peculiarityof being either brilliant foreground or the subdued tone of distance, asudden dip in the surface of the country lowering out of sight all theintermediate prospect. In apparent contact with the trees and bushesgrowing close beside him appeared the distant tract, terminated suddenlyby the brink of the series of cliffs which culminated in the tall giantwithout a name--small and unimportant as here beheld. A leaf on a boughat Stephen's elbow blotted out a whole hill in the contrasting districtfar away; a green bunch of nuts covered a complete upland there, and thegreat cliff itself was outvied by a pigmy crag in the bank hard by him. Stephen had looked upon these things hundreds of times before to-day, but he had never viewed them with such tenderness as now. 

Stepping forward in this direction yet a little further, he could seethe tower of West Endelstow Church, beneath which he was to meet hisElfride that night. And at the same time he noticed, coming over thehill from the cliffs, a white speck in motion. It seemed first to be asea-gull flying low, but ultimately proved to be a human figure, runningwith great rapidity. The form flitted on, heedless of the rain whichhad caused Stephen's halt in this place, dropped down the heathery hill, entered the vale, and was out of sight. 

Whilst he meditated upon the meaning of this phenomenon, he wassurprised to see swim into his ken from the same point of departureanother moving speck, as different from the first as well could be, insomuch that it was perceptible only by its blackness. Slowly andregularly it took the same course, and there was not much doubt thatthis was the form of a man. He, too, gradually descended from the upperlevels, and was lost in the valley below. 

The rain had by this time again abated, and Stephen returned to theroad. Looking ahead, he saw two men and a cart. They were soon obscuredby the intervention of a high hedge. Just before they emerged again heheard voices in conversation. 

''A must soon be in the naibourhood, too, if so be he's a-coming, 'said a tenor tongue, which Stephen instantly recognized as MartinCannister's. 

''A must 'a b'lieve, ' said another voice--that of Stephen's father. 

Stephen stepped forward, and came before them face to face. His fatherand Martin were walking, dressed in their second best suits, and besidethem rambled along a grizzel horse and brightly painted spring-cart. 

'All right, Mr. Cannister; here's the lost man!' exclaimed young Smith, entering at once upon the old style of greeting. 'Father, here I am. '

'All right, my sonny; and glad I be for't!' returned John Smith, overjoyed to see the young man. 'How be ye? Well, come along home, anddon't let's bide out here in the damp. Such weather must be terrible badfor a young chap just come from a fiery nation like Indy; hey, naibourCannister?'

'Trew, trew. And about getting home his traps? Boxes, monstrous bales, and noble packages of foreign description, I make no doubt?'

'Hardly all that, ' said Stephen laughing. 

'We brought the cart, maning to go right on to Castle Boterel afore yelanded, ' said his father. '"Put in the horse, " says Martin. "Ay, " saysI, "so we will;" and did it straightway. Now, maybe, Martin had bettergo on wi' the cart for the things, and you and I walk home-along. '

'And I shall be back a'most as soon as you. Peggy is a pretty stepstill, though time d' begin to tell upon her as upon the rest o' us. '

Stephen told Martin where to find his baggage, and then continued hisjourney homeward in the company of his father. 

'Owing to your coming a day sooner than we first expected, ' said John, 'you'll find us in a turk of a mess, sir--"sir, " says I to my own son!but ye've gone up so, Stephen. We've killed the pig this morning forye, thinking ye'd be hungry, and glad of a morsel of fresh mate. And 'awon't be cut up till to-night. However, we can make ye a good supperof fry, which will chaw up well wi' a dab o' mustard and a few nice newtaters, and a drop of shilling ale to wash it down. Your mother havescrubbed the house through because ye were coming, and dusted allthe chimmer furniture, and bought a new basin and jug of a travellingcrockery-woman that came to our door, and scoured the cannel-sticks, andclaned the winders! Ay, I don't know what 'a ha'n't a done. Never weresuch a steer, 'a b'lieve. '

Conversation of this kind and inquiries of Stephen for his mother'swellbeing occupied them for the remainder of the journey. When theydrew near the river, and the cottage behind it, they could hear themaster-mason's clock striking off the bygone hours of the day atintervals of a quarter of a minute, during which intervals Stephen'simagination readily pictured his mother's forefinger wandering round thedial in company with the minute-hand. 

'The clock stopped this morning, and your mother in putting en rightseemingly, ' said his father in an explanatory tone; and they went up thegarden to the door. 

When they had entered, and Stephen had dutifully and warmly greeted hismother--who appeared in a cotton dress of a dark-blue ground, coveredbroadcast with a multitude of new and full moons, stars, and planets, with an occasional dash of a comet-like aspect to diversify thescene--the crackle of cart-wheels was heard outside, and MartinCannister stamped in at the doorway, in the form of a pair of legsbeneath a great box, his body being nowhere visible. When the luggagehad been all taken down, and Stephen had gone upstairs to change hisclothes, Mrs. Smith's mind seemed to recover a lost thread. 

'Really our clock is not worth a penny, ' she said, turning to it andattempting to start the pendulum. 

'Stopped again?' inquired Martin with commiseration. 

'Yes, sure, ' replied Mrs. Smith; and continued after the manner ofcertain matrons, to whose tongues the harmony of a subject with a casualmood is a greater recommendation than its pertinence to the occasion, 'John would spend pounds a year upon the jimcrack old thing, if hemight, in having it claned, when at the same time you may doctor ityourself as well. "The clock's stopped again, John, " I say to him. "Better have en claned, " says he. There's five shillings. "That clockgrinds again, " I say to en. "Better have en claned, " 'a says again. "That clock strikes wrong, John, " says I. "Better have en claned, " hegoes on. The wheels would have been polished to skeletons by thistime if I had listened to en, and I assure you we could have bought achainey-faced beauty wi' the good money we've flung away these last tenyears upon this old green-faced mortal. And, Martin, you must be wet. Myson is gone up to change. John is damper than I should like to be, but 'a calls it nothing. Some of Mrs. Swancourt's servants have beenhere--they ran in out of the rain when going for a walk--and I assureyou the state of their bonnets was frightful. '

'How's the folks? We've been over to Castle Boterel, and what wi'running and stopping out of the storms, my poor head is beyondeverything! fizz, fizz fizz; 'tis frying o' fish from morning to night, 'said a cracked voice in the doorway at this instant. 

'Lord so's, who's that?' said Mrs. Smith, in a private exclamation, and turning round saw William Worm, endeavouring to make himself lookpassing civil and friendly by overspreading his face with a large smilethat seemed to have no connection with the humour he was in. Behind himstood a woman about twice his size, with a large umbrella over her head. This was Mrs. Worm, William's wife. 

'Come in, William, ' said John Smith. 'We don't kill a pig every day. And you, likewise, Mrs. Worm. I make ye welcome. Since ye left ParsonSwancourt, William, I don't see much of 'ee. '

'No, for to tell the truth, since I took to the turn-pike-gate line, I've been out but little, coming to church o' Sundays not being my dutynow, as 'twas in a parson's family, you see. However, our boy is able tomind the gate now, and I said, says I, "Barbara, let's call and see JohnSmith. "'

'I am sorry to hear yer pore head is so bad still. '

'Ay, I assure you that frying o' fish is going on for nights and days. And, you know, sometimes 'tisn't only fish, but rashers o' bacon andinions. Ay, I can hear the fat pop and fizz as nateral as life; can't I, Barbara?'

Mrs. Worm, who had been all this time engaged in closing her umbrella, corroborated this statement, and now, coming indoors, showed herself tobe a wide-faced, comfortable-looking woman, with a wart upon her cheek, bearing a small tuft of hair in its centre. 

'Have ye ever tried anything to cure yer noise, Maister Worm?' inquiredMartin Cannister. 

'Oh ay; bless ye, I've tried everything. Ay, Providence is a mercifulman, and I have hoped He'd have found it out by this time, living somany years in a parson's family, too, as I have, but 'a don't seem torelieve me. Ay, I be a poor wambling man, and life's a mint o' trouble!'

'True, mournful true, William Worm. 'Tis so. The world wants looking to, or 'tis all sixes and sevens wi' us. '

'Take your things off, Mrs. Worm, ' said Mrs. Smith. 'We be rather in amuddle, to tell the truth, for my son is just dropped in from Indy a daysooner than we expected, and the pig-killer is coming presently to cutup. '

Mrs. Barbara Worm, not wishing to take any mean advantage of personsin a muddle by observing them, removed her bonnet and mantle with eyesfixed upon the flowers in the plot outside the door. 

'What beautiful tiger-lilies!' said Mrs. Worm. 

'Yes, they be very well, but such a trouble to me on account of thechildren that come here. They will go eating the berries on the stem, and call 'em currants. Taste wi' junivals is quite fancy, really. '

'And your snapdragons look as fierce as ever. '

'Well, really, ' answered Mrs. Smith, entering didactically into thesubject, 'they are more like Christians than flowers. But they make upwell enough wi' the rest, and don't require much tending. And the samecan be said o' these miller's wheels. 'Tis a flower I like very much, though so simple. John says he never cares about the flowers o' 'em, but men have no eye for anything neat. He says his favourite flower isa cauliflower. And I assure you I tremble in the springtime, for 'tisperfect murder. '

'You don't say so, Mrs. Smith!'

'John digs round the roots, you know. In goes his blundering spade, through roots, bulbs, everything that hasn't got a good show aboveground, turning 'em up cut all to slices. Only the very last fall I wentto move some tulips, when I found every bulb upside down, and the stemscrooked round. He had turned 'em over in the spring, and the cunningcreatures had soon found that heaven was not where it used to be. '

'What's that long-favoured flower under the hedge?'

'They? O Lord, they are the horrid Jacob's ladders! Instead of praising'em, I be mad wi' 'em for being so ready to bide where they are notwanted. They be very well in their way, but I do not care for thingsthat neglect won't kill. Do what I will, dig, drag, scrap, pull, I gettoo many of 'em. I chop the roots: up they'll come, treble strong. Throw'em over hedge; there they'll grow, staring me in the face like a hungrydog driven away, and creep back again in a week or two the same asbefore. 'Tis Jacob's ladder here, Jacob's ladder there, and plant 'emwhere nothing in the world will grow, you get crowds of 'em in a monthor two. John made a new manure mixen last summer, and he said, "Maria, now if you've got any flowers or such like, that you don't want, you mayplant 'em round my mixen so as to hide it a bit, though 'tis not likelyanything of much value will grow there. " I thought, "There's themJacob's ladders; I'll put them there, since they can't do harm in such aplace;" and I planted the Jacob's ladders sure enough. They growed, andthey growed, in the mixen and out of the mixen, all over the litter, covering it quite up. When John wanted to use it about the garden, 'asaid, "Nation seize them Jacob's ladders of yours, Maria! They've eatthe goodness out of every morsel of my manure, so that 'tis no betterthan sand itself!" Sure enough the hungry mortals had. 'Tis my beliefthat in the secret souls o' 'em, Jacob's ladders be weeds, and notflowers at all, if the truth was known. '

Robert Lickpan, pig-killer and carrier, arrived at this moment. Thefatted animal hanging in the back kitchen was cleft down the middle ofits backbone, Mrs. Smith being meanwhile engaged in cooking supper. 

Between the cutting and chopping, ale was handed round, and Worm andthe pig-killer listened to John Smith's description of the meeting withStephen, with eyes blankly fixed upon the table-cloth, in order thatnothing in the external world should interrupt their efforts to conjureup the scene correctly. 

Stephen came downstairs in the middle of the story, and after the littleinterruption occasioned by his entrance and welcome, the narrative wasagain continued, precisely as if he had not been there at all, andwas told inclusively to him, as to somebody who knew nothing about thematter. 

'"Ay, " I said, as I catched sight o' en through the brimbles, "that'sthe lad, for I d' know en by his grand-father's walk;" for 'a stappedout like poor father for all the world. Still there was a touch o' thefrisky that set me wondering. 'A got closer, and I said, "That's thelad, for I d' know en by his carrying a black case like a travellingman. " Still, a road is common to all the world, and there be moretravelling men than one. But I kept my eye cocked, and I said to Martin, "'Tis the boy, now, for I d' know en by the wold twirl o' the stick andthe family step. " Then 'a come closer, and a' said, "All right. " I couldswear to en then. '

Stephen's personal appearance was next criticised. 

'He d' look a deal thinner in face, surely, than when I seed en at theparson's, and never knowed en, if ye'll believe me, ' said Martin. 

'Ay, there, ' said another, without removing his eyes from Stephen'sface, 'I should ha' knowed en anywhere. 'Tis his father's nose to a T. '

'It has been often remarked, ' said Stephen modestly. 

'And he's certainly taller, ' said Martin, letting his glance run overStephen's form from bottom to top. 

'I was thinking 'a was exactly the same height, ' Worm replied. 

'Bless thy soul, that's because he's bigger round likewise. ' And theunited eyes all moved to Stephen's waist. 

'I be a poor wambling man, but I can make allowances, ' said WilliamWorm. 'Ah, sure, and how he came as a stranger and pilgrim to ParsonSwancourt's that time, not a soul knowing en after so many years! Ay, life's a strange picter, Stephen: but I suppose I must say Sir to ye?'

'Oh, it is not necessary at present, ' Stephen replied, though mentallyresolving to avoid the vicinity of that familiar friend as soon as hehad made pretensions to the hand of Elfride. 

'Ah, well, ' said Worm musingly, 'some would have looked for no less thana Sir. There's a sight of difference in people. '

'And in pigs likewise, ' observed John Smith, looking at the halvedcarcass of his own. 

Robert Lickpan, the pig-killer, here seemed called upon to enter thelists of conversation. 

'Yes, they've got their particular naters good-now, ' he remarkedinitially. 'Many's the rum-tempered pig I've knowed. '

'I don't doubt it, Master Lickpan, ' answered Martin, in a toneexpressing that his convictions, no less than good manners, demanded thereply. 

'Yes, ' continued the pig-killer, as one accustomed to be heard. 'Onethat I knowed was deaf and dumb, and we couldn't make out what was thematter wi' the pig. 'A would eat well enough when 'a seed the trough, but when his back was turned, you might a-rattled the bucket all day, the poor soul never heard ye. Ye could play tricks upon en behind hisback, and a' wouldn't find it out no quicker than poor deaf GrammerCates. But a' fatted well, and I never seed a pig open better when a'was killed, and 'a was very tender eating, very; as pretty a bit of mateas ever you see; you could suck that mate through a quill. 

'And another I knowed, ' resumed the killer, after quietly letting a pintof ale run down his throat of its own accord, and setting down thecup with mathematical exactness upon the spot from which he had raisedit--'another went out of his mind. '

'How very mournful!' murmured Mrs. Worm. 

'Ay, poor thing, 'a did! As clean out of his mind as the cleverestChristian could go. In early life 'a was very melancholy, and neverseemed a hopeful pig by no means. 'Twas Andrew Stainer's pig--that'swhose pig 'twas. '

'I can mind the pig well enough, ' attested John Smith. 

'And a pretty little porker 'a was. And you all know Farmer Buckle'ssort? Every jack o' em suffer from the rheumatism to this day, owing toa damp sty they lived in when they were striplings, as 'twere. '

'Well, now we'll weigh, ' said John. 

'If so be he were not so fine, we'd weigh en whole: but as he is, we'lltake a side at a time. John, you can mind my old joke, ey?'

'I do so; though 'twas a good few years ago I first heard en. '

'Yes, ' said Lickpan, 'that there old familiar joke have been in ourfamily for generations, I may say. My father used that joke regular atpig-killings for more than five and forty years--the time he followedthe calling. And 'a told me that 'a had it from his father when he wasquite a chiel, who made use o' en just the same at every killing more orless; and pig-killings were pig-killings in those days. '

'Trewly they were. '

'I've never heard the joke, ' said Mrs. Smith tentatively. 

'Nor I, ' chimed in Mrs. Worm, who, being the only other lady in theroom, felt bound by the laws of courtesy to feel like Mrs. Smith ineverything. 

'Surely, surely you have, ' said the killer, looking sceptically at thebenighted females. 'However, 'tisn't much--I don't wish to say it is. Itcommences like this: "Bob will tell the weight of your pig, 'a b'lieve, "says I. The congregation of neighbours think I mane my son Bob, naturally; but the secret is that I mane the bob o' the steelyard. Ha, ha, ha!'

'Haw, haw, haw!' laughed Martin Cannister, who had heard the explanationof this striking story for the hundredth time. 

'Huh, huh, huh!' laughed John Smith, who had heard it for thethousandth. 

'Hee, hee, hee!' laughed William Worm, who had never heard it at all, but was afraid to say so. 

'Thy grandfather, Robert, must have been a wide-awake chap to make thatstory, ' said Martin Cannister, subsiding to a placid aspect of delightedcriticism. 

'He had a head, by all account. And, you see, as the first-born of theLickpans have all been Roberts, they've all been Bobs, so the story washanded down to the present day. '

'Poor Joseph, your second boy, will never be able to bring it out incompany, which is rather unfortunate, ' said Mrs. Worm thoughtfully. 

''A won't. Yes, grandfer was a clever chap, as ye say; but I knowed acleverer. 'Twas my uncle Levi. Uncle Levi made a snuff-box that shouldbe a puzzle to his friends to open. He used to hand en round at weddingparties, christenings, funerals, and in other jolly company, and let 'emtry their skill. This extraordinary snuff-box had a spring behind thatwould push in and out--a hinge where seemed to be the cover; a slide atthe end, a screw in front, and knobs and queer notches everywhere. Oneman would try the spring, another would try the screw, another wouldtry the slide; but try as they would, the box wouldn't open. And theycouldn't open en, and they didn't open en. Now what might you think wasthe secret of that box?'

All put on an expression that their united thoughts were inadequate tothe occasion. 

'Why the box wouldn't open at all. 'A were made not to open, and yemight have tried till the end of Revelations, 'twould have been asnaught, for the box were glued all round. '

'A very deep man to have made such a box. '

'Yes. 'Twas like uncle Levi all over. '

''Twas. I can mind the man very well. Tallest man ever I seed. '

''A was so. He never slept upon a bedstead after he growed up a hardboy-chap--never could get one long enough. When 'a lived in that littlesmall house by the pond, he used to have to leave open his chamber doorevery night at going to his bed, and let his feet poke out upon thelanding. '

'He's dead and gone now, nevertheless, poor man, as we all shall, 'observed Worm, to fill the pause which followed the conclusion of RobertLickpan's speech. 

The weighing and cutting up was pursued amid an animated discourse onStephen's travels; and at the finish, the first-fruits of the day'sslaughter, fried in onions, were then turned from the pan into a dishon the table, each piece steaming and hissing till it reached their verymouths. 

It must be owned that the gentlemanly son of the house looked ratherout of place in the course of this operation. Nor was his mindquite philosophic enough to allow him to be comfortable with theseold-established persons, his father's friends. He had never lived longat home--scarcely at all since his childhood. The presence of WilliamWorm was the most awkward feature of the case, for, though Worm had leftthe house of Mr. Swancourt, the being hand-in-glove with a ci-devantservitor reminded Stephen too forcibly of the vicar's classificationof himself before he went from England. Mrs. Smith was conscious ofthe defect in her arrangements which had brought about the undesiredconjunction. She spoke to Stephen privately. 

'I am above having such people here, Stephen; but what could I do? Andyour father is so rough in his nature that he's more mixed up with themthan need be. '

'Never mind, mother, ' said Stephen; 'I'll put up with it now. '

'When we leave my lord's service, and get further up the country--asI hope we shall soon--it will be different. We shall be among freshpeople, and in a larger house, and shall keep ourselves up a bit, Ihope. '

'Is Miss Swancourt at home, do you know?' Stephen inquired

'Yes, your father saw her this morning. '

'Do you often see her?'

'Scarcely ever. Mr. Glim, the curate, calls occasionally, but theSwancourts don't come into the village now any more than to drivethrough it. They dine at my lord's oftener than they used. Ah, here's anote was brought this morning for you by a boy. '

Stephen eagerly took the note and opened it, his mother watching him. Heread what Elfride had written and sent before she started for the cliffthat afternoon:

'Yes; I will meet you in the church at nine to-night. --E. S. '

'I don't know, Stephen, ' his mother said meaningly, 'whe'r you stillthink about Miss Elfride, but if I were you I wouldn't concern abouther. They say that none of old Mrs. Swancourt's money will come to herstep-daughter. '

'I see the evening has turned out fine; I am going out for a littlewhile to look round the place, ' he said, evading the direct query. 'Probably by the time I return our visitors will be gone, and we'll havea more confidential talk. '

Chapter XXIV

 'Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour. '

The rain had ceased since the sunset, but it was a cloudy night; andthe light of the moon, softened and dispersed by its misty veil, wasdistributed over the land in pale gray. 

A dark figure stepped from the doorway of John Smith's river-sidecottage, and strode rapidly towards West Endelstow with a lightfootstep. Soon ascending from the lower levels he turned a corner, followed a cart-track, and saw the tower of the church he was in questof distinctly shaped forth against the sky. In less than half an hourfrom the time of starting he swung himself over the churchyard stile. 

The wild irregular enclosure was as much as ever an integral part of theold hill. The grass was still long, the graves were shaped precisely aspassing years chose to alter them from their orthodox form as laid downby Martin Cannister, and by Stephen's own grandfather before him. 

A sound sped into the air from the direction in which Castle Boterellay. It was the striking of the church clock, distinct in the stillatmosphere as if it had come from the tower hard by, which, wrapt in itssolitary silentness, gave out no such sounds of life. 

'One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. ' Stephencarefully counted the strokes, though he well knew their numberbeforehand. Nine o'clock. It was the hour Elfride had herself named asthe most convenient for meeting him. 

Stephen stood at the door of the porch and listened. He could have heardthe softest breathing of any person within the porch; nobody was there. He went inside the doorway, sat down upon the stone bench, and waitedwith a beating heart. 

The faint sounds heard only accentuated the silence. The rising andfalling of the sea, far away along the coast, was the most important. A minor sound was the scurr of a distant night-hawk. Among the minutestwhere all were minute were the light settlement of gossamer fragmentsfloating in the air, a toad humbly labouring along through thegrass near the entrance, the crackle of a dead leaf which a worm wasendeavouring to pull into the earth, a waft of air, getting nearer andnearer, and expiring at his feet under the burden of a winged seed. 

Among all these soft sounds came not the only soft sound he cared tohear--the footfall of Elfride. 

For a whole quarter of an hour Stephen sat thus intent, without movinga muscle. At the end of that time he walked to the west front of thechurch. Turning the corner of the tower, a white form stared him in theface. He started back, and recovered himself. It was the tomb of youngfarmer Jethway, looking still as fresh and as new as when it wasfirst erected, the white stone in which it was hewn having a singularweirdness amid the dark blue slabs from local quarries, of which thewhole remaining gravestones were formed. 

He thought of the night when he had sat thereon with Elfride as hiscompanion, and well remembered his regret that she had received, evenunwillingly, earlier homage than his own. But his present tangibleanxiety reduced such a feeling to sentimental nonsense in comparison;and he strolled on over the graves to the border of the churchyard, whence in the daytime could be clearly seen the vicarage and the presentresidence of the Swancourts. No footstep was discernible upon the pathup the hill, but a light was shining from a window in the last-namedhouse. 

Stephen knew there could be no mistake about the time or place, and nodifficulty about keeping the engagement. He waited yet longer, passingfrom impatience into a mood which failed to take any account of thelapse of time. He was awakened from his reverie by Castle Boterel clock. 

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, TEN. 

One little fall of the hammer in addition to the number it had beensharp pleasure to hear, and what a difference to him!

He left the churchyard on the side opposite to his point of entrance, and went down the hill. Slowly he drew near the gate of her house. Thishe softly opened, and walked up the gravel drive to the door. Here hepaused for several minutes. 

At the expiration of that time the murmured speech of a manly voice cameout to his ears through an open window behind the corner of the house. This was responded to by a clear soft laugh. It was the laugh ofElfride. 

Stephen was conscious of a gnawing pain at his heart. He retreated as hehad come. There are disappointments which wring us, and there are thosewhich inflict a wound whose mark we bear to our graves. Such are sokeen that no future gratification of the same desire can ever obliteratethem: they become registered as a permanent loss of happiness. Such aone was Stephen's now: the crowning aureola of the dream had been themeeting here by stealth; and if Elfride had come to him only tenminutes after he had turned away, the disappointment would have beenrecognizable still. 

When the young man reached home he found there a letter which hadarrived in his absence. Believing it to contain some reason for hernon-appearance, yet unable to imagine one that could justify her, hehastily tore open the envelope. 

The paper contained not a word from Elfride. It was the deposit-note forhis two hundred pounds. On the back was the form of a cheque, and thisshe had filled up with the same sum, payable to the bearer. 

Stephen was confounded. He attempted to divine her motive. Consideringhow limited was his knowledge of her later actions, he guessed rathershrewdly that, between the time of her sending the note in the morningand the evening's silent refusal of his gift, something had occurredwhich had caused a total change in her attitude towards him. 

He knew not what to do. It seemed absurd now to go to her father nextmorning, as he had purposed, and ask for an engagement with her, apossibility impending all the while that Elfride herself would not beon his side. Only one course recommended itself as wise. To wait and seewhat the days would bring forth; to go and execute his commissions inBirmingham; then to return, learn if anything had happened, and try whata meeting might do; perhaps her surprise at his backwardness would bringher forward to show latent warmth as decidedly as in old times. 

This act of patience was in keeping only with the nature of a manprecisely of Stephen's constitution. Nine men out of ten would perhapshave rushed off, got into her presence, by fair means or foul, andprovoked a catastrophe of some sort. Possibly for the better, probablyfor the worse. 

He started for Birmingham the next morning. A day's delay would havemade no difference; but he could not rest until he had begun and endedthe programme proposed to himself. Bodily activity will sometimes takethe sting out of anxiety as completely as assurance itself. 

Chapter XXV

 'Mine own familiar friend. '

During these days of absence Stephen lived under alternate conditions. Whenever his emotions were active, he was in agony. Whenever he was notin agony, the business in hand had driven out of his mind by sheer forceall deep reflection on the subject of Elfride and love. 

By the time he took his return journey at the week's end, Stephen hadvery nearly worked himself up to an intention to call and see her faceto face. On this occasion also he adopted his favourite route--by thelittle summer steamer from Bristol to Castle Boterel; the time savedby speed on the railway being wasted at junctions, and in following adevious course. 

It was a bright silent evening at the beginning of September when Smithagain set foot in the little town. He felt inclined to linger awhileupon the quay before ascending the hills, having formed a romanticintention to go home by way of her house, yet not wishing to wander inits neighbourhood till the evening shades should sufficiently screen himfrom observation. 

And thus waiting for night's nearer approach, he watched the placidscene, over which the pale luminosity of the west cast a sorrowfulmonochrome, that became slowly embrowned by the dusk. A star appeared, and another, and another. They sparkled amid the yards and riggingof the two coal brigs lying alangside, as if they had been tiny lampssuspended in the ropes. The masts rocked sleepily to the infinitesimalflux of the tide, which clucked and gurgled with idle regularity innooks and holes of the harbour wall. 

The twilight was now quite pronounced enough for his purpose; and as, rather sad at heart, he was about to move on, a little boat containingtwo persons glided up the middle of the harbour with the lightness ofa shadow. The boat came opposite him, passed on, and touched thelanding-steps at the further end. One of its occupants was a man, asStephen had known by the easy stroke of the oars. When the pair ascendedthe steps, and came into greater prominence, he was enabled to discernthat the second personage was a woman; also that she wore a whitedecoration--apparently a feather--in her hat or bonnet, which spot ofwhite was the only distinctly visible portion of her clothing. 

Stephen remained a moment in their rear, and they passed on, when hepursued his way also, and soon forgot the circumstance. Having crosseda bridge, forsaken the high road, and entered the footpath which ledup the vale to West Endelstow, he heard a little wicket click softlytogether some yards ahead. By the time that Stephen had reached thewicket and passed it, he heard another click of precisely the samenature from another gate yet further on. Clearly some person or personswere preceding him along the path, their footsteps being renderednoiseless by the soft carpet of turf. Stephen now walked a littlequicker, and perceived two forms. One of them bore aloft the whitefeather he had noticed in the woman's hat on the quay: they were thecouple he had seen in the boat. Stephen dropped a little further to therear. 

From the bottom of the valley, along which the path had hitherto lain, beside the margin of the trickling streamlet, another path now diverged, and ascended the slope of the left-hand hill. This footway led only tothe residence of Mrs. Swancourt and a cottage or two in its vicinity. Nograss covered this diverging path in portions of its length, and Stephenwas reminded that the pair in front of him had taken this route by theoccasional rattle of loose stones under their feet. Stephen climbed inthe same direction, but for some undefined reason he trod more softlythan did those preceding him. His mind was unconsciously in exerciseupon whom the woman might be--whether a visitor to The Crags, a servant, or Elfride. He put it to himself yet more forcibly; could the lady beElfride? A possible reason for her unaccountable failure to keep theappointment with him returned with painful force. 

They entered the grounds of the house by the side wicket, whencethe path, now wide and well trimmed, wound fantastically through theshrubbery to an octagonal pavilion called the Belvedere, by reason ofthe comprehensive view over the adjacent district that its green seatsafforded. The path passed this erection and went on to the house as wellas to the gardener's cottage on the other side, straggling thenceto East Endelstow; so that Stephen felt no hesitation in entering apromenade which could scarcely be called private. 

He fancied that he heard the gate open and swing together again behindhim. Turning, he saw nobody. 

The people of the boat came to the summer-house. One of them spoke. 

'I am afraid we shall get a scolding for being so late. '

Stephen instantly recognised the familiar voice, richer and fuller nowthan it used to be. 'Elfride!' he whispered to himself, and held fastby a sapling, to steady himself under the agitation her presence causedhim. His heart swerved from its beat; he shunned receiving the meaninghe sought. 

'A breeze is rising again; how the ash tree rustles!' said Elfride. 'Don't you hear it? I wonder what the time is. '

Stephen relinquished the sapling. 

'I will get a light and tell you. Step into the summer-house; the air isquiet there. '

The cadence of that voice--its peculiarity seemed to come home to himlike that of some notes of the northern birds on his return to hisnative clime, as an old natural thing renewed, yet not particularlynoticed as natural before that renewal. 

They entered the Belvedere. In the lower part it was formed of closewood-work nailed crosswise, and had openings in the upper by way ofwindows. 

The scratch of a striking light was heard, and a bright glow radiatedfrom the interior of the building. The light gave birth to dancingleaf-shadows, stem-shadows, lustrous streaks, dots, sparkles, andthreads of silver sheen of all imaginable variety and transience. Itawakened gnats, which flew towards it, revealed shiny gossamer threads, disturbed earthworms. Stephen gave but little attention to thesephenomena, and less time. He saw in the summer-house a stronglyilluminated picture. 

First, the face of his friend and preceptor Henry Knight, between whomand himself an estrangement had arisen, not from any definite causesbeyond those of absence, increasing age, and diverging sympathies. 

Next, his bright particular star, Elfride. The face of Elfride was morewomanly than when she had called herself his, but as clear and healthyas ever. Her plenteous twines of beautiful hair were looking much asusual, with the exception of a slight modification in their arrangementin deference to the changes of fashion. 

Their two foreheads were close together, almost touching, and both werelooking down. Elfride was holding her watch, Knight was holding thelight with one hand, his left arm being round her waist. Part of thescene reached Stephen's eyes through the horizontal bars of woodwork, which crossed their forms like the ribs of a skeleton. 

Knight's arm stole still further round the waist of Elfride. 

'It is half-past eight, ' she said in a low voice, which had a peculiarmusic in it, seemingly born of a thrill of pleasure at the new proofthat she was beloved. 

The flame dwindled down, died away, and all was wrapped in a darkness towhich the gloom before the illumination bore no comparison in apparentdensity. Stephen, shattered in spirit and sick to his heart'scentre, turned away. In turning, he saw a shadowy outline behindthe summer-house on the other side. His eyes grew accustomed to thedarkness. Was the form a human form, or was it an opaque bush ofjuniper?

The lovers arose, brushed against the laurestines, and pursued theirway to the house. The indistinct figure had moved, and now passed acrossSmith's front. So completely enveloped was the person, that it wasimpossible to discern him or her any more than as a shape. The shapeglided noiselessly on. 

Stephen stepped forward, fearing any mischief was intended to the othertwo. 'Who are you?' he said. 

'Never mind who I am, ' answered a weak whisper from the envelopingfolds. 'WHAT I am, may she be! Perhaps I knew well--ah, so well!--ayouth whose place you took, as he there now takes yours. Will you lether break your heart, and bring you to an untimely grave, as she did theone before you?'

'You are Mrs. Jethway, I think. What do you do here? And why do you talkso wildly?'

'Because my heart is desolate, and nobody cares about it. May hers be sothat brought trouble upon me!'

'Silence!' said Stephen, staunch to Elfride in spite of himself. 'Shewould harm nobody wilfully, never would she! How do you come here?'

'I saw the two coming up the path, and wanted to learn if she were notone of them. Can I help disliking her if I think of the past? Can Ihelp watching her if I remember my boy? Can I help ill-wishing her if Iwell-wish him?'

The bowed form went on, passed through the wicket, and was enveloped bythe shadows of the field. 

Stephen had heard that Mrs. Jethway, since the death of her son, hadbecome a crazed, forlorn woman; and bestowing a pitying thoughtupon her, he dismissed her fancied wrongs from his mind, but not hercondemnation of Elfride's faithlessness. That entered into and mingledwith the sensations his new experience had begotten. The tale told bythe little scene he had witnessed ran parallel with the unhappy woman'sopinion, which, however baseless it might have been antecedently, hadbecome true enough as regarded himself. 

A slow weight of despair, as distinct from a violent paroxysm asstarvation from a mortal shot, filled him and wrung him body and soul. The discovery had not been altogether unexpected, for throughout hisanxiety of the last few days since the night in the churchyard, he hadbeen inclined to construe the uncertainty unfavourably for himself. Hishopes for the best had been but periodic interruptions to a chronic fearof the worst. 

A strange concomitant of his misery was the singularity of its form. That his rival should be Knight, whom once upon a time he had adoredas a man is very rarely adored by another in modern times, and whomhe loved now, added deprecation to sorrow, and cynicism to both. HenryKnight, whose praises he had so frequently trumpeted in her ears, ofwhom she had actually been jealous, lest she herself should be lessenedin Stephen's love on account of him, had probably won her the moreeasily by reason of those very praises which he had only ceased to utterby her command. She had ruled him like a queen in that matter, as inall others. Stephen could tell by her manner, brief as had been hisobservation of it, and by her words, few as they were, that her positionwas far different with Knight. That she looked up at and adored her newlover from below his pedestal, was even more perceptible than that shehad smiled down upon Stephen from a height above him. 

The suddenness of Elfride's renunciation of himself was food for moretorture. To an unimpassioned outsider, it admitted of at least twointerpretations--it might either have proceeded from an endeavour to befaithful to her first choice, till the lover seen absolutely overpoweredthe lover remembered, or from a wish not to lose his love till sure ofthe love of another. But to Stephen Smith the motive involved in thelatter alternative made it untenable where Elfride was the actor. 

He mused on her letters to him, in which she had never mentioned asyllable concerning Knight. It is desirable, however, to observe thatonly in two letters could she possibly have done so. One was writtenabout a week before Knight's arrival, when, though she did not mentionhis promised coming to Stephen, she had hardly a definite reason in hermind for neglecting to do it. In the next she did casually allude toKnight. But Stephen had left Bombay long before that letter arrived. 

Stephen looked at the black form of the adjacent house, where it cut adark polygonal notch out of the sky, and felt that he hated the spot. He did not know many facts of the case, but could not help instinctivelyassociating Elfride's fickleness with the marriage of her father, andtheir introduction to London society. He closed the iron gate boundingthe shrubbery as noiselessly as he had opened it, and went into thegrassy field. Here he could see the old vicarage, the house alone thatwas associated with the sweet pleasant time of his incipient love forElfride. Turning sadly from the place that was no longer a nook inwhich his thoughts might nestle when he was far away, he wandered in thedirection of the east village, to reach his father's house before theyretired to rest. 

The nearest way to the cottage was by crossing the park. He did nothurry. Happiness frequently has reason for haste, but it is seldomthat desolation need scramble or strain. Sometimes he paused under thelow-hanging arms of the trees, looking vacantly on the ground. 

Stephen was standing thus, scarcely less crippled in thought than he wasblank in vision, when a clear sound permeated the quiet air about him, and spread on far beyond. The sound was the stroke of a bell from thetower of East Endelstow Church, which stood in a dell not forty yardsfrom Lord Luxellian's mansion, and within the park enclosure. Anotherstroke greeted his ear, and gave character to both: then came a slowsuccession of them. 

'Somebody is dead, ' he said aloud. 

The death-knell of an inhabitant of the eastern parish was being tolled. 

An unusual feature in the tolling was that it had not been begunaccording to the custom in Endelstow and other parishes in theneighbourhood. At every death the sex and age of the deceased wereannounced by a system of changes. Three times three strokes signifiedthat the departed one was a man; three times two, a woman; twicethree, a boy; twice two, a girl. The regular continuity of the tollingsuggested that it was the resumption rather than the beginning of aknell--the opening portion of which Stephen had not been near enough tohear. 

The momentary anxiety he had felt with regard to his parents passedaway. He had left them in perfect health, and had any serious illnessseized either, a communication would have reached him ere this. At thesame time, since his way homeward lay under the churchyard yews, heresolved to look into the belfry in passing by, and speak a word toMartin Cannister, who would be there. 

Stephen reached the brow of the hill, and felt inclined to renounce hisidea. His mood was such that talking to any person to whom he could notunburden himself would be wearisome. However, before he could put anyinclination into effect, the young man saw from amid the trees a brightlight shining, the rays from which radiated like needles through thesad plumy foliage of the yews. Its direction was from the centre of thechurchyard. 

Stephen mechanically went forward. Never could there be a greatercontrast between two places of like purpose than between this graveyardand that of the further village. Here the grass was carefully tended, and formed virtually a part of the manor-house lawn; flowers and shrubsbeing planted indiscriminately over both, whilst the few graves visiblewere mathematically exact in shape and smoothness, appearing in thedaytime like chins newly shaven. There was no wall, the division betweenGod's Acre and Lord Luxellian's being marked only by a few squarestones set at equidistant points. Among those persons who have romanticsentiments on the subject of their last dwelling-place, probably thegreater number would have chosen such a spot as this in preference toany other: a few would have fancied a constraint in its trim neatness, and would have preferred the wild hill-top of the neighbouring site, with Nature in her most negligent attire. 

The light in the churchyard he next discovered to have its source in apoint very near the ground, and Stephen imagined it might come from alantern in the interior of a partly-dug grave. But a nearer approachshowed him that its position was immediately under the wall of theaisle, and within the mouth of an archway. He could now hear voices, andthe truth of the whole matter began to dawn upon him. Walking on towardsthe opening, Smith discerned on his left hand a heap of earth, and before him a flight of stone steps which the removed earth haduncovered, leading down under the edifice. It was the entrance to alarge family vault, extending under the north aisle. 

Stephen had never before seen it open, and descending one or two stepsstooped to look under the arch. The vault appeared to be crowded withcoffins, with the exception of an open central space, which had beennecessarily kept free for ingress and access to the sides, round threeof which the coffins were stacked in stone bins or niches. 

The place was well lighted with candles stuck in slips of wood that werefastened to the wall. On making the descent of another step the livinginhabitants of the vault were recognizable. They were his father themaster-mason, an under-mason, Martin Cannister, and two or three youngand old labouring-men. Crowbars and workmen's hammers were scatteredabout. The whole company, sitting round on coffins which had beenremoved from their places, apparently for some alteration or enlargementof the vault, were eating bread and cheese, and drinking ale from a cupwith two handles, passed round from each to each. 

'Who is dead?' Stephen inquired, stepping down. 

Chapter XXVI

 'To that last nothing under earth. '

All eyes were turned to the entrance as Stephen spoke, and theancient-mannered conclave scrutinized him inquiringly. 

'Why, 'tis our Stephen!' said his father, rising from his seat; and, still retaining the frothy mug in his left hand, he swung forward hisright for a grasp. 'Your mother is expecting ye--thought you would havecome afore dark. But you'll wait and go home with me? I have all butdone for the day, and was going directly. '

'Yes, 'tis Master Stephy, sure enough. Glad to see you so soon again, Master Smith, ' said Martin Cannister, chastening the gladness expressedin his words by a strict neutrality of countenance, in order toharmonize the feeling as much as possible with the solemnity of a familyvault. 

'The same to you, Martin; and you, William, ' said Stephen, noddingaround to the rest, who, having their mouths full of bread and cheese, were of necessity compelled to reply merely by compressing their eyes tofriendly lines and wrinkles. 

'And who is dead?' Stephen repeated. 

'Lady Luxellian, poor gentlewoman, as we all shall, said theunder-mason. 'Ay, and we be going to enlarge the vault to make room forher. '

'When did she die?'

'Early this morning, ' his father replied, with an appearance ofrecurring to a chronic thought. 'Yes, this morning. Martin hev beentolling ever since, almost. There, 'twas expected. She was very limber. '

'Ay, poor soul, this morning, ' resumed the under-mason, a marvellouslyold man, whose skin seemed so much too large for his body that it wouldnot stay in position. 'She must know by this time whether she's to go upor down, poor woman. '

'What was her age?'

'Not more than seven or eight and twenty by candlelight. But, Lord! byday 'a was forty if 'a were an hour. '

'Ay, night-time or day-time makes a difference of twenty years to richfeymels, ' observed Martin. 

'She was one and thirty really, ' said John Smith. 'I had it from themthat know. '

'Not more than that!'

''A looked very bad, poor lady. In faith, ye might say she was dead foryears afore 'a would own it. '

'As my old father used to say, "dead, but wouldn't drop down. "'

'I seed her, poor soul, ' said a labourer from behind some removedcoffins, 'only but last Valentine's-day of all the world. 'A was armin crook wi' my lord. I says to myself, "You be ticketed Churchyard, mynoble lady, although you don't dream on't. "'

'I suppose my lord will write to all the other lords anointed in thenation, to let 'em know that she that was is now no more?'

''Tis done and past. I see a bundle of letters go off an hour after thedeath. Sich wonderful black rims as they letters had--half-an-inch wide, at the very least. '

'Too much, ' observed Martin. 'In short, 'tis out of the question thata human being can be so mournful as black edges half-an-inch wide. I'msure people don't feel more than a very narrow border when they feelsmost of all. '

'And there are two little girls, are there not?' said Stephen. 

'Nice clane little faces!--left motherless now. '

'They used to come to Parson Swancourt's to play with Miss Elfridewhen I were there, ' said William Worm. 'Ah, they did so's!' The lattersentence was introduced to add the necessary melancholy to a remarkwhich, intrinsically, could hardly be made to possess enough for theoccasion. 'Yes, ' continued Worm, 'they'd run upstairs, they'd run down;flitting about with her everywhere. Very fond of her, they were. Ah, well!'

'Fonder than ever they were of their mother, so 'tis said here andthere, ' added a labourer. 

'Well, you see, 'tis natural. Lady Luxellian stood aloof from'em so--was so drowsy-like, that they couldn't love her in thejolly-companion way children want to like folks. Only last winter I seedMiss Elfride talking to my lady and the two children, and Miss Elfridewiped their noses for em' SO careful--my lady never once seeing that itwanted doing; and, naturally, children take to people that's their bestfriend. '

'Be as 'twill, the woman is dead and gone, and we must make a place forher, ' said John. 'Come, lads, drink up your ale, and we'll just rid thiscorner, so as to have all clear for beginning at the wall, as soon as'tis light to-morrow. '

Stephen then asked where Lady Luxellian was to lie. 

'Here, ' said his father. 'We are going to set back this wall and make arecess; and 'tis enough for us to do before the funeral. When my lord'smother died, she said, "John, the place must be enlarged before anothercan be put in. " But 'a never expected 'twould be wanted so soon. Bettermove Lord George first, I suppose, Simeon?'

He pointed with his foot to a heavy coffin, covered with what hadoriginally been red velvet, the colour of which could only just bedistinguished now. 

'Just as ye think best, Master John, ' replied the shrivelled mason. 'Ah, poor Lord George!' he continued, looking contemplatively at the hugecoffin; 'he and I were as bitter enemies once as any could be when oneis a lord and t'other only a mortal man. Poor fellow! He'd clap his handupon my shoulder and cuss me as familial and neighbourly as if he'd beena common chap. Ay, 'a cussed me up hill and 'a cussed me down; and then'a would rave out again, and the goold clamps of his fine new teethwould glisten in the sun like fetters of brass, while I, being a smallman and poor, was fain to say nothing at all. Such a strappen finegentleman as he was too! Yes, I rather liked en sometimes. But once nowand then, when I looked at his towering height, I'd think in my inside, "What a weight you'll be, my lord, for our arms to lower under the aisleof Endelstow Church some day!"'

'And was he?' inquired a young labourer. 

'He was. He was five hundredweight if 'a were a pound. What with hislead, and his oak, and his handles, and his one thing and t'other'--herethe ancient man slapped his hand upon the cover with a force that causeda rattle among the bones inside--'he half broke my back when I tookhis feet to lower en down the steps there. "Ah, " saith I to Johnthere--didn't I, John?--"that ever one man's glory should be such aweight upon another man!" But there, I liked my lord George sometimes. '

''Tis a strange thought, ' said another, 'that while they be all hereunder one roof, a snug united family o' Luxellians, they be reallyscattered miles away from one another in the form of good sheep andwicked goats, isn't it?'

'True; 'tis a thought to look at. '

'And that one, if he's gone upward, don't know what his wife is doingno more than the man in the moon if she's gone downward. And that someunfortunate one in the hot place is a-hollering across to a lucky one upin the clouds, and quite forgetting their bodies be boxed close togetherall the time. '

'Ay, 'tis a thought to look at, too, that I can say "Hullo!" close tofiery Lord George, and 'a can't hear me. '

'And that I be eating my onion close to dainty Lady Jane's nose, and shecan't smell me. '

'What do 'em put all their heads one way for?' inquired a young man. 

'Because 'tis churchyard law, you simple. The law of the living is, thata man shall be upright and down-right, and the law of the dead is, thata man shall be east and west. Every state of society have its laws. '

'We must break the law wi' a few of the poor souls, however. Come, buckle to, ' said the master-mason. 

And they set to work anew. 

The order of interment could be distinctly traced by observing theappearance of the coffins as they lay piled around. On those whichhad been standing there but a generation or two the trappings stillremained. Those of an earlier period showed bare wood, with a fewtattered rags dangling therefrom. Earlier still, the wood lay infragments on the floor of the niche, and the coffin consisted of nakedlead alone; whilst in the case of the very oldest, even the lead wasbulging and cracking in pieces, revealing to the curious eye a heap ofdust within. The shields upon many were quite loose, and removable bythe hand, their lustreless surfaces still indistinctly exhibiting thename and title of the deceased. 

Overhead the groins and concavities of the arches curved in alldirections, dropping low towards the walls, where the height was no morethan sufficient to enable a person to stand upright. 

The body of George the fourteenth baron, together with two or threeothers, all of more recent date than the great bulk of coffins piledthere, had, for want of room, been placed at the end of the vault ontressels, and not in niches like the others. These it was necessary toremove, to form behind them the chamber in which they were ultimately tobe deposited. Stephen, finding the place and proceedings in keeping withthe sombre colours of his mind, waited there still. 

'Simeon, I suppose you can mind poor Lady Elfride, and how she ran awaywith the actor?' said John Smith, after awhile. 'I think it fell uponthe time my father was sexton here. Let us see--where is she?'

'Here somewhere, ' returned Simeon, looking round him. 

'Why, I've got my arms round the very gentlewoman at this moment. 'He lowered the end of the coffin he was holding, wiped his face, and throwing a morsel of rotten wood upon another as an indicator, continued: 'That's her husband there. They was as fair a couple as youshould see anywhere round about; and a good-hearted pair likewise. Ay, Ican mind it, though I was but a chiel at the time. She fell in love withthis young man of hers, and their banns were asked in some church inLondon; and the old lord her father actually heard 'em asked the threetimes, and didn't notice her name, being gabbled on wi' a host ofothers. When she had married she told her father, and 'a fleed into amonstrous rage, and said she shouldn' hae a farthing. Lady Elfride saidshe didn't think of wishing it; if he'd forgie her 'twas all she asked, and as for a living, she was content to play plays with her husband. This frightened the old lord, and 'a gie'd 'em a house to live in, and agreat garden, and a little field or two, and a carriage, and a goodfew guineas. Well, the poor thing died at her first gossiping, and herhusband--who was as tender-hearted a man as ever eat meat, and wouldhave died for her--went wild in his mind, and broke his heart (so 'twassaid). Anyhow, they were buried the same day--father and mother--but thebaby lived. Ay, my lord's family made much of that man then, and put himhere with his wife, and there in the corner the man is now. The Sundayafter there was a funeral sermon: the text was, "Or ever the silver cordbe loosed, or the golden bowl be broken;" and when 'twas preaching themen drew their hands across their eyes several times, and every womancried out loud. '

'And what became of the baby?' said Stephen, who had frequently heardportions of the story. 

'She was brought up by her grandmother, and a pretty maid she were. Andshe must needs run away with the curate--Parson Swancourt that is now. Then her grandmother died, and the title and everything went away toanother branch of the family altogether. Parson Swancourt wasted a gooddeal of his wife's money, and she left him Miss Elfride. That trickof running away seems to be handed down in families, like craziness orgout. And they two women be alike as peas. '

'Which two?'

'Lady Elfride and young Miss that's alive now. The same hair and eyes:but Miss Elfride's mother was darker a good deal. '

'Life's a strangle bubble, ye see, ' said William Worm musingly. 'Forif the Lord's anointment had descended upon women instead of men, MissElfride would be Lord Luxellian--Lady, I mane. But as it is, the bloodis run out, and she's nothing to the Luxellian family by law, whatevershe may be by gospel. '

'I used to fancy, ' said Simeon, 'when I seed Miss Elfride hugging thelittle ladyships, that there was a likeness; but I suppose 'twas only mydream, for years must have altered the old family shape. '

'And now we'll move these two, and home-along, ' interposed John Smith, reviving, as became a master, the spirit of labour, which had showedunmistakable signs of being nearly vanquished by the spirit of chat, 'The flagon of ale we don't want we'll let bide here till to-morrow;none of the poor souls will touch it 'a b'lieve. '

So the evening's work was concluded, and the party drew from the abodeof the quiet dead, closing the old iron door, and shooting the lockloudly into the huge copper staple--an incongruous act of imprisonmenttowards those who had no dreams of escape. 

Chapter XXVII

 'How should I greet thee?'

Love frequently dies of time alone--much more frequently ofdisplacement. With Elfride Swancourt, a powerful reason why thedisplacement should be successful was that the new-comer was a greaterman than the first. By the side of the instructive and piquant snubbingsshe received from Knight, Stephen's general agreeableness seemed watery;by the side of Knight's spare love-making, Stephen's continual outflowseemed lackadaisical. She had begun to sigh for somebody further on inmanhood. Stephen was hardly enough of a man. 

Perhaps there was a proneness to inconstancy in her nature--a nature, tothose who contemplate it from a standpoint beyond the influence ofthat inconstancy, the most exquisite of all in its plasticity and readysympathies. Partly, too, Stephen's failure to make his hold on her hearta permanent one was his too timid habit of dispraising himself besideher--a peculiarity which, exercised towards sensible men, stirs a kindlychord of attachment that a marked assertiveness would leave untouched, but inevitably leads the most sensible woman in the world to undervaluehim who practises it. Directly domineering ceases in the man, snubbingbegins in the woman; the trite but no less unfortunate fact beingthat the gentler creature rarely has the capacity to appreciate fairtreatment from her natural complement. The abiding perception of theposition of Stephen's parents had, of course, a little to do withElfride's renunciation. To such girls poverty may not be, as to the moreworldly masses of humanity, a sin in itself; but it is a sin, becausegraceful and dainty manners seldom exist in such an atmosphere. Fewwomen of old family can be thoroughly taught that a fine soul may wear asmock-frock, and an admittedly common man in one is but a worm in theireyes. John Smith's rough hands and clothes, his wife's dialect, thenecessary narrowness of their ways, being constantly under Elfride'snotice, were not without their deflecting influence. 

On reaching home after the perilous adventure by the sea-shore, Knighthad felt unwell, and retired almost immediately. The young lady whohad so materially assisted him had done the same, but she reappeared, properly clothed, about five o'clock. She wandered restlessly about thehouse, but not on account of their joint narrow escape from death. Thestorm which had torn the tree had merely bowed the reed, and with thedeliverance of Knight all deep thought of the accident had left her. Themutual avowal which it had been the means of precipitating occupied afar longer length of her meditations. 

Elfride's disquiet now was on account of that miserable promise to meetStephen, which returned like a spectre again and again. The perceptionof his littleness beside Knight grew upon her alarmingly. She nowthought how sound had been her father's advice to her to give him up, and was as passionately desirous of following it as she had hithertobeen averse. Perhaps there is nothing more hardening to the tone ofyoung minds than thus to discover how their dearest and strongest wishesbecome gradually attuned by Time the Cynic to the very note of someselfish policy which in earlier days they despised. 

The hour of appointment came, and with it a crisis; and with the crisisa collapse. 

'God forgive me--I can't meet Stephen!' she exclaimed to herself. 'Idon't love him less, but I love Mr. Knight more!'

Yes: she would save herself from a man not fit for her--in spite ofvows. She would obey her father, and have no more to do with StephenSmith. Thus the fickle resolve showed signs of assuming the complexionof a virtue. 

The following days were passed without any definite avowal from Knight'slips. Such solitary walks and scenes as that witnessed by Smith in thesummer-house were frequent, but he courted her so intangibly that to anybut such a delicate perception as Elfride's it would have appeared nocourtship at all. The time now really began to be sweet with her. Shedismissed the sense of sin in her past actions, and was automatic inthe intoxication of the moment. The fact that Knight made no actualdeclaration was no drawback. Knowing since the betrayal of hissentiments that love for her really existed, she preferred it for thepresent in its form of essence, and was willing to avoid for awhile thegrosser medium of words. Their feelings having been forced to a ratherpremature demonstration, a reaction was indulged in by both. 

But no sooner had she got rid of her troubled conscience on the matterof faithlessness than a new anxiety confronted her. It was lest Knightshould accidentally meet Stephen in the parish, and that herself shouldbe the subject of discourse. 

Elfride, learning Knight more thoroughly, perceived that, far fromhaving a notion of Stephen's precedence, he had no idea that she hadever been wooed before by anybody. On ordinary occasions she had atongue so frank as to show her whole mind, and a mind so straightforwardas to reveal her heart to its innermost shrine. But the time for achange had come. She never alluded to even a knowledge of Knight'sfriend. When women are secret they are secret indeed; and more oftenthan not they only begin to be secret with the advent of a second lover. 

The elopement was now a spectre worse than the first, and, like theSpirit in Glenfinlas, it waxed taller with every attempt to lay it. Her natural honesty invited her to confide in Knight, and trust to hisgenerosity for forgiveness: she knew also that as mere policy it wouldbe better to tell him early if he was to be told at all. The longer herconcealment the more difficult would be the revelation. But she put itoff. The intense fear which accompanies intense love in young womenwas too strong to allow the exercise of a moral quality antagonistic toitself:

 'Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow great, great love grows there. '

The match was looked upon as made by her father and mother. The vicarremembered her promise to reveal the meaning of the telegram she hadreceived, and two days after the scene in the summer-house, asked herpointedly. She was frank with him now. 

'I had been corresponding with Stephen Smith ever since he left England, till lately, ' she calmly said. 

'What!' cried the vicar aghast; 'under the eyes of Mr. Knight, too?'

'No; when I found I cared most for Mr. Knight, I obeyed you. '

'You were very kind, I'm sure. When did you begin to like Mr. Knight?'

'I don't see that that is a pertinent question, papa; the telegram wasfrom the shipping agent, and was not sent at my request. It announcedthe arrival of the vessel bringing him home. '

'Home! What, is he here?'

'Yes; in the village, I believe. '

'Has he tried to see you?'

'Only by fair means. But don't, papa, question me so! It is torture. '

'I will only say one word more, ' he replied. 'Have you met him?'

'I have not. I can assure you that at the present moment there isno more of an understanding between me and the young man you so muchdisliked than between him and you. You told me to forget him; and I haveforgotten him. '

'Oh, well; though you did not obey me in the beginning, you are a goodgirl, Elfride, in obeying me at last. '

'Don't call me "good, " papa, ' she said bitterly; 'you don't know--andthe less said about some things the better. Remember, Mr. Knight knowsnothing about the other. Oh, how wrong it all is! I don't know what I amcoming to. '

'As matters stand, I should be inclined to tell him; or, at any rate, I should not alarm myself about his knowing. He found out the other daythat this was the parish young Smith's father lives in--what puts you insuch a flurry?'

'I can't say; but promise--pray don't let him know! It would be myruin!'

'Pooh, child. Knight is a good fellow and a clever man; but at the sametime it does not escape my perceptions that he is no great catch foryou. Men of his turn of mind are nothing so wonderful in the way ofhusbands. If you had chosen to wait, you might have mated with a muchwealthier man. But remember, I have not a word to say against yourhaving him, if you like him. Charlotte is delighted, as you know. '

'Well, papa, ' she said, smiling hopefully through a sigh, 'it is nice tofeel that in giving way to--to caring for him, I have pleased my family. But I am not good; oh no, I am very far from that!'

'None of us are good, I am sorry to say, ' said her father blandly; 'butgirls have a chartered right to change their minds, you know. It hasbeen recognized by poets from time immemorial. Catullus says, "Muliercupido quod dicit amanti, in vento--" What a memory mine is! However, the passage is, that a woman's words to a lover are as a matter ofcourse written only on wind and water. Now don't be troubled about that, Elfride. '

'Ah, you don't know!'

They had been standing on the lawn, and Knight was now seen lingeringsome way down a winding walk. When Elfride met him, it was with a muchgreater lightness of heart; things were more straightforward now. Theresponsibility of her fickleness seemed partly shifted from her ownshoulders to her father's. Still, there were shadows. 

'Ah, could he have known how far I went with Stephen, and yet havesaid the same, how much happier I should be!' That was her prevailingthought. 

In the afternoon the lovers went out together on horseback for an houror two; and though not wishing to be observed, by reason of the latedeath of Lady Luxellian, whose funeral had taken place very privatelyon the previous day, they yet found it necessary to pass East EndelstowChurch. 

The steps to the vault, as has been stated, were on the outside of thebuilding, immediately under the aisle wall. Being on horseback, both Knight and Elfride could overlook the shrubs which screened thechurch-yard. 

'Look, the vault seems still to be open, ' said Knight. 

'Yes, it is open, ' she answered

'Who is that man close by it? The mason, I suppose?'

'Yes. '

'I wonder if it is John Smith, Stephen's father?'

'I believe it is, ' said Elfride, with apprehension. 

'Ah, and can it be? I should like to inquire how his son, my truantprotege', is going on. And from your father's description of the vault, the interior must be interesting. Suppose we go in. '

'Had we better, do you think? May not Lord Luxellian be there?'

'It is not at all likely. '

Elfride then assented, since she could do nothing else. Her heart, which at first had quailed in consternation, recovered itself when sheconsidered the character of John Smith. A quiet unassuming man, he wouldbe sure to act towards her as before those love passages with his son, which might have given a more pretentious mechanic airs. So without muchalarm she took Knight's arm after dismounting, and went with him betweenand over the graves. The master-mason recognized her as she approached, and, as usual, lifted his hat respectfully. 

'I know you to be Mr. Smith, my former friend Stephen's father, ' saidKnight, directly he had scanned the embrowned and ruddy features ofJohn. 

'Yes, sir, I b'lieve I be. '

'How is your son now? I have only once heard from him since he went toIndia. I daresay you have heard him speak of me--Mr. Knight, who becameacquainted with him some years ago in Exonbury. '

'Ay, that I have. Stephen is very well, thank you, sir, and he's inEngland; in fact, he's at home. In short, sir, he's down in the vaultthere, a-looking at the departed coffins. '

Elfride's heart fluttered like a butterfly. 

Knight looked amazed. 'Well, that is extraordinary. ' he murmured. 'Didhe know I was in the parish?'

'I really can't say, sir, ' said John, wishing himself out of theentanglement he rather suspected than thoroughly understood. 

'Would it be considered an intrusion by the family if we went into thevault?'

'Oh, bless ye, no, sir; scores of folk have been stepping down. 'Tisleft open a-purpose. '

'We will go down, Elfride. '

'I am afraid the air is close, ' she said appealingly. 

'Oh no, ma'am, ' said John. 'We white-limed the walls and arches the day'twas opened, as we always do, and again on the morning of the funeral;the place is as sweet as a granary. 

'Then I should like you to accompany me, Elfie; having originally sprungfrom the family too. '

'I don't like going where death is so emphatically present. I'll stay bythe horses whilst you go in; they may get loose. '

'What nonsense! I had no idea your sentiments were so flimsily formed asto be perturbed by a few remnants of mortality; but stay out, if you areso afraid, by all means. '

'Oh no, I am not afraid; don't say that. '

She held miserably to his arm, thinking that, perhaps, the revelationmight as well come at once as ten minutes later, for Stephen would besure to accompany his friend to his horse. 

At first, the gloom of the vault, which was lighted only by a couple ofcandles, was too great to admit of their seeing anything distinctly; butwith a further advance Knight discerned, in front of the black masseslining the walls, a young man standing, and writing in a pocket-book. 

Knight said one word: 'Stephen!'

Stephen Smith, not being in such absolute ignorance of Knight'swhereabouts as Knight had been of Smith's instantly recognized hisfriend, and knew by rote the outlines of the fair woman standing behindhim. 

Stephen came forward and shook him by the hand, without speaking. 

'Why have you not written, my boy?' said Knight, without in any waysignifying Elfride's presence to Stephen. To the essayist, Smith wasstill the country lad whom he had patronized and tended; one to whomthe formal presentation of a lady betrothed to himself would have seemedincongruous and absurd. 

'Why haven't you written to me?' said Stephen. 

'Ah, yes. Why haven't I? why haven't we? That's always the querywhich we cannot clearly answer without an unsatisfactory sense of ourinadequacies. However, I have not forgotten you, Smith. And now wehave met; and we must meet again, and have a longer chat than this canconveniently be. I must know all you have been doing. That you havethriven, I know, and you must teach me the way. '

Elfride stood in the background. Stephen had read the position at aglance, and immediately guessed that she had never mentioned his nameto Knight. His tact in avoiding catastrophes was the chief quality whichmade him intellectually respectable, in which quality he far transcendedKnight; and he decided that a tranquil issue out of the encounter, without any harrowing of the feelings of either Knight or Elfride, wasto be attempted if possible. His old sense of indebtedness to Knight hadnever wholly forsaken him; his love for Elfride was generous now. 

As far as he dared look at her movements he saw that her bearing towardshim would be dictated by his own towards her; and if he acted as astranger she would do likewise as a means of deliverance. Circumstancesfavouring this course, it was desirable also to be rather reservedtowards Knight, to shorten the meeting as much as possible. 

'I am afraid that my time is almost too short to allow even of such apleasure, ' he said. 'I leave here to-morrow. And until I start for theContinent and India, which will be in a fortnight, I shall have hardly amoment to spare. '

Knight's disappointment and dissatisfied looks at this reply sent a pangthrough Stephen as great as any he had felt at the sight of Elfride. Thewords about shortness of time were literally true, but their tone wasfar from being so. He would have been gratified to talk with Knight asin past times, and saw as a dead loss to himself that, to save the womanwho cared nothing for him, he was deliberately throwing away his friend. 

'Oh, I am sorry to hear that, ' said Knight, in a changed tone. 'Butof course, if you have weighty concerns to attend to, they must not beneglected. And if this is to be our first and last meeting, let me saythat I wish you success with all my heart!' Knight's warmth revivedtowards the end; the solemn impressions he was beginning to receivefrom the scene around them abstracting from his heart as a puerility anymomentary vexation at words. 'It is a strange place for us to meet in, 'he continued, looking round the vault. 

Stephen briefly assented, and there was a silence. The blackened coffinswere now revealed more clearly than at first, the whitened walls andarches throwing them forward in strong relief. It was a scene which wasremembered by all three as an indelible mark in their history. Knight, with an abstracted face, was standing between his companions, though alittle in advance of them, Elfride being on his right hand, and StephenSmith on his left. The white daylight on his right side gleamed faintlyin, and was toned to a blueness by contrast with the yellow rays fromthe candle against the wall. Elfride, timidly shrinking back, andnearest the entrance, received most of the light therefrom, whilstStephen was entirely in candlelight, and to him the spot of outer skyvisible above the steps was as a steely blue patch, and nothing more. 

'I have been here two or three times since it was opened, ' said Stephen. 'My father was engaged in the work, you know. '

'Yes. What are you doing?' Knight inquired, looking at the note-book andpencil Stephen held in his hand. 

'I have been sketching a few details in the church, and since then Ihave been copying the names from some of the coffins here. Before I leftEngland I used to do a good deal of this sort of thing. '

'Yes; of course. Ah, that's poor Lady Luxellian, I suppose. ' Knightpointed to a coffin of light satin-wood, which stood on the stonesleepers in the new niche. 'And the remainder of the family are on thisside. Who are those two, so snug and close together?'

Stephen's voice altered slightly as he replied 'That's Lady ElfrideKingsmore--born Luxellian, and that is Arthur, her husband. I have heardmy father say that they--he--ran away with her, and married her againstthe wish of her parents. '

'Then I imagine this to be where you got your Christian name, MissSwancourt?' said Knight, turning to her. 'I think you told me it wasthree or four generations ago that your family branched off from theLuxellians?'

'She was my grandmother, ' said Elfride, vainly endeavouring to moistenher dry lips before she spoke. Elfride had then the conscience-strickenlook of Guido's Magdalen, rendered upon a more childlike form. She kepther face partially away from Knight and Stephen, and set her eyes uponthe sky visible outside, as if her salvation depended upon quicklyreaching it. Her left hand rested lightly within Knight's arm, halfwithdrawn, from a sense of shame at claiming him before her old lover, yet unwilling to renounce him; so that her glove merely touchedhis sleeve. '"Can one be pardoned, and retain the offence?"' quotedElfride's heart then. 

Conversation seemed to have no self-sustaining power, and went on inthe shape of disjointed remarks. 'One's mind gets thronged with thoughtswhile standing so solemnly here, ' Knight said, in a measured quietvoice. 'How much has been said on death from time to time! how much weourselves can think upon it! We may fancy each of these who lie heresaying:

 'For Thou, to make my fall more great, Didst lift me up on high. '

What comes next, Elfride? It is the Hundred-and-second Psalm I amthinking of. '

'Yes, I know it, ' she murmured, and went on in a still lower voice, seemingly afraid for any words from the emotional side of her nature toreach Stephen:

 '"My days, just hastening to their end, Are like an evening shade; My beauty doth, like wither'd grass, With waning lustre fade. "'

'Well, ' said Knight musingly, 'let us leave them. Such occasions asthese seem to compel us to roam outside ourselves, far away from thefragile frame we live in, and to expand till our perception grows sovast that our physical reality bears no sort of proportion to it. Welook back upon the weak and minute stem on which this luxuriantgrowth depends, and ask, Can it be possible that such a capacity has afoundation so small? Must I again return to my daily walk in that narrowcell, a human body, where worldly thoughts can torture me? Do we not?'

'Yes, ' said Stephen and Elfride. 

'One has a sense of wrong, too, that such an appreciative breadth as asentient being possesses should be committed to the frail casket ofa body. What weakens one's intentions regarding the future like thethought of this?. .. However, let us tune ourselves to a more cheerfulchord, for there's a great deal to be done yet by us all. '

As Knight meditatively addressed his juniors thus, unconscious of thedeception practised, for different reasons, by the severed hearts at hisside, and of the scenes that had in earlier days united them, each onefelt that he and she did not gain by contrast with their musing mentor. Physically not so handsome as either the youthful architect or thevicar's daughter, the thoroughness and integrity of Knight illuminatedhis features with a dignity not even incipient in the other two. It isdifficult to frame rules which shall apply to both sexes, and Elfride, an undeveloped girl, must, perhaps, hardly be laden with the moralresponsibilities which attach to a man in like circumstances. The charmof woman, too, lies partly in her subtleness in matters of love. But ifhonesty is a virtue in itself, Elfride, having none of it now, seemed, being for being, scarcely good enough for Knight. Stephen, thoughdeceptive for no unworthy purpose, was deceptive after all; andwhatever good results grace such strategy if it succeed, it seldom drawsadmiration, especially when it fails. 

On an ordinary occasion, had Knight been even quite alone with Stephen, he would hardly have alluded to his possible relationship to Elfride. But moved by attendant circumstances Knight was impelled to beconfiding. 

'Stephen, ' he said, 'this lady is Miss Swancourt. I am staying at herfather's house, as you probably know. ' He stepped a few paces nearerto Smith, and said in a lower tone: 'I may as well tell you that we areengaged to be married. '

Low as the words had been spoken, Elfride had heard them, and awaitedStephen's reply in breathless silence, if that could be called silencewhere Elfride's dress, at each throb of her heart, shook and indicatedit like a pulse-glass, rustling also against the wall in reply to thesame throbbing. The ray of daylight which reached her face lent it ablue pallor in comparison with those of the other two. 

'I congratulate you, ' Stephen whispered; and said aloud, 'I know MissSwancourt--a little. You must remember that my father is a parishionerof Mr. Swancourt's. '

'I thought you might possibly not have lived at home since they havebeen here. '

'I have never lived at home, certainly, since that time. '

'I have seen Mr. Smith, ' faltered Elfride. 

'Well, there is no excuse for me. As strangers to each other I ought, I suppose, to have introduced you: as acquaintances, I should not havestood so persistently between you. But the fact is, Smith, you seem aboy to me, even now. '

Stephen appeared to have a more than previous consciousness of theintense cruelty of his fate at the present moment. He could not repressthe words, uttered with a dim bitterness:

'You should have said that I seemed still the rural mechanic's son I am, and hence an unfit subject for the ceremony of introductions. '

'Oh, no, no! I won't have that. ' Knight endeavoured to give his replya laughing tone in Elfride's ears, and an earnestness in Stephen's:in both which efforts he signally failed, and produced a forced speechpleasant to neither. 'Well, let us go into the open air again; MissSwancourt, you are particularly silent. You mustn't mind Smith. I haveknown him for years, as I have told you. '

'Yes, you have, ' she said. 

'To think she has never mentioned her knowledge of me!' Smith murmured, and thought with some remorse how much her conduct resembled his own onhis first arrival at her house as a stranger to the place. 

They ascended to the daylight, Knight taking no further notice ofElfride's manner, which, as usual, he attributed to the natural shynessof a young woman at being discovered walking with him on terms whichleft not much doubt of their meaning. Elfride stepped a little inadvance, and passed through the churchyard. 

'You are changed very considerably, Smith, ' said Knight, 'and I supposeit is no more than was to be expected. However, don't imagine that Ishall feel any the less interest in you and your fortunes whenever youcare to confide them to me. I have not forgotten the attachment youspoke of as your reason for going away to India. A London young lady, was it not? I hope all is prosperous?'

'No: the match is broken off. '

It being always difficult to know whether to express sorrow or gladnessunder such circumstances--all depending upon the character of thematch--Knight took shelter in the safe words: 'I trust it was for thebest. '

'I hope it was. But I beg that you will not press me further: no, youhave not pressed me--I don't mean that--but I would rather not speakupon the subject. '

Stephen's words were hurried. 

Knight said no more, and they followed in the footsteps of Elfride, whostill kept some paces in advance, and had not heard Knight's unconsciousallusion to her. Stephen bade him adieu at the churchyard-gate withoutgoing outside, and watched whilst he and his sweetheart mounted theirhorses. 

'Good heavens, Elfride, ' Knight exclaimed, 'how pale you are! I supposeI ought not to have taken you into that vault. What is the matter?'

'Nothing, ' said Elfride faintly. 'I shall be myself in a moment. All wasso strange and unexpected down there, that it made me unwell. '

'I thought you said very little. Shall I get some water?'

'No, no. '

'Do you think it is safe for you to mount?'

'Quite--indeed it is, ' she said, with a look of appeal. 

'Now then--up she goes!' whispered Knight, and lifted her tenderly intothe saddle. 

Her old lover still looked on at the performance as he leant over thegate a dozen yards off. Once in the saddle, and having a firm grip ofthe reins, she turned her head as if by a resistless fascination, andfor the first time since that memorable parting on the moor outsideSt. Launce's after the passionate attempt at marriage with him, Elfridelooked in the face of the young man she first had loved. He was theyouth who had called her his inseparable wife many a time, and whom shehad even addressed as her husband. Their eyes met. Measurement of lifeshould be proportioned rather to the intensity of the experience thanto its actual length. Their glance, but a moment chronologically, wasa season in their history. To Elfride the intense agony of reproach inStephen's eye was a nail piercing her heart with a deadliness no wordscan describe. With a spasmodic effort she withdrew her eyes, urged onthe horse, and in the chaos of perturbed memories was oblivious of anypresence beside her. The deed of deception was complete. 

Gaining a knoll on which the park transformed itself into wood andcopse, Knight came still closer to her side, and said, 'Are you betternow, dearest?'

'Oh yes. ' She pressed a hand to her eyes, as if to blot out the image ofStephen. A vivid scarlet spot now shone with preternatural brightness inthe centre of each cheek, leaving the remainder of her face lily-whiteas before. 

'Elfride, ' said Knight, rather in his old tone of mentor, 'you know Idon't for a moment chide you, but is there not a great deal of unwomanlyweakness in your allowing yourself to be so overwhelmed by the sight ofwhat, after all, is no novelty? Every woman worthy of the name should, Ithink, be able to look upon death with something like composure. Surelyyou think so too?'

'Yes; I own it. '

His obtuseness to the cause of her indisposition, by evidencing hisentire freedom from the suspicion of anything behind the scenes, showedhow incapable Knight was of deception himself, rather than any inherentdulness in him regarding human nature. This, clearly perceived byElfride, added poignancy to her self-reproach, and she idolized him themore because of their difference. Even the recent sight of Stephen'sface and the sound of his voice, which for a moment had stirred a chordor two of ancient kindness, were unable to keep down the adorationre-existent now that he was again out of view. 

She had replied to Knight's question hastily, and immediately went on tospeak of indifferent subjects. After they had reached home she was apartfrom him till dinner-time. When dinner was over, and they were watchingthe dusk in the drawing-room, Knight stepped out upon the terrace. Elfride went after him very decisively, on the spur of a virtuousintention. 

'Mr. Knight, I want to tell you something, ' she said, with quietfirmness. 

'And what is it about?' gaily returned her lover. 'Happiness, I hope. Donot let anything keep you so sad as you seem to have been to-day. '

'I cannot mention the matter until I tell you the whole substance ofit, ' she said. 'And that I will do to-morrow. I have been reminded ofit to-day. It is about something I once did, and don't think I ought tohave done. '

This, it must be said, was rather a mild way of referring to a franticpassion and flight, which, much or little in itself, only accident hadsaved from being a scandal in the public eye. 

Knight thought the matter some trifle, and said pleasantly:

'Then I am not to hear the dreadful confession now?'

'No, not now. I did not mean to-night, ' Elfride responded, with a slightdecline in the firmness of her voice. 'It is not light as you thinkit--it troubles me a great deal. ' Fearing now the effect of her ownearnestness, she added forcedly, 'Though, perhaps, you may think itlight after all. '

'But you have not said when it is to be?'

'To-morrow morning. Name a time, will you, and bind me to it? I want youto fix an hour, because I am weak, and may otherwise try to get out ofit. ' She added a little artificial laugh, which showed how timorous herresolution was still. 

'Well, say after breakfast--at eleven o'clock. '

'Yes, eleven o'clock. I promise you. Bind me strictly to my word. '

Chapter XXVIII

'I lull a fancy, trouble-tost. '

Miss Swancourt, it is eleven o'clock. '

She was looking out of her dressing-room window on the first floor, andKnight was regarding her from the terrace balustrade, upon which he hadbeen idly sitting for some time--dividing the glances of his eye betweenthe pages of a book in his hand, the brilliant hues of the geraniums andcalceolarias, and the open window above-mentioned. 

'Yes, it is, I know. I am coming. '

He drew closer, and under the window. 

'How are you this morning, Elfride? You look no better for your longnight's rest. '

She appeared at the door shortly after, took his offered arm, andtogether they walked slowly down the gravel path leading to the riverand away under the trees. 

Her resolution, sustained during the last fifteen hours, had been totell the whole truth, and now the moment had come. 

Step by step they advanced, and still she did not speak. They werenearly at the end of the walk, when Knight broke the silence. 

'Well, what is the confession, Elfride?'

She paused a moment, drew a long breath; and this is what she said:

'I told you one day--or rather I gave you to understand--what was nottrue. I fancy you thought me to mean I was nineteen my next birthday, but it was my last I was nineteen. '

The moment had been too much for her. Now that the crisis had come, no qualms of conscience, no love of honesty, no yearning to make aconfidence and obtain forgiveness with a kiss, could string Elfride upto the venture. Her dread lest he should be unforgiving was heightenedby the thought of yesterday's artifice, which might possibly add disgustto his disappointment. The certainty of one more day's affection, whichshe gained by silence, outvalued the hope of a perpetuity combined withthe risk of all. 

The trepidation caused by these thoughts on what she had intended to sayshook so naturally the words she did say, that Knight never for a momentsuspected them to be a last moment's substitution. He smiled and pressedher hand warmly. 

'My dear Elfie--yes, you are now--no protestation--what a winning littlewoman you are, to be so absurdly scrupulous about a mere iota! Really, Inever once have thought whether your nineteenth year was the last orthe present. And, by George, well I may not; for it would never do for astaid fogey a dozen years older to stand upon such a trifle as that. '

'Don't praise me--don't praise me! Though I prize it from your lips, Idon't deserve it now. '

But Knight, being in an exceptionally genial mood, merely saw thisdistressful exclamation as modesty. 'Well, ' he added, after a minute, 'Ilike you all the better, you know, for such moral precision, althoughI called it absurd. ' He went on with tender earnestness: 'For, Elfride, there is one thing I do love to see in a woman--that is, a soul truthfuland clear as heaven's light. I could put up with anything if I hadthat--forgive nothing if I had it not. Elfride, you have such a soul, ifever woman had; and having it, retain it, and don't ever listen to thefashionable theories of the day about a woman's privileges and naturalright to practise wiles. Depend upon it, my dear girl, that a noblewoman must be as honest as a noble man. I specially mean by honesty, fairness not only in matters of business and social detail, but in allthe delicate dealings of love, to which the licence given to your sexparticularly refers. '

Elfride looked troublously at the trees. 

'Now let us go on to the river, Elfie. '

'I would if I had a hat on, ' she said with a sort of suppressed woe. 

'I will get it for you, ' said Knight, very willing to purchase hercompanionship at so cheap a price. 'You sit down there a minute. ' And heturned and walked rapidly back to the house for the article in question. 

Elfride sat down upon one of the rustic benches which adorned thisportion of the grounds, and remained with her eyes upon the grass. Shewas induced to lift them by hearing the brush of light and irregularfootsteps hard by. Passing along the path which intersected the one shewas in and traversed the outer shrubberies, Elfride beheld the farmer'swidow, Mrs. Jethway. Before she noticed Elfride, she paused to look atthe house, portions of which were visible through the bushes. Elfride, shrinking back, hoped the unpleasant woman might go on without seeingher. But Mrs. Jethway, silently apostrophizing the house, with actionswhich seemed dictated by a half-overturned reason, had discerned thegirl, and immediately came up and stood in front of her. 

'Ah, Miss Swancourt! Why did you disturb me? Mustn't I trespass here?'

'You may walk here if you like, Mrs. Jethway. I do not disturb you. '

'You disturb my mind, and my mind is my whole life; for my boy is therestill, and he is gone from my body. '

'Yes, poor young man. I was sorry when he died. '

'Do you know what he died of?'

'Consumption. '

'Oh no, no!' said the widow. 'That word "consumption" covers a gooddeal. He died because you were his own well-agreed sweetheart, and thenproved false--and it killed him. Yes, Miss Swancourt, ' she said in anexcited whisper, 'you killed my son!'

'How can you be so wicked and foolish!' replied Elfride, risingindignantly. But indignation was not natural to her, and having been soworn and harrowed by late events, she lost any powers of defencethat mood might have lent her. 'I could not help his loving me, Mrs. Jethway!'

'That's just what you could have helped. You know how it began, MissElfride. Yes: you said you liked the name of Felix better than any othername in the parish, and you knew it was his name, and that those yousaid it to would report it to him. '

'I knew it was his name--of course I did; but I am sure, Mrs. Jethway, Idid not intend anybody to tell him. '

'But you knew they would. '

'No, I didn't. '

'And then, after that, when you were riding on Revels-day by our house, and the lads were gathered there, and you wanted to dismount, when JimDrake and George Upway and three or four more ran forward to hold yourpony, and Felix stood back timid, why did you beckon to him, and say youwould rather he held it?'

'O Mrs. Jethway, you do think so mistakenly! I liked him best--that'swhy I wanted him to do it. He was gentle and nice--I always thought himso--and I liked him. '

'Then why did you let him kiss you?'

'It is a falsehood; oh, it is, it is!' said Elfride, weeping withdesperation. 'He came behind me, and attempted to kiss me; and that waswhy I told him never to let me see him again. '

'But you did not tell your father or anybody, as you would have if youhad looked upon it then as the insult you now pretend it was. '

'He begged me not to tell, and foolishly enough I did not. And I wishI had now. I little expected to be scourged with my own kindness. Prayleave me, Mrs. Jethway. ' The girl only expostulated now. 

'Well, you harshly dismissed him, and he died. And before his body wascold, you took another to your heart. Then as carelessly sent him abouthis business, and took a third. And if you consider that nothing, MissSwancourt, ' she continued, drawing closer; 'it led on to what was veryserious indeed. Have you forgotten the would-be runaway marriage? Thejourney to London, and the return the next day without being married, and that there's enough disgrace in that to ruin a woman's good name farless light than yours? You may have: I have not. Fickleness towards alover is bad, but fickleness after playing the wife is wantonness. '

'Oh, it's a wicked cruel lie! Do not say it; oh, do not!'

'Does your new man know of it? I think not, or he would be no manof yours! As much of the story as was known is creeping about theneighbourhood even now; but I know more than any of them, and why shouldI respect your love?'

'I defy you!' cried Elfride tempestuously. 'Do and say all you can toruin me; try; put your tongue at work; I invite it! I defy you as aslanderous woman! Look, there he comes. ' And her voice trembled greatlyas she saw through the leaves the beloved form of Knight coming from thedoor with her hat in his hand. 'Tell him at once; I can bear it. '

'Not now, ' said the woman, and disappeared down the path. 

The excitement of her latter words had restored colour to Elfride'scheeks; and hastily wiping her eyes, she walked farther on, so that bythe time her lover had overtaken her the traces of emotion had nearlydisappeared from her face. Knight put the hat upon her head, took herhand, and drew it within his arm. 

It was the last day but one previous to their departure for St. Leonards; and Knight seemed to have a purpose in being much in hercompany that day. They rambled along the valley. The season was thatperiod in the autumn when the foliage alone of an ordinary plantation isrich enough in hues to exhaust the chromatic combinations of an artist'spalette. Most lustrous of all are the beeches, graduating from brightrusty red at the extremity of the boughs to a bright yellow at theirinner parts; young oaks are still of a neutral green; Scotch firs andhollies are nearly blue; whilst occasional dottings of other varietiesgive maroons and purples of every tinge. 

The river--such as it was--here pursued its course amid flagstones aslevel as a pavement, but divided by crevices of irregular width. Withthe summer drought the torrent had narrowed till it was now but a threadof crystal clearness, meandering along a central channel in the rockybed of the winter current. Knight scrambled through the bushes which atthis point nearly covered the brook from sight, and leapt down upon thedry portion of the river bottom. 

'Elfride, I never saw such a sight!' he exclaimed. 'The hazels overhangthe river's course in a perfect arch, and the floor is beautifullypaved. The place reminds one of the passages of a cloister. Let me helpyou down. '

He assisted her through the marginal underwood and down to the stones. They walked on together to a tiny cascade about a foot wide and high, and sat down beside it on the flags that for nine months in the yearwere submerged beneath a gushing bourne. From their feet trickled theattenuated thread of water which alone remained to tell the intent andreason of this leaf-covered aisle, and journeyed on in a zigzag linetill lost in the shade. 

Knight, leaning on his elbow, after contemplating all this, lookedcritically at Elfride. 

'Does not such a luxuriant head of hair exhaust itself and get thin asthe years go on from eighteen to eight-and-twenty?' he asked at length. 

'Oh no!' she said quickly, with a visible disinclination to harbour sucha thought, which came upon her with an unpleasantness whose force itwould be difficult for men to understand. She added afterwards, withsmouldering uneasiness, 'Do you really think that a great abundance ofhair is more likely to get thin than a moderate quantity?'

'Yes, I really do. I believe--am almost sure, in fact--that ifstatistics could be obtained on the subject, you would find the personswith thin hair were those who had a superabundance originally, and thatthose who start with a moderate quantity retain it without much loss. '

Elfride's troubles sat upon her face as well as in her heart. Perhapsto a woman it is almost as dreadful to think of losing her beauty as oflosing her reputation. At any rate, she looked quite as gloomy as shehad looked at any minute that day. 

'You shouldn't be so troubled about a mere personal adornment, ' saidKnight, with some of the severity of tone that had been customary beforeshe had beguiled him into softness. 

'I think it is a woman's duty to be as beautiful as she can. If I were ascholar, I would give you chapter and verse for it from one of your ownLatin authors. I know there is such a passage, for papa has alluded toit. '

"'Munditiae, et ornatus, et cultus, " &c. --is that it? A passage in Livywhich is no defence at all. '

'No, it is not that. '

'Never mind, then; for I have a reason for not taking up my old cudgelsagainst you, Elfie. Can you guess what the reason is?'

'No; but I am glad to hear it, ' she said thankfully. 'For it is dreadfulwhen you talk so. For whatever dreadful name the weakness may deserve, I must candidly own that I am terrified to think my hair may ever getthin. '

'Of course; a sensible woman would rather lose her wits than herbeauty. '

'I don't care if you do say satire and judge me cruelly. I know my hairis beautiful; everybody says so. '

'Why, my dear Miss Swancourt, ' he tenderly replied, 'I have not saidanything against it. But you know what is said about handsome being andhandsome doing. '

'Poor Miss Handsome-does cuts but a sorry figure beside Miss Handsome-isin every man's eyes, your own not excepted, Mr. Knight, though itpleases you to throw off so, ' said Elfride saucily. And lowering hervoice: 'You ought not to have taken so much trouble to save me fromfalling over the cliff, for you don't think mine a life worth muchtrouble evidently. '

'Perhaps you think mine was not worth yours. '

'It was worth anybody's!'

Her hand was plashing in the little waterfall, and her eyes were bentthe same way. 

'You talk about my severity with you, Elfride. You are unkind to me, youknow. '

'How?' she asked, looking up from her idle occupation. 

'After my taking trouble to get jewellery to please you, you wouldn'taccept it. '

'Perhaps I would now; perhaps I want to. '

'Do!' said Knight. 

And the packet was withdrawn from his pocket and presented the thirdtime. Elfride took it with delight. The obstacle was rent in twain, andthe significant gift was hers. 

'I'll take out these ugly ones at once, ' she exclaimed, 'and I'll wearyours--shall I?'

'I should be gratified. '

Now, though it may seem unlikely, considering how far the two had gonein converse, Knight had never yet ventured to kiss Elfride. Far slowerwas he than Stephen Smith in matters like that. The utmost advance hehad made in such demonstrations had been to the degree witnessed byStephen in the summer-house. So Elfride's cheek being still forbiddenfruit to him, he said impulsively. 

'Elfie, I should like to touch that seductive ear of yours. Those are mygifts; so let me dress you in them. '

She hesitated with a stimulating hesitation. 

'Let me put just one in its place, then?'

Her face grew much warmer. 

'I don't think it would be quite the usual or proper course, ' she said, suddenly turning and resuming her operation of plashing in the miniaturecataract. 

The stillness of things was disturbed by a bird coming to the streamletto drink. After watching him dip his bill, sprinkle himself, and flyinto a tree, Knight replied, with the courteous brusqueness she so muchliked to hear--

'Elfride, now you may as well be fair. You would mind my doing it butlittle, I think; so give me leave, do. '

'I will be fair, then, ' she said confidingly, and looking him full inthe face. It was a particular pleasure to her to be able to do a littlehonesty without fear. 'I should not mind your doing so--I should likesuch an attention. My thought was, would it be right to let you?'

'Then I will!' he rejoined, with that singular earnestness about a smallmatter--in the eyes of a ladies' man but a momentary peg for flirtationor jest--which is only found in deep natures who have been wholly unusedto toying with womankind, and which, from its unwontedness, is in itselfa tribute the most precious that can be rendered, and homage the mostexquisite to be received. 

'And you shall, ' she whispered, without reserve, and no longer mistressof the ceremonies. And then Elfride inclined herself towards him, thrustback her hair, and poised her head sideways. In doing this her arm andshoulder necessarily rested against his breast. 

At the touch, the sensation of both seemed to be concentrated at thepoint of contact. All the time he was performing the delicate manoeuvreKnight trembled like a young surgeon in his first operation. 

'Now the other, ' said Knight in a whisper. 

'No, no. '

'Why not?'

'I don't know exactly. '

'You must know. '

'Your touch agitates me so. Let us go home. '

'Don't say that, Elfride. What is it, after all? A mere nothing. Nowturn round, dearest. '

She was powerless to disobey, and turned forthwith; and then, withoutany defined intention in either's mind, his face and hers drew closertogether; and he supported her there, and kissed her. 

Knight was at once the most ardent and the coolest man alive. When hisemotions slumbered he appeared almost phlegmatic; when they were movedhe was no less than passionate. And now, without having quite intendedan early marriage, he put the question plainly. It came with allthe ardour which was the accumulation of long years behind a naturalreserve. 

'Elfride, when shall we be married?'

The words were sweet to her; but there was a bitter in the sweet. Thesenewly-overt acts of his, which had culminated in this plain question, coming on the very day of Mrs. Jethway's blasting reproaches, painteddistinctly her fickleness as an enormity. Loving him in secret had notseemed such thorough-going inconstancy as the same love recognized andacted upon in the face of threats. Her distraction was interpreted byhim at her side as the outward signs of an unwonted experience. 

'I don't press you for an answer now, darling, ' he said, seeing she wasnot likely to give a lucid reply. 'Take your time. '

Knight was as honourable a man as was ever loved and deluded bywoman. It may be said that his blindness in love proved the point, for shrewdness in love usually goes with meanness in general. Once thepassion had mastered him, the intellect had gone for naught. Knight, asa lover, was more single-minded and far simpler than his friend Stephen, who in other capacities was shallow beside him. 

Without saying more on the subject of their marriage, Knight held her atarm's length, as if she had been a large bouquet, and looked at her withcritical affection. 

'Does your pretty gift become me?' she inquired, with tears ofexcitement on the fringes of her eyes. 

'Undoubtedly, perfectly!' said her lover, adopting a lighter tone to puther at her ease. 'Ah, you should see them; you look shinier than ever. Fancy that I have been able to improve you!'

'Am I really so nice? I am glad for your sake. I wish I could seemyself. '

'You can't. You must wait till we get home. '

'I shall never be able, ' she said, laughing. 'Look: here's a way. '

'So there is. Well done, woman's wit!'

'Hold me steady!'

'Oh yes. '

'And don't let me fall, will you?'

'By no means. '

Below their seat the thread of water paused to spread out into a smoothsmall pool. Knight supported her whilst she knelt down and leant overit. 

'I can see myself. Really, try as religiously as I will, I cannot helpadmiring my appearance in them. '

'Doubtless. How can you be so fond of finery? I believe you arecorrupting me into a taste for it. I used to hate every such thingbefore I knew you. '

'I like ornaments, because I want people to admire what you possess, andenvy you, and say, "I wish I was he. "'

'I suppose I ought not to object after that. And how much longer are yougoing to look in there at yourself?'

'Until you are tired of holding me? Oh, I want to ask you something. 'And she turned round. 'Now tell truly, won't you? What colour of hair doyou like best now?'

Knight did not answer at the moment. 

'Say light, do!' she whispered coaxingly. 'Don't say dark, as you didthat time. '

'Light-brown, then. Exactly the colour of my sweetheart's. '

'Really?' said Elfride, enjoying as truth what she knew to be flattery. 

'Yes. '

'And blue eyes, too, not hazel? Say yes, say yes!'

'One recantation is enough for to-day. '

'No, no. '

'Very well, blue eyes. ' And Knight laughed, and drew her close andkissed her the second time, which operations he performed with thecarefulness of a fruiterer touching a bunch of grapes so as not todisturb their bloom. 

Elfride objected to a second, and flung away her face, the movementcausing a slight disarrangement of hat and hair. Hardly thinking whatshe said in the trepidation of the moment, she exclaimed, clapping herhand to her ear--

'Ah, we must be careful! I lost the other earring doing like this. '

No sooner did she realise the significant words than a troubled lookpassed across her face, and she shut her lips as if to keep them back. 

'Doing like what?' said Knight, perplexed. 

'Oh, sitting down out of doors, ' she replied hastily. 

Chapter XXIX

 'Care, thou canker. '

It is an evening at the beginning of October, and the mellowest ofautumn sunsets irradiates London, even to its uttermost eastern end. Between the eye and the flaming West, columns of smoke stand up in thestill air like tall trees. Everything in the shade is rich and mistyblue. 

Mr. And Mrs. Swancourt and Elfride are looking at these lustrous andlurid contrasts from the window of a large hotel near London Bridge. Thevisit to their friends at St. Leonards is over, and they are staying aday or two in the metropolis on their way home. 

Knight spent the same interval of time in crossing over to Brittanyby way of Jersey and St. Malo. He then passed through Normandy, andreturned to London also, his arrival there having been two days laterthan that of Elfride and her parents. 

So the evening of this October day saw them all meeting at theabove-mentioned hotel, where they had previously engaged apartments. During the afternoon Knight had been to his lodgings at Richmond to makea little change in the nature of his baggage; and on coming up againthere was never ushered by a bland waiter into a comfortable room ahappier man than Knight when shown to where Elfride and her step-motherwere sitting after a fatiguing day of shopping. 

Elfride looked none the better for her change: Knight was as brown as anut. They were soon engaged by themselves in a corner of the room. Nowthat the precious words of promise had been spoken, the young girl hadno idea of keeping up her price by the system of reserve which othermore accomplished maidens use. Her lover was with her again, and it wasenough: she made her heart over to him entirely. 

Dinner was soon despatched. And when a preliminary round of conversationconcerning their doings since the last parting had been concluded, theyreverted to the subject of to-morrow's journey home. 

'That enervating ride through the myrtle climate of South Devon--how Idread it to-morrow!' Mrs. Swancourt was saying. 'I had hoped the weatherwould have been cooler by this time. '

'Did you ever go by water?' said Knight. 

'Never--by never, I mean not since the time of railways. '

'Then if you can afford an additional day, I propose that we do it, 'said Knight. 'The Channel is like a lake just now. We should reachPlymouth in about forty hours, I think, and the boats start from justbelow the bridge here' (pointing over his shoulder eastward). 

'Hear, hear!' said the vicar. 

'It's an idea, certainly, ' said his wife. 

'Of course these coasters are rather tubby, ' said Knight. 'But youwouldn't mind that?'

'No: we wouldn't mind. '

'And the saloon is a place like the fishmarket of a ninth-rate countrytown, but that wouldn't matter?'

'Oh dear, no. If we had only thought of it soon enough, we might havehad the use of Lord Luxellian's yacht. But never mind, we'll go. Weshall escape the worrying rattle through the whole length of Londonto-morrow morning--not to mention the risk of being killed by excursiontrains, which is not a little one at this time of the year, if thepapers are true. '

Elfride, too, thought the arrangement delightful; and accordingly, teno'clock the following morning saw two cabs crawling round by the Mint, and between the preternaturally high walls of Nightingale Lane towardsthe river side. 

The first vehicle was occupied by the travellers in person, and thesecond brought up the luggage, under the supervision of Mrs. Snewson, Mrs. Swancourt's maid--and for the last fortnight Elfride's also;for although the younger lady had never been accustomed to any suchattendant at robing times, her stepmother forced her into a semblance offamiliarity with one when they were away from home. 

Presently waggons, bales, and smells of all descriptions increased tosuch an extent that the advance of the cabs was at the slowest possiblerate. At intervals it was necessary to halt entirely, that the heavyvehicles unloading in front might be moved aside, a feat which was notaccomplished without a deal of swearing and noise. The vicar put hishead out of the window. 

'Surely there must be some mistake in the way, ' he said with greatconcern, drawing in his head again. 'There's not a respectableconveyance to be seen here except ours. I've heard that there arestrange dens in this part of London, into which people have beenentrapped and murdered--surely there is no conspiracy on the part of thecabman?'

'Oh no, no. It is all right, ' said Mr. Knight, who was as placid as dewyeve by the side of Elfride. 

'But what I argue from, ' said the vicar, with a greater emphasis ofuneasiness, 'are plain appearances. This can't be the highway fromLondon to Plymouth by water, because it is no way at all to any place. We shall miss our steamer and our train too--that's what I think. '

'Depend upon it we are right. In fact, here we are. '

'Trimmer's Wharf, ' said the cabman, opening the door. 

No sooner had they alighted than they perceived a tussle going onbetween the hindmost cabman and a crowd of light porters who hadcharged him in column, to obtain possession of the bags and boxes, Mrs. Snewson's hands being seen stretched towards heaven in the midst of themelee. Knight advanced gallantly, and after a hard struggle reduced thecrowd to two, upon whose shoulders and trucks the goods vanished away inthe direction of the water's edge with startling rapidity. 

Then more of the same tribe, who had run on ahead, were heard shoutingto boatmen, three of whom pulled alongside, and two being vanquished, the luggage went tumbling into the remaining one. 

'Never saw such a dreadful scene in my life--never!' said Mr. Swancourt, floundering into the boat. 'Worse than Famine and Sword upon one. Ithought such customs were confined to continental ports. Aren't youastonished, Elfride?'

'Oh no, ' said Elfride, appearing amid the dingy scene like a rainbow ina murky sky. 'It is a pleasant novelty, I think. '

'Where in the wide ocean is our steamer?' the vicar inquired. 'I can seenothing but old hulks, for the life of me. '

'Just behind that one, ' said Knight; 'we shall soon be round under her. '

The object of their search was soon after disclosed to view--a greatlumbering form of inky blackness, which looked as if it had never knownthe touch of a paint-brush for fifty years. It was lying beside justsuch another, and the way on board was down a narrow lane of waterbetween the two, about a yard and a half wide at one end, and graduallyconverging to a point. At the moment of their entry into this narrowpassage, a brilliantly painted rival paddled down the river like atrotting steed, creating such a series of waves and splashes thattheir frail wherry was tossed like a teacup, and the vicar and his wifeslanted this way and that, inclining their heads into contact with aPunch-and-Judy air and countenance, the wavelets striking the sides ofthe two hulls, and flapping back into their laps. 

'Dreadful! horrible!' Mr. Swancourt murmured privately; and said aloud, I thought we walked on board. I don't think really I should have come, if I had known this trouble was attached to it. '

'If they must splash, I wish they would splash us with clean water, 'said the old lady, wiping her dress with her handkerchief. 

'I hope it is perfectly safe, ' continued the vicar. 

'O papa! you are not very brave, ' cried Elfride merrily. 

'Bravery is only obtuseness to the perception of contingencies, ' Mr. Swancourt severely answered. 

Mrs. Swancourt laughed, and Elfride laughed, and Knight laughed, in themidst of which pleasantness a man shouted to them from some positionbetween their heads and the sky, and they found they were close to theJuliet, into which they quiveringly ascended. 

It having been found that the lowness of the tide would prevent theirgetting off for an hour, the Swancourts, having nothing else todo, allowed their eyes to idle upon men in blue jerseys performingmysterious mending operations with tar-twine; they turned to look atthe dashes of lurid sunlight, like burnished copper stars afloat on theripples, which danced into and tantalized their vision; or listened tothe loud music of a steam-crane at work close by; or to sighing soundsfrom the funnels of passing steamers, getting dead as they grew moredistant; or to shouts from the decks of different craft in theirvicinity, all of them assuming the form of 'Ah-he-hay!'

Half-past ten: not yet off. Mr. Swancourt breathed a breath ofweariness, and looked at his fellow-travellers in general. Their faceswere certainly not worth looking at. The expression 'Waiting' waswritten upon them so absolutely that nothing more could be discernedthere. All animation was suspended till Providence should raise thewater and let them go. 

'I have been thinking, ' said Knight, 'that we have come amongst therarest class of people in the kingdom. Of all human characteristics, alow opinion of the value of his own time by an individual must be amongthe strangest to find. Here we see numbers of that patient and happyspecies. Rovers, as distinct from travellers. '

'But they are pleasure-seekers, to whom time is of no importance. '

'Oh no. The pleasure-seekers we meet on the grand routes are moreanxious than commercial travellers to rush on. And added to the loss oftime in getting to their journey's end, these exceptional people taketheir chance of sea-sickness by coming this way. '

'Can it be?' inquired the vicar with apprehension. 'Surely not, Mr. Knight, just here in our English Channel--close at our doors, as I maysay. '

'Entrance passages are very draughty places, and the Channel is likethe rest. It ruins the temper of sailors. It has been calculated byphilosophers that more damns go up to heaven from the Channel, in thecourse of a year, than from all the five oceans put together. '

They really start now, and the dead looks of all the throng come to lifeimmediately. The man who has been frantically hauling in a rope thatbade fair to have no end ceases his labours, and they glide down theserpentine bends of the Thames. 

Anything anywhere was a mine of interest to Elfride, and so was this. 

'It is well enough now, ' said Mrs. Swancourt, after they had passed theNore, 'but I can't say I have cared for my voyage hitherto. ' For beingnow in the open sea a slight breeze had sprung up, which cheered her aswell as her two younger companions. But unfortunately it had a reverseeffect upon the vicar, who, after turning a sort of apricot jam colour, interspersed with dashes of raspberry, pleaded indisposition, andvanished from their sight. 

The afternoon wore on. Mrs. Swancourt kindly sat apart by herselfreading, and the betrothed pair were left to themselves. Elfride clungtrustingly to Knight's arm, and proud was she to walk with him upand down the deck, or to go forward, and leaning with him against theforecastle rails, watch the setting sun gradually withdrawing itselfover their stern into a huge bank of livid cloud with golden edges thatrose to meet it. 

She was childishly full of life and spirits, though in walking up anddown with him before the other passengers, and getting noticed by them, she was at starting rather confused, it being the first time she hadshown herself so openly under that kind of protection. 'I expect theyare envious and saying things about us, don't you?' she would whisper toKnight with a stealthy smile. 

'Oh no, ' he would answer unconcernedly. 'Why should they envy us, andwhat can they say?'

'Not any harm, of course, ' Elfride replied, 'except such as this: "Howhappy those two are! she is proud enough now. " What makes it worse, ' shecontinued in the extremity of confidence, 'I heard those two cricketingmen say just now, "She's the nobbiest girl on the boat. " But I don'tmind it, you know, Harry. '

'I should hardly have supposed you did, even if you had not told me, 'said Knight with great blandness. 

She was never tired of asking her lover questions and admiring hisanswers, good, bad, or indifferent as they might be. The evening grewdark and night came on, and lights shone upon them from the horizon andfrom the sky. 

'Now look there ahead of us, at that halo in the air, of silverybrightness. Watch it, and you will see what it comes to. '

She watched for a few minutes, when two white lights emerged from theside of a hill, and showed themselves to be the origin of the halo. 

'What a dazzling brilliance! What do they mark?'

'The South Foreland: they were previously covered by the cliff. '

'What is that level line of little sparkles--a town, I suppose?'

'That's Dover. '

All this time, and later, soft sheet lightning expanded from a cloud intheir path, enkindling their faces as they paced up and down, shiningover the water, and, for a moment, showing the horizon as a keen line. 

Elfride slept soundly that night. Her first thought the next morning wasthe thrilling one that Knight was as close at hand as when they wereat home at Endelstow, and her first sight, on looking out of the cabinwindow, was the perpendicular face of Beachy Head, gleaming white in abrilliant six-o'clock-in-the-morning sun. This fair daybreak, however, soon changed its aspect. A cold wind and a pale mist descended upon thesea, and seemed to threaten a dreary day. 

When they were nearing Southampton, Mrs. Swancourt came to say that herhusband was so ill that he wished to be put on shore here, and leftto do the remainder of the journey by land. 'He will be perfectly welldirectly he treads firm ground again. Which shall we do--go with him, orfinish our voyage as we intended?'

Elfride was comfortably housed under an umbrella which Knight washolding over her to keep off the wind. 'Oh, don't let us go on shore!'she said with dismay. 'It would be such a pity!'

'That's very fine, ' said Mrs. Swancourt archly, as to a child. 'See, the wind has increased her colour, the sea her appetite and spirits, andsomebody her happiness. Yes, it would be a pity, certainly. '

''Tis my misfortune to be always spoken to from a pedestal, ' sighedElfride. 

'Well, we will do as you like, Mrs. Swancourt, ' said Knight, 'but----'

'I myself would rather remain on board, ' interrupted the elder lady. 'And Mr. Swancourt particularly wishes to go by himself. So that shallsettle the matter. '

The vicar, now a drab colour, was put ashore, and became as well as everforthwith. 

Elfride, sitting alone in a retired part of the vessel, saw a veiledwoman walk aboard among the very latest arrivals at this port. She wasclothed in black silk, and carried a dark shawl upon her arm. Thewoman, without looking around her, turned to the quarter allotted tothe second-cabin passengers. All the carnation Mrs. Swancourt hadcomplimented her step-daughter upon possessing left Elfride's cheeks, and she trembled visibly. 

She ran to the other side of the boat, where Mrs. Swancourt wasstanding. 

'Let us go home by railway with papa, after all, ' she pleaded earnestly. 'I would rather go with him--shall we?'

Mrs. Swancourt looked around for a moment, as if unable to decide. 'Ah, 'she exclaimed, 'it is too late now. Why did not you say so before, whenwe had plenty of time?'

The Juliet had at that minute let go, the engines had started, and theywere gliding slowly away from the quay. There was no help for it butto remain, unless the Juliet could be made to put back, and that wouldcreate a great disturbance. Elfride gave up the idea and submittedquietly. Her happiness was sadly mutilated now. 

The woman whose presence had so disturbed her was exactly like Mrs. Jethway. She seemed to haunt Elfride like a shadow. After severalminutes' vain endeavour to account for any design Mrs. Jethway couldhave in watching her, Elfride decided to think that, if it were thewidow, the encounter was accidental. She remembered that the widow inher restlessness was often visiting the village near Southampton, whichwas her original home, and it was possible that she chose water-transitwith the idea of saving expense. 

'What is the matter, Elfride?' Knight inquired, standing before her. 

'Nothing more than that I am rather depressed. '

'I don't much wonder at it; that wharf was depressing. We seemedunderneath and inferior to everything around us. But we shall be in thesea breeze again soon, and that will freshen you, dear. '

The evening closed in and dusk increased as they made way downSouthampton Water and through the Solent. Elfride's disturbance of mindwas such that her light spirits of the foregoing four and twenty hourshad entirely deserted her. The weather too had grown more gloomy, forthough the showers of the morning had ceased, the sky was covered moreclosely than ever with dense leaden clouds. How beautiful was the sunsetwhen they rounded the North Foreland the previous evening! now it wasimpossible to tell within half an hour the time of the luminary's goingdown. Knight led her about, and being by this time accustomed to hersudden changes of mood, overlooked the necessity of a cause in regardingthe conditions--impressionableness and elasticity. 

Elfride looked stealthily to the other end of the vessel. Mrs. Jethway, or her double, was sitting at the stern--her eye steadily regardingElfride. 

'Let us go to the forepart, ' she said quickly to Knight. 'See there--theman is fixing the lights for the night. '

Knight assented, and after watching the operation of fixing the red andthe green lights on the port and starboard bows, and the hoisting ofthe white light to the masthead, he walked up and down with her tillthe increase of wind rendered promenading difficult. Elfride's eyes wereoccasionally to be found furtively gazing abaft, to learn if her enemywere really there. Nobody was visible now. 

'Shall we go below?' said Knight, seeing that the deck was nearlydeserted. 

'No, ' she said. 'If you will kindly get me a rug from Mrs. Swancourt, Ishould like, if you don't mind, to stay here. ' She had recently fanciedthe assumed Mrs. Jethway might be a first-class passenger, and dreadedmeeting her by accident. 

Knight appeared with the rug, and they sat down behind a weather-clothon the windward side, just as the two red eyes of the Needles glaredupon them from the gloom, their pointed summits rising like shadowyphantom figures against the sky. It became necessary to go below toan eight-o'clock meal of nondescript kind, and Elfride was immenselyrelieved at finding no sign of Mrs. Jethway there. They again ascended, and remained above till Mrs. Snewson staggered up to them with themessage that Mrs. Swancourt thought it was time for Elfride to comebelow. Knight accompanied her down, and returned again to pass a littlemore time on deck. 

Elfride partly undressed herself and lay down, and soon becameunconscious, though her sleep was light. How long she had lain, she knewnot, when by slow degrees she became cognizant of a whispering in herear. 

'You are well on with him, I can see. Well, provoke me now, but my daywill come, you will find. ' That seemed to be the utterance, or words tothat effect. 

Elfride became broad awake and terrified. She knew the words, if real, could be only those of one person, and that person the widow Jethway. 

The lamp had gone out and the place was in darkness. In the next berthshe could hear her stepmother breathing heavily, further on Snewsonbreathing more heavily still. These were the only other legitimateoccupants of the cabin, and Mrs. Jethway must have stealthily come in bysome means and retreated again, or else she had entered an empty berthnext Snewson's. The fear that this was the case increased Elfride'sperturbation, till it assumed the dimensions of a certainty, for howcould a stranger from the other end of the ship possibly contrive to getin? Could it have been a dream?

Elfride raised herself higher and looked out of the window. There wasthe sea, floundering and rushing against the ship's side just by herhead, and thence stretching away, dim and moaning, into an expanse ofindistinctness; and far beyond all this two placid lights like raylessstars. Now almost fearing to turn her face inwards again, lest Mrs. Jethway should appear at her elbow, Elfride meditated upon whether tocall Snewson to keep her company. 'Four bells' sounded, and she heardvoices, which gave her a little courage. It was not worth while to callSnewson. 

At any rate Elfride could not stay there panting longer, at the risk ofbeing again disturbed by that dreadful whispering. So wrapping herselfup hurriedly she emerged into the passage, and by the aid of a faintlight burning at the entrance to the saloon found the foot of thestairs, and ascended to the deck. Dreary the place was in the extreme. It seemed a new spot altogether in contrast with its daytime self. Shecould see the glowworm light from the binnacle, and the dim outlineof the man at the wheel; also a form at the bows. Not another soul wasapparent from stem to stern. 

Yes, there were two more--by the bulwarks. One proved to be her Harry, the other the mate. She was glad indeed, and on drawing closer foundthey were holding a low slow chat about nautical affairs. She ran upand slipped her hand through Knight's arm, partly for love, partly forstability. 

'Elfie! not asleep?' said Knight, after moving a few steps aside withher. 

'No: I cannot sleep. May I stay here? It is so dismal down there, and--and I was afraid. Where are we now?'

'Due south of Portland Bill. Those are the lights abeam of us: look. A terrible spot, that, on a stormy night. And do you see a very smalllight that dips and rises to the right? That's a light-ship on thedangerous shoal called the Shambles, where many a good vessel hasgone to pieces. Between it and ourselves is the Race--a place whereantagonistic currents meet and form whirlpools--a spot which is rough inthe smoothest weather, and terrific in a wind. That dark, dreary horizonwe just discern to the left is the West Bay, terminated landwards by theChesil Beach. '

'What time is it, Harry?'

'Just past two. '

'Are you going below?'

'Oh no; not to-night. I prefer pure air. '

She fancied he might be displeased with her for coming to him at thisunearthly hour. 'I should like to stay here too, if you will allow me, 'she said timidly. 

'I want to ask you things. '

'Allow you, Elfie!' said Knight, putting his arm round her and drawingher closer. 'I am twice as happy with you by my side. Yes: we will stay, and watch the approach of day. '

So they again sought out the sheltered nook, and sitting down wrappedthemselves in the rug as before. 

'What were you going to ask me?' he inquired, as they undulated up anddown. 

'Oh, it was not much--perhaps a thing I ought not to ask, ' she saidhesitatingly. Her sudden wish had really been to discover at oncewhether he had ever before been engaged to be married. If he had, shewould make that a ground for telling him a little of her conduct withStephen. Mrs. Jethway's seeming words had so depressed the girl thatshe herself now painted her flight in the darkest colours, and longed toease her burdened mind by an instant confession. If Knight had ever beenimprudent himself, he might, she hoped, forgive all. 

'I wanted to ask you, ' she went on, 'if--you had ever been engagedbefore. ' She added tremulously, 'I hope you have--I mean, I don't mindat all if you have. '

'No, I never was, ' Knight instantly and heartily replied. 'Elfride'--andthere was a certain happy pride in his tone--'I am twelve years olderthan you, and I have been about the world, and, in a way, into society, and you have not. And yet I am not so unfit for you as strict-thinkingpeople might imagine, who would assume the difference in age to signifymost surely an equal addition to my practice in love-making. '

Elfride shivered. 

'You are cold--is the wind too much for you?'

'No, ' she said gloomily. The belief which had been her sheet-anchor inhoping for forgiveness had proved false. This account of the exceptionalnature of his experience, a matter which would have set her rejoicingtwo years ago, chilled her now like a frost. 

'You don't mind my asking you?' she continued. 

'Oh no--not at all. '

'And have you never kissed many ladies?' she whispered, hoping he wouldsay a hundred at the least. 

The time, the circumstances, and the scene were such as to drawconfidences from the most reserved. 'Elfride, ' whispered Knight inreply, 'it is strange you should have asked that question. But I'llanswer it, though I have never told such a thing before. I have beenrather absurd in my avoidance of women. I have never given a woman akiss in my life, except yourself and my mother. ' The man of two andthirty with the experienced mind warmed all over with a boy's ingenuousshame as he made the confession. 

'What, not one?' she faltered. 

'No; not one. '

'How very strange!'

'Yes, the reverse experience may be commoner. And yet, to those who haveobserved their own sex, as I have, my case is not remarkable. Men abouttown are women's favourites--that's the postulate--and superficialpeople don't think far enough to see that there may be reserved, lonelyexceptions. '

'Are you proud of it, Harry?'

'No, indeed. Of late years I have wished I had gone my ways and trod outmy measure like lighter-hearted men. I have thought of how many happyexperiences I may have lost through never going to woo. '

'Then why did you hold aloof?'

'I cannot say. I don't think it was my nature to: circumstance hinderedme, perhaps. I have regretted it for another reason. This greatremissness of mine has had its effect upon me. The older I have grown, the more distinctly have I perceived that it was absolutely preventingme from liking any woman who was not as unpractised as I; and I gave upthe expectation of finding a nineteenth-century young lady in my own rawstate. Then I found you, Elfride, and I felt for the first time that myfastidiousness was a blessing. And it helped to make me worthy of you. I felt at once that, differing as we did in other experiences, in thismatter I resembled you. Well, aren't you glad to hear it, Elfride?'

'Yes, I am, ' she answered in a forced voice. 'But I always had thoughtthat men made lots of engagements before they married--especially ifthey don't marry very young. '

'So all women think, I suppose--and rightly, indeed, of the majority ofbachelors, as I said before. But an appreciable minority of slow-coachmen do not--and it makes them very awkward when they do come to thepoint. However, it didn't matter in my case. '

'Why?' she asked uneasily. 

'Because you know even less of love-making and matrimonialprearrangement than I, and so you can't draw invidious comparisons if Ido my engaging improperly. '

'I think you do it beautifully!'

'Thank you, dear. But, ' continued Knight laughingly, 'your opinion isnot that of an expert, which alone is of value. '

Had she answered, 'Yes, it is, ' half as strongly as she felt it, Knightmight have been a little astonished. 

'If you had ever been engaged to be married before, ' he went on, 'Iexpect your opinion of my addresses would be different. But then, Ishould not----'

'Should not what, Harry?'

'Oh, I was merely going to say that in that case I should never havegiven myself the pleasure of proposing to you, since your freedom fromthat experience was your attraction, darling. '

'You are severe on women, are you not?'

'No, I think not. I had a right to please my taste, and that was foruntried lips. Other men than those of my sort acquire the taste as theyget older--but don't find an Elfride----'

'What horrid sound is that we hear when we pitch forward?'

'Only the screw--don't find an Elfride as I did. To think that I shouldhave discovered such an unseen flower down there in the West--to whom aman is as much as a multitude to some women, and a trip down the EnglishChannel like a voyage round the world!'

'And would you, ' she said, and her voice was tremulous, 'have given upa lady--if you had become engaged to her--and then found she had had ONEkiss before yours--and would you have--gone away and left her?'

'One kiss, --no, hardly for that. '

'Two?'

'Well--I could hardly say inventorially like that. Too much of that sortof thing certainly would make me dislike a woman. But let us confine ourattention to ourselves, not go thinking of might have beens. '

So Elfride had allowed her thoughts to 'dally with false surmise, ' andevery one of Knight's words fell upon her like a weight. After this theywere silent for a long time, gazing upon the black mysterious sea, andhearing the strange voice of the restless wind. A rocking to and froon the waves, when the breeze is not too violent and cold, produces asoothing effect even upon the most highly-wrought mind. Elfride slowlysank against Knight, and looking down, he found by her soft regularbreathing that she had fallen asleep. Not wishing to disturb her, hecontinued still, and took an intense pleasure in supporting her warmyoung form as it rose and fell with her every breath. 

Knight fell to dreaming too, though he continued wide awake. It waspleasant to realize the implicit trust she placed in him, and to thinkof the charming innocence of one who could sink to sleep in so simpleand unceremonious a manner. More than all, the musing unpracticalstudent felt the immense responsibility he was taking upon himself bybecoming the protector and guide of such a trusting creature. The quietslumber of her soul lent a quietness to his own. Then she moaned, andturned herself restlessly. Presently her mutterings became distinct:

'Don't tell him--he will not love me. .. . I did not mean anydisgrace--indeed I did not, so don't tell Harry. We were going to bemarried--that was why I ran away. .. . And he says he will not have akissed woman. .. . And if you tell him he will go away, and I shall die. Ipray have mercy--Oh!'

Elfride started up wildly. 

The previous moment a musical ding-dong had spread into the air fromtheir right hand, and awakened her. 

'What is it?' she exclaimed in terror. 

'Only "eight bells, "' said Knight soothingly. 'Don't be frightened, little bird, you are safe. What have you been dreaming about?'

'I can't tell, I can't tell!' she said with a shudder. 'Oh, I don't knowwhat to do!'

'Stay quietly with me. We shall soon see the dawn now. Look, the morningstar is lovely over there. The clouds have completely cleared off whilstyou have been sleeping. What have you been dreaming of?'

'A woman in our parish. '

'Don't you like her?'

'I don't. She doesn't like me. Where are we?'

'About south of the Exe. '

Knight said no more on the words of her dream. They watched the skytill Elfride grew calm, and the dawn appeared. It was mere wan lightnessfirst. Then the wind blew in a changed spirit, and died away to azephyr. The star dissolved into the day. 

'That's how I should like to die, ' said Elfride, rising from her seatand leaning over the bulwark to watch the star's last expiring gleam. 

'As the lines say, ' Knight replied----

 '"To set as sets the morning star, which goes Not down behind the darken'd west, nor hides Obscured among the tempests of the sky, But melts away into the light of heaven. "'

'Oh, other people have thought the same thing, have they? That's alwaysthe case with my originalities--they are original to nobody but myself. '

'Not only the case with yours. When I was a young hand at reviewingI used to find that a frightful pitfall--dilating upon subjects I metwith, which were novelties to me, and finding afterwards they had beenexhausted by the thinking world when I was in pinafores. '

'That is delightful. Whenever I find you have done a foolish thing I amglad, because it seems to bring you a little nearer to me, who have donemany. ' And Elfride thought again of her enemy asleep under the deck theytrod. 

All up the coast, prominences singled themselves out from recesses. Thena rosy sky spread over the eastern sea and behind the low line ofland, flinging its livery in dashes upon the thin airy clouds in thatdirection. Every projection on the land seemed now so many fingersanxious to catch a little of the liquid light thrown so prodigally overthe sky, and after a fantastic time of lustrous yellows in the east, thehigher elevations along the shore were flooded with the same hues. Thebluff and bare contours of Start Point caught the brightest, earliestglow of all, and so also did the sides of its white lighthouse, perchedupon a shelf in its precipitous front like a mediaeval saint in a niche. Their lofty neighbour Bolt Head on the left remained as yet ungilded, and retained its gray. 

Then up came the sun, as it were in jerks, just to seaward of theeasternmost point of land, flinging out a Jacob's-ladder path of lightfrom itself to Elfride and Knight, and coating them with rays in a fewminutes. The inferior dignitaries of the shore--Froward Point, BerryHead, and Prawle--all had acquired their share of the illumination erethis, and at length the very smallest protuberance of wave, cliff, orinlet, even to the innermost recesses of the lovely valley of the Dart, had its portion; and sunlight, now the common possession of all, ceasedto be the wonderful and coveted thing it had been a short half hourbefore. 

After breakfast, Plymouth arose into view, and grew distincter to theirnearing vision, the Breakwater appearing like a streak of phosphoriclight upon the surface of the sea. Elfride looked furtively around forMrs. Jethway, but could discern no shape like hers. Afterwards, in thebustle of landing, she looked again with the same result, by which timethe woman had probably glided upon the quay unobserved. Expanding witha sense of relief, Elfride waited whilst Knight looked to their luggage, and then saw her father approaching through the crowd, twirling hiswalking-stick to catch their attention. Elbowing their way to him theyall entered the town, which smiled as sunny a smile upon Elfride as ithad done between one and two years earlier, when she had entered it atprecisely the same hour as the bride-elect of Stephen Smith. 

Chapter XXX

 'Vassal unto Love. '

Elfride clung closer to Knight as day succeeded day. Whatever else mightadmit of question, there could be no dispute that the allegiance shebore him absorbed her whole soul and existence. A greater than Stephenhad arisen, and she had left all to follow him. 

The unreserved girl was never chary of letting her lover discover howmuch she admired him. She never once held an idea in opposition toany one of his, or insisted on any point with him, or showed anyindependence, or held her own on any subject. His lightest whim sherespected and obeyed as law, and if, expressing her opinion on a matter, he took up the subject and differed from her, she instantly threwdown her own opinion as wrong and untenable. Even her ambiguities andespieglerie were but media of the same manifestation; acted charades, embodying the words of her prototype, the tender and susceptibledaughter-in-law of Naomi: 'Let me find favour in thy sight, my lord; forthat thou hast comforted me, and for that thou hast spoken friendly untothine handmaid. '

She was syringing the plants one wet day in the greenhouse. Knight wassitting under a great passion-flower observing the scene. Sometimes helooked out at the rain from the sky, and then at Elfride's inner rain oflarger drops, which fell from trees and shrubs, after having previouslyhung from the twigs like small silver fruit. 

'I must give you something to make you think of me during this autumnat your chambers, ' she was saying. 'What shall it be? Portraits do moreharm than good, by selecting the worst expression of which your face iscapable. Hair is unlucky. And you don't like jewellery. '

'Something which shall bring back to my mind the many scenes we haveenacted in this conservatory. I see what I should prize very much. Thatdwarf myrtle tree in the pot, which you have been so carefully tending. '

Elfride looked thoughtfully at the myrtle. 

'I can carry it comfortably in my hat box, ' said Knight. 'And I will putit in my window, and so, it being always before my eyes, I shall thinkof you continually. '

It so happened that the myrtle which Knight had singled out had apeculiar beginning and history. It had originally been a twig worn inStephen Smith's button-hole, and he had taken it thence, stuck it intothe pot, and told her that if it grew, she was to take care of it, andkeep it in remembrance of him when he was far away. 

She looked wistfully at the plant, and a sense of fairness to Smith'smemory caused her a pang of regret that Knight should have asked forthat very one. It seemed exceeding a common heartlessness to let it go. 

'Is there not anything you like better?' she said sadly. 'That is onlyan ordinary myrtle. '

'No: I am fond of myrtle. ' Seeing that she did not take kindly to theidea, he said again, 'Why do you object to my having that?'

'Oh no--I don't object precisely--it was a feeling. --Ah, here's anothercutting lately struck, and just as small--of a better kind, and withprettier leaves--myrtus microphylla. '

'That will do nicely. Let it be put in my room, that I may not forgetit. What romance attaches to the other?'

'It was a gift to me. '

The subject then dropped. Knight thought no more of the matter till, onentering his bedroom in the evening, he found the second myrtle placedupon his dressing-table as he had directed. He stood for a momentadmiring the fresh appearance of the leaves by candlelight, and then hethought of the transaction of the day. 

Male lovers as well as female can be spoilt by too much kindness, andElfride's uniform submissiveness had given Knight a rather exactingmanner at crises, attached to her as he was. 'Why should she haverefused the one I first chose?' he now asked himself. Even such slightopposition as she had shown then was exceptional enough to make itselfnoticeable. He was not vexed with her in the least: the mere variationof her way to-day from her usual ways kept him musing on the subject, because it perplexed him. 'It was a gift'--those were her words. Admitting it to be a gift, he thought she could hardly value a merefriend more than she valued him as a lover, and giving the plant intohis charge would have made no difference. 'Except, indeed, it was thegift of a lover, ' he murmured. 

'I wonder if Elfride has ever had a lover before?' he said aloud, as anew idea, quite. This and companion thoughts were enough to occupy himcompletely till he fell asleep--rather later than usual. 

The next day, when they were again alone, he said to her rathersuddenly--

'Do you love me more or less, Elfie, for what I told you on board thesteamer?'

'You told me so many things, ' she returned, lifting her eyes to his andsmiling. 

'I mean the confession you coaxed out of me--that I had never been inthe position of lover before. '

'It is a satisfaction, I suppose, to be the first in your heart, ' shesaid to him, with an attempt to continue her smiling. 

'I am going to ask you a question now, ' said Knight, somewhat awkwardly. 'I only ask it in a whimsical way, you know: not with great seriousness, Elfride. You may think it odd, perhaps. '

Elfride tried desperately to keep the colour in her face. She could not, though distressed to think that getting pale showed consciousness ofdeeper guilt than merely getting red. 

'Oh no--I shall not think that, ' she said, because obliged to saysomething to fill the pause which followed her questioner's remark. 

'It is this: have you ever had a lover? I am almost sure you have not;but, have you?'

'Not, as it were, a lover; I mean, not worth mentioning, Harry, ' shefaltered. 

Knight, overstrained in sentiment as he knew the feeling to be, feltsome sickness of heart. 

'Still, he was a lover?'

'Well, a sort of lover, I suppose, ' she responded tardily. 

'A man, I mean, you know. '

'Yes; but only a mere person, and----'

'But truly your lover?'

'Yes; a lover certainly--he was that. Yes, he might have been called mylover. '

Knight said nothing to this for a minute or more, and kept silent timewith his finger to the tick of the old library clock, in which room thecolloquy was going on. 

'You don't mind, Harry, do you?' she said anxiously, nestling close tohim, and watching his face. 

'Of course, I don't seriously mind. In reason, a man cannot object tosuch a trifle. I only thought you hadn't--that was all. '

However, one ray was abstracted from the glory about her head. Butafterwards, when Knight was wandering by himself over the bare andbreezy hills, and meditating on the subject, that ray suddenly returned. For she might have had a lover, and never have cared in the least forhim. She might have used the word improperly, and meant 'admirer' allthe time. Of course she had been admired; and one man might have madehis admiration more prominent than that of the rest--a very naturalcase. 

They were sitting on one of the garden seats when he found occasion toput the supposition to the test. 'Did you love that lover or admirer ofyours ever so little, Elfie?'

She murmured reluctantly, 'Yes, I think I did. '

Knight felt the same faint touch of misery. 'Only a very little?' hesaid. 

'I am not sure how much. '

'But you are sure, darling, you loved him a little?'

'I think I am sure I loved him a little. '

'And not a great deal, Elfie?'

'My love was not supported by reverence for his powers. '

'But, Elfride, did you love him deeply?' said Knight restlessly. 

'I don't exactly know how deep you mean by deeply. '

'That's nonsense. '

'You misapprehend; and you have let go my hand!' she cried, her eyesfilling with tears. 'Harry, don't be severe with me, and don't questionme. I did not love him as I do you. And could it be deeply if I didnot think him cleverer than myself? For I did not. You grieve me somuch--you can't think. '

'I will not say another word about it. '

'And you will not think about it, either, will you? I know you think ofweaknesses in me after I am out of your sight; and not knowing what theyare, I cannot combat them. I almost wish you were of a grosser nature, Harry; in truth I do! Or rather, I wish I could have the advantages sucha nature in you would afford me, and yet have you as you are. '

'What advantages would they be?'

'Less anxiety, and more security. Ordinary men are not so delicate intheir tastes as you; and where the lover or husband is not fastidious, and refined, and of a deep nature, things seem to go on better, Ifancy--as far as I have been able to observe the world. '

'Yes; I suppose it is right. Shallowness has this advantage, that youcan't be drowned there. '

'But I think I'll have you as you are; yes, I will!' she said winsomely. 'The practical husbands and wives who take things philosophically arevery humdrum, are they not? Yes, it would kill me quite. You please mebest as you are. '

'Even though I wish you had never cared for one before me?'

'Yes. And you must not wish it. Don't!'

'I'll try not to, Elfride. '

So she hoped, but her heart was troubled. If he felt so deeply on thispoint, what would he say did he know all, and see it as Mrs. Jethway sawit? He would never make her the happiest girl in the world by taking herto be his own for aye. The thought enclosed her as a tomb whenever itpresented itself to her perturbed brain. She tried to believe that Mrs. Jethway would never do her such a cruel wrong as to increase the badappearance of her folly by innuendoes; and concluded that concealment, having been begun, must be persisted in, if possible. For what he mightconsider as bad as the fact, was her previous concealment of it bystrategy. 

But Elfride knew Mrs. Jethway to be her enemy, and to hate her. It waspossible she would do her worst. And should she do it, all might beover. 

Would the woman listen to reason, and be persuaded not to ruin one whohad never intentionally harmed her?

It was night in the valley between Endelstow Crags and the shore. Thebrook which trickled that way to the sea was distinct in its murmursnow, and over the line of its course there began to hang a white ribandof fog. Against the sky, on the left hand of the vale, the black form ofthe church could be seen. On the other rose hazel-bushes, a few trees, and where these were absent, furze tufts--as tall as men--on stemsnearly as stout as timber. The shriek of some bird was occasionallyheard, as it flew terror-stricken from its first roost, to seek a newsleeping-place, where it might pass the night unmolested. 

In the evening shade, some way down the valley, and under a row ofscrubby oaks, a cottage could still be discerned. It stood absolutelyalone. The house was rather large, and the windows of some of the roomswere nailed up with boards on the outside, which gave a particularlydeserted appearance to the whole erection. From the front door anirregular series of rough and misshapen steps, cut in the solid rock, led down to the edge of the streamlet, which, at their extremity, was hollowed into a basin through which the water trickled. This wasevidently the means of water supply to the dweller or dwellers in thecottage. 

A light footstep was heard descending from the higher slopes of thehillside. Indistinct in the pathway appeared a moving female shape, whoadvanced and knocked timidly at the door. No answer being returned theknock was repeated, with the same result, and it was then repeated athird time. This also was unsuccessful. 

From one of the only two windows on the ground floor which were notboarded up came rays of light, no shutter or curtain obscuring the roomfrom the eyes of a passer on the outside. So few walked that way afternightfall that any such means to secure secrecy were probably deemedunnecessary. 

The inequality of the rays falling upon the trees outside told that thelight had its origin in a flickering fire only. The visitor, after thethird knocking, stepped a little to the left in order to gain a view ofthe interior, and threw back the hood from her face. The dancing yellowsheen revealed the fair and anxious countenance of Elfride. 

Inside the house this firelight was enough to illumine the roomdistinctly, and to show that the furniture of the cottage was superiorto what might have been expected from so unpromising an exterior. Italso showed to Elfride that the room was empty. Beyond the light quiverand flap of the flames nothing moved or was audible therein. 

She turned the handle and entered, throwing off the cloak whichenveloped her, under which she appeared without hat or bonnet, andin the sort of half-toilette country people ordinarily dine in. Thenadvancing to the foot of the staircase she called distinctly, butsomewhat fearfully, 'Mrs. Jethway!'

No answer. 

With a look of relief and regret combined, denoting that ease came tothe heart and disappointment to the brain, Elfride paused for severalminutes, as if undecided how to act. Determining to wait, she sat downon a chair. The minutes drew on, and after sitting on the thorns ofimpatience for half an hour, she searched her pocket, took therefrom aletter, and tore off the blank leaf. Then taking out a pencil she wroteupon the paper:

'DEAR MRS. JETHWAY, --I have been to visit you. I wanted much to seeyou, but I cannot wait any longer. I came to beg you not to execute thethreats you have repeated to me. Do not, I beseech you, Mrs. Jethway, let any one know I ran away from home! It would ruin me with him, andbreak my heart. I will do anything for you, if you will be kind tome. In the name of our common womanhood, do not, I implore you, make ascandal of me. --Yours, E. SWANCOURT. '

She folded the note cornerwise, directed it, and placed it on the table. Then again drawing the hood over her curly head she emerged silently asshe had come. 

Whilst this episode had been in action at Mrs. Jethway's cottage, Knighthad gone from the dining-room into the drawing-room, and found Mrs. Swancourt there alone. 

'Elfride has vanished upstairs or somewhere, ' she said. 

'And I have been reading an article in an old number of the PRESENT thatI lighted on by chance a short time ago; it is an article you once toldus was yours. Well, Harry, with due deference to your literary powers, allow me to say that this effusion is all nonsense, in my opinion. '

'What is it about?' said Knight, taking up the paper and reading. 

'There: don't get red about it. Own that experience has taught you tobe more charitable. I have never read such unchivalrous sentiments in mylife--from a man, I mean. There, I forgive you; it was before you knewElfride. '

'Oh yes, ' said Knight, looking up. 'I remember now. The text of thatsermon was not my own at all, but was suggested to me by a young mannamed Smith--the same whom I have mentioned to you as coming from thisparish. I thought the idea rather ingenious at the time, and enlarged itto the weight of a few guineas, because I had nothing else in my head. '

'Which idea do you call the text? I am curious to know that. '

'Well, this, ' said Knight, somewhat unwillingly. 'That experienceteaches, and your sweetheart, no less than your tailor, is necessarilyvery imperfect in her duties, if you are her first patron: andconversely, the sweetheart who is graceful under the initial kiss mustbe supposed to have had some practice in the trade. '

'And do you mean to say that you wrote that upon the strength of anotherman's remark, without having tested it by practice?'

'Yes--indeed I do. '

'Then I think it was uncalled for and unfair. And how do you know it istrue? I expect you regret it now. '

'Since you bring me into a serious mood, I will speak candidly. I dobelieve that remark to be perfectly true, and, having written it, Iwould defend it anywhere. But I do often regret having ever written it, as well as others of the sort. I have grown older since, and I find sucha tone of writing is calculated to do harm in the world. Every literaryJack becomes a gentleman if he can only pen a few indifferent satiresupon womankind: women themselves, too, have taken to the trick; and so, upon the whole, I begin to be rather ashamed of my companions. '

'Ah, Henry, you have fallen in love since and it makes a difference, 'said Mrs. Swancourt with a faint tone of banter. 

'That's true; but that is not my reason. '

'Having found that, in a case of your own experience, a so-called goosewas a swan, it seems absurd to deny such a possibility in other men'sexperiences. '

'You can hit palpably, cousin Charlotte, ' said Knight. 'You are like theboy who puts a stone inside his snowball, and I shall play with you nolonger. Excuse me--I am going for my evening stroll. '

Though Knight had spoken jestingly, this incident and conversation hadcaused him a sudden depression. Coming, rather singularly, just afterhis discovery that Elfride had known what it was to love warmly beforeshe had known him, his mind dwelt upon the subject, and the familiarpipe he smoked, whilst pacing up and down the shrubbery-path, failedto be a solace. He thought again of those idle words--hitherto quiteforgotten--about the first kiss of a girl, and the theory seemed morethan reasonable. Of course their sting now lay in their bearing onElfride. 

Elfride, under Knight's kiss, had certainly been a very different womanfrom herself under Stephen's. Whether for good or for ill, she hadmarvellously well learnt a betrothed lady's part; and the fascinatingfinish of her deportment in this second campaign did probably arise fromher unreserved encouragement of Stephen. Knight, with all the rapidityof jealous sensitiveness, pounced upon some words she had inadvertentlylet fall about an earring, which he had only partially understood at thetime. It was during that 'initial kiss' by the little waterfall:

'We must be careful. I lost the other by doing this!'

A flush which had in it as much of wounded pride as of sorrow, passedover Knight as he thought of what he had so frequently said to herin his simplicity. 'I always meant to be the first comer in a woman'sheart, fresh lips or none for me. ' How childishly blind he must haveseemed to this mere girl! How she must have laughed at him inwardly! Heabsolutely writhed as he thought of the confession she had wrung fromhim on the boat in the darkness of night. The one conception which hadsustained his dignity when drawn out of his shell on that occasion--thatof her charming ignorance of all such matters--how absurd it was!

This man, whose imagination had been fed up to preternatural size bylonely study and silent observations of his kind--whose emotions hadbeen drawn out long and delicate by his seclusion, like plants in acellar--was now absolutely in pain. Moreover, several years of poeticstudy, and, if the truth must be told, poetic efforts, had tendedto develop the affective side of his constitution still further, inproportion to his active faculties. It was his belief in the absolutenewness of blandishment to Elfride which had constituted her primarycharm. He began to think it was as hard to be earliest in a woman'sheart as it was to be first in the Pool of Bethesda. 

That Knight should have been thus constituted: that Elfride's secondlover should not have been one of the great mass of bustling mankind, little given to introspection, whose good-nature might have compensatedfor any lack of appreciativeness, was the chance of things. That herthrobbing, self-confounding, indiscreet heart should have to defenditself unaided against the keen scrutiny and logical power which Knight, now that his suspicions were awakened, would sooner or later be sure toexercise against her, was her misfortune. A miserable incongruity wasapparent in the circumstance of a strong mind practising its unerringarchery upon a heart which the owner of that mind loved better than hisown. 

Elfride's docile devotion to Knight was now its own enemy. Clingingto him so dependently, she taught him in time to presume upon thatdevotion--a lesson men are not slow to learn. A slight rebelliousnessoccasionally would have done him no harm, and would have been a worldof advantage to her. But she idolized him, and was proud to be hisbond-servant. 

Chapter XXXI

 'A worm i' the bud. '

One day the reviewer said, 'Let us go to the cliffs again, Elfride;'and, without consulting her wishes, he moved as if to start at once. 

'The cliff of our dreadful adventure?' she inquired, with a shudder. 'Death stares me in the face in the person of that cliff. '

Nevertheless, so entirely had she sunk her individuality in his that theremark was not uttered as an expostulation, and she immediately preparedto accompany him. 

'No, not that place, ' said Knight. 'It is ghastly to me, too. Thatother, I mean; what is its name?--Windy Beak. '

Windy Beak was the second cliff in height along that coast, and, as isfrequently the case with the natural features of the globe no less thanwith the intellectual features of men, it enjoyed the reputation ofbeing the first. Moreover, it was the cliff to which Elfride had riddenwith Stephen Smith, on a well-remembered morning of his summer visit. 

So, though thought of the former cliff had caused her to shudder at theperils to which her lover and herself had there been exposed, by beingassociated with Knight only it was not so objectionable as Windy Beak. That place was worse than gloomy, it was a perpetual reproach to her. 

But not liking to refuse, she said, 'It is further than the othercliff. '

'Yes; but you can ride. '

'And will you too?'

'No, I'll walk. '

A duplicate of her original arrangement with Stephen. Some fatality mustbe hanging over her head. But she ceased objecting. 

'Very well, Harry, I'll ride, ' she said meekly. 

A quarter of an hour later she was in the saddle. But how differentthe mood from that of the former time. She had, indeed, given up herposition as queen of the less to be vassal of the greater. Here was noshowing off now; no scampering out of sight with Pansy, to perplexand tire her companion; no saucy remarks on LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI. Elfride was burdened with the very intensity of her love. 

Knight did most of the talking along the journey. Elfride silentlylistened, and entirely resigned herself to the motions of the amblinghorse upon which she sat, alternately rising and sinking gently, like asea bird upon a sea wave. 

When they had reached the limit of a quadruped's possibilities inwalking, Knight tenderly lifted her from the saddle, tied the horse, andrambled on with her to the seat in the rock. Knight sat down, and drewElfride deftly beside him, and they looked over the sea. 

Two or three degrees above that melancholy and eternally level line, theocean horizon, hung a sun of brass, with no visible rays, in a sky ofashen hue. It was a sky the sun did not illuminate or enkindle, as isusual at sunsets. This sheet of sky was met by the salt mass ofgray water, flecked here and there with white. A waft of dampnessoccasionally rose to their faces, which was probably rarefied spray fromthe blows of the sea upon the foot of the cliff. 

Elfride wished it could be a longer time ago that she had sat therewith Stephen as her lover, and agreed to be his wife. The significantcloseness of that time to the present was another item to add to thelist of passionate fears which were chronic with her now. 

Yet Knight was very tender this evening, and sustained her close to himas they sat. 

Not a word had been uttered by either since sitting down, when Knightsaid musingly, looking still afar--

'I wonder if any lovers in past years ever sat here with arms locked, aswe do now. Probably they have, for the place seems formed for a seat. '

Her recollection of a well-known pair who had, and the much-talked-ofloss which had ensued therefrom, and how the young man had been sentback to look for the missing article, led Elfride to glance down to herside, and behind her back. Many people who lose a trinket involuntarilygive a momentary look for it in passing the spot ever so longafterwards. They do not often find it. Elfride, in turning her head, sawsomething shine weakly from a crevice in the rocky sedile. Only for afew minutes during the day did the sun light the alcove to its innermostrifts and slits, but these were the minutes now, and its level rays didElfride the good or evil turn of revealing the lost ornament. 

Elfride's thoughts instantly reverted to the words she hadunintentionally uttered upon what had been going on when the earring waslost. And she was immediately seized with a misgiving that Knight, onseeing the object, would be reminded of her words. Her instinctive acttherefore was to secure it privately. 

It was so deep in the crack that Elfride could not pull it out with herhand, though she made several surreptitious trials. 

'What are you doing, Elfie?' said Knight, noticing her attempts, andlooking behind him likewise. 

She had relinquished the endeavour, but too late. 

Knight peered into the joint from which her hand had been withdrawn, andsaw what she had seen. He instantly took a penknife from his pocket, and by dint of probing and scraping brought the earring out upon openground. 

'It is not yours, surely?' he inquired. 

'Yes, it is, ' she said quietly. 

'Well, that is a most extraordinary thing, that we should find it likethis!' Knight then remembered more circumstances; 'What, is it the oneyou have told me of?'

'Yes. '

The unfortunate remark of hers at the kiss came into his mind, if eyeswere ever an index to be trusted. Trying to repress the words he yetspoke on the subject, more to obtain assurance that what it had seemedto imply was not true than from a wish to pry into bygones. 

'Were you really engaged to be married to that lover?' he said, lookingstraight forward at the sea again. 

'Yes--but not exactly. Yet I think I was. '

'O Elfride, engaged to be married!' he murmured. 

'It would have been called a--secret engagement, I suppose. But don'tlook so disappointed; don't blame me. '

'No, no. '

'Why do you say "No, no, " in such a way? Sweetly enough, but so barely?'

Knight made no direct reply to this. 'Elfride, I told you once, ' hesaid, following out his thoughts, 'that I never kissed a woman as asweetheart until I kissed you. A kiss is not much, I suppose, and ithappens to few young people to be able to avoid all blandishmentsand attentions except from the one they afterwards marry. But I havepeculiar weaknesses, Elfride; and because I have led a peculiar life, Imust suffer for it, I suppose. I had hoped--well, what I had no right tohope in connection with you. You naturally granted your former lover theprivileges you grant me. '

A 'yes' came from her like the last sad whisper of a breeze. 

'And he used to kiss you--of course he did. '

'Yes. '

'And perhaps you allowed him a more free manner in his love-making thanI have shown in mine. '

'No, I did not. ' This was rather more alertly spoken. 

'But he adopted it without being allowed?'

'Yes. '

'How much I have made of you, Elfride, and how I have kept aloof!' saidKnight in deep and shaken tones. 'So many days and hours as I have hopedin you--I have feared to kiss you more than those two times. And he madeno scruples to. .. '

She crept closer to him and trembled as if with cold. Her dread that thewhole story, with random additions, would become known to him, causedher manner to be so agitated that Knight was alarmed and perplexed intostillness. The actual innocence which made her think so fearfully ofwhat, as the world goes, was not a great matter, magnified her apparentguilt. It may have said to Knight that a woman who was so flurried inthe preliminaries must have a dreadful sequel to her tale. 

'I know, ' continued Knight, with an indescribable drag of manner andintonation, --'I know I am absurdly scrupulous about you--that I want youtoo exclusively mine. In your past before you knew me--from your verycradle--I wanted to think you had been mine. I would make you mine bymain force. Elfride, ' he went on vehemently, 'I can't help this jealousyover you! It is my nature, and must be so, and I HATE the fact that youhave been caressed before: yes hate it!'

She drew a long deep breath, which was half a sob. Knight's face washard, and he never looked at her at all, still fixing his gaze far outto sea, which the sun had now resigned to the shade. In high places itis not long from sunset to night, dusk being in a measure banished, andthough only evening where they sat, it had been twilight in thevalleys for half an hour. Upon the dull expanse of sea there graduallyintensified itself into existence the gleam of a distant light-ship. 

'When that lover first kissed you, Elfride was it in such a place asthis?'

'Yes, it was. '

'You don't tell me anything but what I wring out of you. Why is that?Why have you suppressed all mention of this when casual confidences ofmine should have suggested confidence in return? On board the Juliet, why were you so secret? It seems like being made a fool of, Elfride, tothink that, when I was teaching you how desirable it was that we shouldhave no secrets from each other, you were assenting in words, but in actcontradicting me. Confidence would have been so much more promising forour happiness. If you had had confidence in me, and told me willingly, Ishould--be different. But you suppress everything, and I shall questionyou. Did you live at Endelstow at that time?'

'Yes, ' she said faintly. 

'Where were you when he first kissed you?'

'Sitting in this seat. '

'Ah, I thought so!' said Knight, rising and facing her. 

'And that accounts for everything--the exclamation which you explaineddeceitfully, and all! Forgive the harsh word, Elfride--forgive it. ' Hesmiled a surface smile as he continued: 'What a poor mortal I am to playsecond fiddle in everything and to be deluded by fibs!'

'Oh, don't say it; don't, Harry!'

'Where did he kiss you besides here?'

'Sitting on--a tomb in the--churchyard--and other places, ' she answeredwith slow recklessness. 

'Never mind, never mind, ' he exclaimed, on seeing her tears andperturbation. 'I don't want to grieve you. I don't care. '

But Knight did care. 

'It makes no difference, you know, ' he continued, seeing she did notreply. 

'I feel cold, ' said Elfride. 'Shall we go home?'

'Yes; it is late in the year to sit long out of doors: we ought to beoff this ledge before it gets too dark to let us see our footing. Idaresay the horse is impatient. '

Knight spoke the merest commonplace to her now. He had hoped to thelast moment that she would have volunteered the whole story of her firstattachment. It grew more and more distasteful to him that she shouldhave a secret of this nature. Such entire confidence as he had picturedas about to exist between himself and the innocent young wife who hadknown no lover's tones save his--was this its beginning? He liftedher upon the horse, and they went along constrainedly. The poison ofsuspicion was doing its work well. 

An incident occurred on this homeward journey which was long rememberedby both, as adding shade to shadow. Knight could not keep from hismind the words of Adam's reproach to Eve in PARADISE LOST, and at lastwhispered them to himself--

 'Fool'd and beguiled: by him thou, I by thee!'

'What did you say?' Elfride inquired timorously. 

'It was only a quotation. '

They had now dropped into a hollow, and the church tower made itsappearance against the pale evening sky, its lower part being hidden bysome intervening trees. Elfride, being denied an answer, was looking atthe tower and trying to think of some contrasting quotation she mightuse to regain his tenderness. After a little thought she said in winningtones--

"Thou hast been my hope, and a strong tower for me against the enemy. "'

They passed on. A few minutes later three or four birds were seen to flyout of the tower. 

'The strong tower moves, ' said Knight, with surprise. 

A corner of the square mass swayed forward, sank, and vanished. A loudrumble followed, and a cloud of dust arose where all had previously beenso clear. 

'The church restorers have done it!' said Elfride. 

At this minute Mr. Swancourt was seen approaching them. He came up witha bustling demeanour, apparently much engrossed by some business inhand. 

'We have got the tower down!' he exclaimed. 'It came rather quickerthan we intended it should. The first idea was to take it down stone bystone, you know. In doing this the crack widened considerably, and itwas not believed safe for the men to stand upon the walls any longer. Then we decided to undermine it, and three men set to work at theweakest corner this afternoon. They had left off for the evening, intending to give the final blow to-morrow morning, and had been homeabout half an hour, when down it came. A very successful job--a veryfine job indeed. But he was a tough old fellow in spite of the crack. 'Here Mr. Swancourt wiped from his face the perspiration his excitementhad caused him. 

'Poor old tower!' said Elfride. 

'Yes, I am sorry for it, ' said Knight. 'It was an interesting piece ofantiquity--a local record of local art. '

'Ah, but my dear sir, we shall have a new one, expostulated Mr. Swancourt; 'a splendid tower--designed by a first-rate London man--inthe newest style of Gothic art, and full of Christian feeling. '

'Indeed!' said Knight. 

'Oh yes. Not in the barbarous clumsy architecture of this neighbourhood;you see nothing so rough and pagan anywhere else in England. Whenthe men are gone, I would advise you to go and see the church beforeanything further is done to it. You can now sit in the chancel, and lookdown the nave through the west arch, and through that far out to sea. Infact, ' said Mr. Swancourt significantly, 'if a wedding were performedat the altar to-morrow morning, it might be witnessed from the deck ofa ship on a voyage to the South Seas, with a good glass. However, afterdinner, when the moon has risen, go up and see for yourselves. '

Knight assented with feverish readiness. He had decided within the lastfew minutes that he could not rest another night without further talkwith Elfride upon the subject which now divided them: he was determinedto know all, and relieve his disquiet in some way. Elfride would gladlyhave escaped further converse alone with him that night, but it seemedinevitable. 

Just after moonrise they left the house. How little any expectationof the moonlight prospect--which was the ostensible reason of theirpilgrimage--had to do with Knight's real motive in getting the gentlegirl again upon his arm, Elfride no less than himself well knew. 

Chapter XXXII

 'Had I wist before I kist'

It was now October, and the night air was chill. After looking to seethat she was well wrapped up, Knight took her along the hillside paththey had ascended so many times in each other's company, when doubt wasa thing unknown. On reaching the church they found that one side of thetower was, as the vicar had stated, entirely removed, and lying in theshape of rubbish at their feet. The tower on its eastern side stillwas firm, and might have withstood the shock of storms and the siegeof battering years for many a generation even now. They entered by theside-door, went eastward, and sat down by the altar-steps. 

The heavy arch spanning the junction of tower and nave formed to-nighta black frame to a distant misty view, stretching far westward. Justoutside the arch came the heap of fallen stones, then a portion ofmoonlit churchyard, then the wide and convex sea behind. It was acoup-d'oeil which had never been possible since the mediaeval masonsfirst attached the old tower to the older church it dignified, andhence must be supposed to have had an interest apart from that of simplemoonlight on ancient wall and sea and shore--any mention of which has bythis time, it is to be feared, become one of the cuckoo-cries which areheard but not regarded. Rays of crimson, blue, and purple shone upon thetwain from the east window behind them, wherein saints and angels viedwith each other in primitive surroundings of landscape and sky, andthrew upon the pavement at the sitters' feet a softer reproduction ofthe same translucent hues, amid which the shadows of the two livingheads of Knight and Elfride were opaque and prominent blots. Presentlythe moon became covered by a cloud, and the iridescence died away. 

'There, it is gone!' said Knight. 'I've been thinking, Elfride, thatthis place we sit on is where we may hope to kneel together soon. But Iam restless and uneasy, and you know why. '

Before she replied the moonlight returned again, irradiating thatportion of churchyard within their view. It brightened the near partfirst, and against the background which the cloud-shadow had not yetuncovered stood, brightest of all, a white tomb--the tomb of youngJethway. 

Knight, still alive on the subject of Elfride's secret, thought of herwords concerning the kiss that it once had occurred on a tomb in thischurchyard. 

'Elfride, ' he said, with a superficial archness which did not half coveran undercurrent of reproach, 'do you know, I think you might have toldme voluntarily about that past--of kisses and betrothing--without givingme so much uneasiness and trouble. Was that the tomb you alluded to ashaving sat on with him?'

She waited an instant. 'Yes, ' she said. 

The correctness of his random shot startled Knight; though, consideringthat almost all the other memorials in the churchyard were uprightheadstones upon which nobody could possibly sit, it was not sowonderful. 

Elfride did not even now go on with the explanation her exacting loverwished to have, and her reticence began to irritate him as before. Hewas inclined to read her a lecture. 

'Why don't you tell me all?' he said somewhat indignantly. 'Elfride, there is not a single subject upon which I feel more strongly than uponthis--that everything ought to be cleared up between two persons beforethey become husband and wife. See how desirable and wise such acourse is, in order to avoid disagreeable contingencies in the form ofdiscoveries afterwards. For, Elfride, a secret of no importance at allmay be made the basis of some fatal misunderstanding only because it isdiscovered, and not confessed. They say there never was a couple of whomone had not some secret the other never knew or was intended to know. This may or may not be true; but if it be true, some have been happy inspite rather than in consequence of it. If a man were to see anotherman looking significantly at his wife, and she were blushing crimson andappearing startled, do you think he would be so well satisfied with, forinstance, her truthful explanation that once, to her great annoyance, she accidentally fainted into his arms, as if she had said itvoluntarily long ago, before the circumstance occurred which forced itfrom her? Suppose that admirer you spoke of in connection with the tombyonder should turn up, and bother me. It would embitter our lives, if Iwere then half in the dark, as I am now!'

Knight spoke the latter sentences with growing force. 

'It cannot be, ' she said. 

'Why not?' he asked sharply. 

Elfride was distressed to find him in so stern a mood, and she trembled. In a confusion of ideas, probably not intending a wilful prevarication, she answered hurriedly--

'If he's dead, how can you meet him?'

'Is he dead? Oh, that's different altogether!' said Knight, immenselyrelieved. 'But, let me see--what did you say about that tomb and him?'

'That's his tomb, ' she continued faintly. 

'What! was he who lies buried there the man who was your lover?' Knightasked in a distinct voice. 

'Yes; and I didn't love him or encourage him. '

'But you let him kiss you--you said so, you know, Elfride. '

She made no reply. 

'Why, ' said Knight, recollecting circumstances by degrees, 'you surelysaid you were in some degree engaged to him--and of course you were ifhe kissed you. And now you say you never encouraged him. And I have beenfancying you said--I am almost sure you did--that you were sitting withhim ON that tomb. Good God!' he cried, suddenly starting up in anger, 'are you telling me untruths? Why should you play with me like this?I'll have the right of it. Elfride, we shall never be happy! There'sa blight upon us, or me, or you, and it must be cleared off before wemarry. ' Knight moved away impetuously as if to leave her. 

She jumped up and clutched his arm

'Don't go, Harry--don't!

'Tell me, then, ' said Knight sternly. 'And remember this, no more fibs, or, upon my soul, I shall hate you. Heavens! that I should come to this, to be made a fool of by a girl's untruths----'

'Don't, don't treat me so cruelly! O Harry, Harry, have pity, andwithdraw those dreadful words! I am truthful by nature--I am--and Idon't know how I came to make you misunderstand! But I was frightened!'She quivered so in her perturbation that she shook him with her {Note:sentence incomplete in text. }

'Did you say you were sitting on that tomb?' he asked moodily. 

'Yes; and it was true. '

'Then how, in the name of Heaven, can a man sit upon his own tomb?'

'That was another man. Forgive me, Harry, won't you?'

'What, a lover in the tomb and a lover on it?'

'Oh--Oh--yes!'

'Then there were two before me?

'I--suppose so. '

'Now, don't be a silly woman with your supposing--I hate all that, ' saidKnight contemptuously almost. 'Well, we learn strange things. Idon't know what I might have done--no man can say into what shapecircumstances may warp him--but I hardly think I should have had theconscience to accept the favours of a new lover whilst sitting over thepoor remains of the old one; upon my soul, I don't. ' Knight, in moodymeditation, continued looking towards the tomb, which stood staring themin the face like an avenging ghost. 

'But you wrong me--Oh, so grievously!' she cried. 'I did not meditateany such thing: believe me, Harry, I did not. It only happened so--quiteof itself. '

'Well, I suppose you didn't INTEND such a thing, ' he said. 'Nobody everdoes, ' he sadly continued. 

'And him in the grave I never once loved. '

'I suppose the second lover and you, as you sat there, vowed to befaithful to each other for ever?'

Elfride only replied by quick heavy breaths, showing she was on thebrink of a sob. 

'You don't choose to be anything but reserved, then?' he saidimperatively. 

'Of course we did, ' she responded. 

'"Of course!" You seem to treat the subject very lightly?'

'It is past, and is nothing to us now. '

'Elfride, it is a nothing which, though it may make a careless manlaugh, cannot but make a genuine one grieve. It is a very gnawing pain. Tell me straight through--all of it. '

'Never. O Harry! how can you expect it when so little of it makes you soharsh with me?'

'Now, Elfride, listen to this. You know that what you have told onlyjars the subtler fancies in one, after all. The feeling I have about itwould be called, and is, mere sentimentality; and I don't want you tosuppose that an ordinary previous engagement of a straightforward kindwould make any practical difference in my love, or my wish to make youmy wife. But you seem to have more to tell, and that's where the wrongis. Is there more?'

'Not much more, ' she wearily answered. 

Knight preserved a grave silence for a minute. '"Not much more, "' hesaid at last. 'I should think not, indeed!' His voice assumed a low andsteady pitch. 'Elfride, you must not mind my saying a strange-soundingthing, for say it I shall. It is this: that if there WERE much moreto add to an account which already includes all the particulars thata broken marriage engagement could possibly include with propriety, itmust be some exceptional thing which might make it impossible for me orany one else to love you and marry you. '

Knight's disturbed mood led him much further than he would have gonein a quieter moment. And, even as it was, had she been assertive to anydegree he would not have been so peremptory; and had she been a strongercharacter--more practical and less imaginative--she would have made moreuse of her position in his heart to influence him. But the confidingtenderness which had won him is ever accompanied by a sort ofself-committal to the stream of events, leading every such woman totrust more to the kindness of fate for good results than to any argumentof her own. 

'Well, well, ' he murmured cynically; 'I won't say it is your fault:it is my ill-luck, I suppose. I had no real right to questionyou--everybody would say it was presuming. But when we havemisunderstood, we feel injured by the subject of our misunderstanding. You never said you had had nobody else here making love to you, so whyshould I blame you? Elfride, I beg your pardon. '

'No, no! I would rather have your anger than that cool aggrievedpoliteness. Do drop that, Harry! Why should you inflict that upon me? Itreduces me to the level of a mere acquaintance. '

'You do that with me. Why not confidence for confidence?'

'Yes; but I didn't ask you a single question with regard to your past:I didn't wish to know about it. All I cared for was that, wherever youcame from, whatever you had done, whoever you had loved, you were mineat last. Harry, if originally you had known I had loved, would you neverhave cared for me?'

'I won't quite say that. Though I own that the idea of yourinexperienced state had a great charm for me. But I think this: that ifI had known there was any phase of your past love you would refuse toreveal if I asked to know it, I should never have loved you. '

Elfride sobbed bitterly. 'Am I such a--mere characterless toy--as tohave no attrac--tion in me, apart from--freshness? Haven't I brains?You said--I was clever and ingenious in my thoughts, and--isn't thatanything? Have I not some beauty? I think I have a little--and I knowI have--yes, I do! You have praised my voice, and my manner, and myaccomplishments. Yet all these together are so much rubbish becauseI--accidentally saw a man before you!'

'Oh, come, Elfride. "Accidentally saw a man" is very cool. You lovedhim, remember. '

--'And loved him a little!'

'And refuse now to answer the simple question how it ended. Do yourefuse still, Elfride?'

'You have no right to question me so--you said so. It is unfair. Trustme as I trust you. '

'That's not at all. '

'I shall not love you if you are so cruel. It is cruel to me to arguelike this. '

'Perhaps it is. Yes, it is. I was carried away by my feeling for you. Heaven knows that I didn't mean to; but I have loved you so that I haveused you badly. '

'I don't mind it, Harry!' she instantly answered, creeping up andnestling against him; 'and I will not think at all that you used meharshly if you will forgive me, and not be vexed with me any more? I dowish I had been exactly as you thought I was, but I could not help it, you know. If I had only known you had been coming, what a nunnery Iwould have lived in to have been good enough for you!'

'Well, never mind, ' said Knight; and he turned to go. He endeavouredto speak sportively as they went on. 'Diogenes Laertius says thatphilosophers used voluntarily to deprive themselves of sight to beuninterrupted in their meditations. Men, becoming lovers, ought to dothe same thing. '

'Why?--but never mind--I don't want to know. Don't speak laconically tome, ' she said with deprecation. 

'Why? Because they would never then be distracted by discovering theiridol was second-hand. '

She looked down and sighed; and they passed out of the crumbling oldplace, and slowly crossed to the churchyard entrance. Knight was nothimself, and he could not pretend to be. She had not told all. 

He supported her lightly over the stile, and was practically asattentive as a lover could be. But there had passed away a glory, andthe dream was not as it had been of yore. Perhaps Knight was not shapedby Nature for a marrying man. Perhaps his lifelong constraint towardswomen, which he had attributed to accident, was not chance afterall, but the natural result of instinctive acts so minute as to beundiscernible even by himself. Or whether the rough dispelling ofany bright illusion, however imaginative, depreciates the real andunexaggerated brightness which appertains to its basis, one cannot say. Certain it was that Knight's disappointment at finding himself secondor third in the field, at Elfride's momentary equivoque, and at herreluctance to be candid, brought him to the verge of cynicism. 

Chapter XXXIII

 'O daughter of Babylon, wasted with misery. '

A habit of Knight's, when not immediately occupied with Elfride--to walkby himself for half an hour or so between dinner and bedtime--had becomefamiliar to his friends at Endelstow, Elfride herself among them. Whenhe had helped her over the stile, she said gently, 'If you wish to takeyour usual turn on the hill, Harry, I can run down to the house alone. '

'Thank you, Elfie; then I think I will. '

Her form diminished to blackness in the moonlight, and Knight, afterremaining upon the churchyard stile a few minutes longer, turned backagain towards the building. His usual course was now to light a cigar orpipe, and indulge in a quiet meditation. But to-night his mind was tootense to bethink itself of such a solace. He merely walked round to thesite of the fallen tower, and sat himself down upon some of thelarge stones which had composed it until this day, when the chain ofcircumstance originated by Stephen Smith, while in the employ of Mr. Hewby, the London man of art, had brought about its overthrow. 

Pondering on the possible episodes of Elfride's past life, and on howhe had supposed her to have had no past justifying the name, he sat andregarded the white tomb of young Jethway, now close in front of him. The sea, though comparatively placid, could as usual be heard from thispoint along the whole distance between promontories to the right andleft, floundering and entangling itself among the insulated stacks ofrock which dotted the water's edge--the miserable skeletons of torturedold cliffs that would not even yet succumb to the wear and tear of thetides. 

As a change from thoughts not of a very cheerful kind, Knight attemptedexertion. He stood up, and prepared to ascend to the summit ofthe ruinous heap of stones, from which a more extended outlook wasobtainable than from the ground. He stretched out his arm to seize theprojecting arris of a larger block than ordinary, and so help himselfup, when his hand lighted plump upon a substance differing in thegreatest possible degree from what he had expected to seize--hard stone. It was stringy and entangled, and trailed upon the stone. Thedeep shadow from the aisle wall prevented his seeing anything heredistinctly, and he began guessing as a necessity. 'It is a tressyspecies of moss or lichen, ' he said to himself. 

But it lay loosely over the stone. 

'It is a tuft of grass, ' he said. 

But it lacked the roughness and humidity of the finest grass. 

'It is a mason's whitewash-brush. '

Such brushes, he remembered, were more bristly; and however much used inrepairing a structure, would not be required in pulling one down. 

He said, 'It must be a thready silk fringe. '

He felt further in. It was somewhat warm. Knight instantly felt somewhatcold. 

To find the coldness of inanimate matter where you expect warmth isstartling enough; but a colder temperature than that of the body beingrather the rule than the exception in common substances, it hardlyconveys such a shock to the system as finding warmth where utterfrigidity is anticipated. 

'God only knows what it is, ' he said. 

He felt further, and in the course of a minute put his hand upon a humanhead. The head was warm, but motionless. The thready mass was the hairof the head--long and straggling, showing that the head was a woman's. 

Knight in his perplexity stood still for a moment, and collected histhoughts. The vicar's account of the fall of the tower was that theworkmen had been undermining it all the day, and had left in the eveningintending to give the finishing stroke the next morning. Half an hourafter they had gone the undermined angle came down. The woman who washalf buried, as it seemed, must have been beneath it at the moment ofthe fall. 

Knight leapt up and began endeavouring to remove the rubbish with hishands. The heap overlying the body was for the most part fine anddusty, but in immense quantity. It would be a saving of time to run forassistance. He crossed to the churchyard wall, and hastened down thehill. 

A little way down an intersecting road passed over a small ridge, whichnow showed up darkly against the moon, and this road here formed akind of notch in the sky-line. At the moment that Knight arrived at thecrossing he beheld a man on this eminence, coming towards him. Knightturned aside and met the stranger. 

'There has been an accident at the church, ' said Knight, withoutpreface. 'The tower has fallen on somebody, who has been lying thereever since. Will you come and help?'

'That I will, ' said the man. 

'It is a woman, ' said Knight, as they hurried back, 'and I think we twoare enough to extricate her. Do you know of a shovel?'

'The grave-digging shovels are about somewhere. They used to stay in thetower. '

'And there must be some belonging to the workmen. '

They searched about, and in an angle of the porch found three carefullystowed away. Going round to the west end Knight signified the spot ofthe tragedy. 

'We ought to have brought a lantern, ' he exclaimed. 'But we may be ableto do without. ' He set to work removing the superincumbent mass. 

The other man, who looked on somewhat helplessly at first, now followedthe example of Knight's activity, and removed the larger stones whichwere mingled with the rubbish. But with all their efforts it wasquite ten minutes before the body of the unfortunate creature could beextricated. They lifted her as carefully as they could, breathlesslycarried her to Felix Jethway's tomb, which was only a few stepswestward, and laid her thereon. 

'Is she dead indeed?' said the stranger. 

'She appears to be, ' said Knight. 'Which is the nearest house? Thevicarage, I suppose. '

'Yes; but since we shall have to call a surgeon from Castle Boterel, Ithink it would be better to carry her in that direction, instead of awayfrom the town. '

'And is it not much further to the first house we come to going thatway, than to the vicarage or to The Crags?'

'Not much, ' the stranger replied. 

'Suppose we take her there, then. And I think the best way to do itwould be thus, if you don't mind joining hands with me. '

'Not in the least; I am glad to assist. '

Making a kind of cradle, by clasping their hands crosswise under theinanimate woman, they lifted her, and walked on side by side down a pathindicated by the stranger, who appeared to know the locality well. 

'I had been sitting in the church for nearly an hour, ' Knight resumed, when they were out of the churchyard. 'Afterwards I walked round to thesite of the fallen tower, and so found her. It is painful to think Iunconsciously wasted so much time in the very presence of a perishing, flying soul. '

'The tower fell at dusk, did it not? quite two hours ago, I think?'

'Yes. She must have been there alone. What could have been her object invisiting the churchyard then?

'It is difficult to say. ' The stranger looked inquiringly into thereclining face of the motionless form they bore. 'Would you turn herround for a moment, so that the light shines on her face?' he said. 

They turned her face to the moon, and the man looked closer into herfeatures. 'Why, I know her!' he exclaimed. 

'Who is she?'

'Mrs. Jethway. And the cottage we are taking her to is her own. She isa widow; and I was speaking to her only this afternoon. I was at CastleBoterel post-office, and she came there to post a letter. Poor soul! Letus hurry on. '

'Hold my wrist a little tighter. Was not that tomb we laid her on thetomb of her only son?'

'Yes, it was. Yes, I see it now. She was there to visit the tomb. Sincethe death of that son she has been a desolate, desponding woman, alwaysbewailing him. She was a farmer's wife, very well educated--a governessoriginally, I believe. '

Knight's heart was moved to sympathy. His own fortunes seemed in somestrange way to be interwoven with those of this Jethway family, throughthe influence of Elfride over himself and the unfortunate son of thathouse. He made no reply, and they still walked on. 

'She begins to feel heavy, ' said the stranger, breaking the silence. 

'Yes, she does, ' said Knight; and after another pause added, 'I think Ihave met you before, though where I cannot recollect. May I ask who youare?'

'Oh yes. I am Lord Luxellian. Who are you?'

'I am a visitor at The Crags--Mr. Knight. '

'I have heard of you, Mr. Knight. '

'And I of you, Lord Luxellian. I am glad to meet you. '

'I may say the same. I am familiar with your name in print. '

'And I with yours. Is this the house?'

'Yes. '

The door was locked. Knight, reflecting a moment, searched the pocketof the lifeless woman, and found therein a large key which, on beingapplied to the door, opened it easily. The fire was out, but themoonlight entered the quarried window, and made patterns upon the floor. The rays enabled them to see that the room into which they had enteredwas pretty well furnished, it being the same room that Elfride hadvisited alone two or three evenings earlier. They deposited their stillburden on an old-fashioned couch which stood against the wall, andKnight searched about for a lamp or candle. He found a candle on ashelf, lighted it, and placed it on the table. 

Both Knight and Lord Luxellian examined the pale countenanceattentively, and both were nearly convinced that there was no hope. Nomarks of violence were visible in the casual examination they made. 

'I think that as I know where Doctor Granson lives, ' said LordLuxellian, 'I had better run for him whilst you stay here. '

Knight agreed to this. Lord Luxellian then went off, and his hurryingfootsteps died away. Knight continued bending over the body, and a fewminutes longer of careful scrutiny perfectly satisfied him thatthe woman was far beyond the reach of the lancet and the drug. Herextremities were already beginning to get stiff and cold. Knight coveredher face, and sat down. 

The minutes went by. The essayist remained musing on all the occurrencesof the night. His eyes were directed upon the table, and he had seenfor some time that writing-materials were spread upon it. He now noticedthese more particularly: there were an inkstand, pen, blotting-book, and note-paper. Several sheets of paper were thrust aside from the rest, upon which letters had been begun and relinquished, as if their form hadnot been satisfactory to the writer. A stick of black sealing-waxand seal were there too, as if the ordinary fastening had not beenconsidered sufficiently secure. The abandoned sheets of paper lying asthey did open upon the table, made it possible, as he sat, to read thefew words written on each. One ran thus:

'SIR, --As a woman who was once blest with a dear son of her own, Iimplore you to accept a warning----'

Another:

'SIR, --If you will deign to receive warning from a stranger before it istoo late to alter your course, listen to----'

The third:

'SIR, --With this letter I enclose to you another which, unaided by anyexplanation from me, tells a startling tale. I wish, however, to add afew words to make your delusion yet more clear to you----'

It was plain that, after these renounced beginnings, a fourth letter hadbeen written and despatched, which had been deemed a proper one. Uponthe table were two drops of sealing-wax, the stick from which they weretaken having been laid down overhanging the edge of the table; the endof it drooped, showing that the wax was placed there whilst warm. There was the chair in which the writer had sat, the impression of theletter's address upon the blotting-paper, and the poor widow who hadcaused these results lying dead hard by. Knight had seen enough tolead him to the conclusion that Mrs. Jethway, having matter of greatimportance to communicate to some friend or acquaintance, had writtenhim a very careful letter, and gone herself to post it; that she had notreturned to the house from that time of leaving it till Lord Luxellianand himself had brought her back dead. 

The unutterable melancholy of the whole scene, as he waited on, silentand alone, did not altogether clash with the mood of Knight, even thoughhe was the affianced of a fair and winning girl, and though so lately hehad been in her company. Whilst sitting on the remains of the demolishedtower he had defined a new sensation; that the lengthened course ofinaction he had lately been indulging in on Elfride's account mightprobably not be good for him as a man who had work to do. It couldquickly be put an end to by hastening on his marriage with her. 

Knight, in his own opinion, was one who had missed his mark by excessiveaiming. Having now, to a great extent, given up ideal ambitions, hewished earnestly to direct his powers into a more practical channel, and thus correct the introspective tendencies which had never broughthimself much happiness, or done his fellow-creatures any great good. To make a start in this new direction by marriage, which, since knowingElfride, had been so entrancing an idea, was less exquisite to-night. That the curtailment of his illusion regarding her had something to dowith the reaction, and with the return of his old sentiments on wastingtime, is more than probable. Though Knight's heart had so greatlymastered him, the mastery was not so complete as to be easily maintainedin the face of a moderate intellectual revival. 

His reverie was broken by the sound of wheels, and a horse's tramp. The door opened to admit the surgeon, Lord Luxellian, and a Mr. Coole, coroner for the division (who had been attending at Castle Boterel thatvery day, and was having an after-dinner chat with the doctor when LordLuxellian arrived); next came two female nurses and some idlers. 

Mr. Granson, after a cursory examination, pronounced the woman dead fromsuffocation, induced by intense pressure on the respiratory organs;and arrangements were made that the inquiry should take place on thefollowing morning, before the return of the coroner to St. Launce's. 

Shortly afterwards the house of the widow was deserted by all its livingoccupants, and she abode in death, as she had in her life during thepast two years, entirely alone. 

Chapter XXXIV

 'Yea, happy shall he be that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us. '

Sixteen hours had passed. Knight was entering the ladies' boudoir at TheCrags, upon his return from attending the inquest touching the death ofMrs. Jethway. Elfride was not in the apartment. 

Mrs. Swancourt made a few inquiries concerning the verdict andcollateral circumstances. Then she said--

'The postman came this morning the minute after you left the house. There was only one letter for you, and I have it here. '

She took a letter from the lid of her workbox, and handed it to him. Knight took the missive abstractedly, but struck by its appearancemurmured a few words and left the room. 

The letter was fastened with a black seal, and the handwriting in whichit was addressed had lain under his eyes, long and prominently, only theevening before. 

Knight was greatly agitated, and looked about for a spot where he mightbe secure from interruption. It was the season of heavy dews, whichlay on the herbage in shady places all the day long; nevertheless, heentered a small patch of neglected grass-plat enclosed by the shrubbery, and there perused the letter, which he had opened on his way thither. 

The handwriting, the seal, the paper, the introductory words, all hadtold on the instant that the letter had come to him from the hands ofthe widow Jethway, now dead and cold. He had instantly understood thatthe unfinished notes which caught his eye yesternight were intended fornobody but himself. He had remembered some of the words of Elfridein her sleep on the steamer, that somebody was not to tell him ofsomething, or it would be her ruin--a circumstance hitherto deemed sotrivial and meaningless that he had well-nigh forgotten it. All thesethings infused into him an emotion intense in power and supremelydistressing in quality. The paper in his hand quivered as he read:

'THE VALLEY, ENDELSTOW. 

'SIR, --A woman who has not much in the world to lose by any censure thisact may bring upon her, wishes to give you some hints concerning a ladyyou love. If you will deign to accept a warning before it is too late, you will notice what your correspondent has to say. 

'You are deceived. Can such a woman as this be worthy?

'One who encouraged an honest youth to love her, then slighted him, sothat he died. 

'One who next took a man of no birth as a lover, who was forbidden thehouse by her father. 

'One who secretly left her home to be married to that man, met him, andwent with him to London. 

'One who, for some reason or other, returned again unmarried. 

'One who, in her after-correspondence with him, went so far as toaddress him as her husband. 

'One who wrote the enclosed letter to ask me, who better than anybodyelse knows the story, to keep the scandal a secret. 

'I hope soon to be beyond the reach of either blame or praise. Butbefore removing me God has put it in my power to avenge the death of myson. 

'GERTRUDE JETHWAY. '

The letter enclosed was the note in pencil that Elfride had written inMrs. Jethway's cottage:

'DEAR MRS. JETHWAY, --I have been to visit you. I wanted much to seeyou, but I cannot wait any longer. I came to beg you not to execute thethreats you have repeated to me. Do not, I beseech you, Mrs. Jethway, let any one know I ran away from home! It would ruin me with him, andbreak my heart. I will do anything for you, if you will be kind tome. In the name of our common womanhood, do not, I implore you, make ascandal of me. --Yours, 'E. SWANCOURT. 

Knight turned his head wearily towards the house. The ground roserapidly on nearing the shrubbery in which he stood, raising it almost toa level with the first floor of The Crags. Elfride's dressing-roomlay in the salient angle in this direction, and it was lighted by twowindows in such a position that, from Knight's standing-place, his sightpassed through both windows, and raked the room. Elfride was there;she was pausing between the two windows, looking at her figure inthe cheval-glass. She regarded herself long and attentively in front;turned, flung back her head, and observed the reflection over hershoulder. 

Nobody can predicate as to her object or fancy; she may have done thedeed in the very abstraction of deep sadness. She may have been moaningfrom the bottom of her heart, 'How unhappy am I!' But the impressionproduced on Knight was not a good one. He dropped his eyes moodily. Thedead woman's letter had a virtue in the accident of its juncture farbeyond any it intrinsically exhibited. Circumstance lent to evil words aring of pitiless justice echoing from the grave. Knight could not enduretheir possession. He tore the letter into fragments. 

He heard a brushing among the bushes behind, and turning his head he sawElfride following him. The fair girl looked in his face with a wistfulsmile of hope, too forcedly hopeful to displace the firmly establisheddread beneath it. His severe words of the previous night still sat heavyupon her. 

'I saw you from my window, Harry, ' she said timidly. 

'The dew will make your feet wet, ' he observed, as one deaf. 

'I don't mind it. '

'There is danger in getting wet feet. '

'Yes. .. Harry, what is the matter?'

'Oh, nothing. Shall I resume the serious conversation I had with youlast night? No, perhaps not; perhaps I had better not. '

'Oh, I cannot tell! How wretched it all is! Ah, I wish you were your owndear self again, and had kissed me when I came up! Why didn't you ask mefor one? why don't you now?'

'Too free in manner by half, ' he heard murmur the voice within him. 

'It was that hateful conversation last night, ' she went on. 'Oh, thosewords! Last night was a black night for me. '

'Kiss!--I hate that word! Don't talk of kissing, for God's sake! Ishould think you might with advantage have shown tact enough to keepback that word "kiss, " considering those you have accepted. '

She became very pale, and a rigid and desolate charactery tookpossession of her face. That face was so delicate and tender inappearance now, that one could fancy the pressure of a finger upon itwould cause a livid spot. 

Knight walked on, and Elfride with him, silent and unopposing. He openeda gate, and they entered a path across a stubble-field. 

'Perhaps I intrude upon you?' she said as he closed the gate. 'Shall Igo away?'

'No. Listen to me, Elfride. ' Knight's voice was low and unequal. 'I have been honest with you: will you be so with me? Ifany--strange--connection has existed between yourself and a predecessorof mine, tell it now. It is better that I know it now, even though theknowledge should part us, than that I should discover it in time tocome. And suspicions have been awakened in me. I think I will not sayhow, because I despise the means. A discovery of any mystery of yourpast would embitter our lives. '

Knight waited with a slow manner of calmness. His eyes were sad andimperative. They went farther along the path. 

'Will you forgive me if I tell you all?' she exclaimed entreatingly. 

'I can't promise; so much depends upon what you have to tell. '

Elfride could not endure the silence which followed. 

'Are you not going to love me?' she burst out. 'Harry, Harry, love me, and speak as usual! Do; I beseech you, Harry!'

'Are you going to act fairly by me?' said Knight, with rising anger; 'orare you not? What have I done to you that I should be put off like this?Be caught like a bird in a springe; everything intended to be hiddenfrom me! Why is it, Elfride? That's what I ask you. '

In their agitation they had left the path, and were wandering among thewet and obstructive stubble, without knowing or heeding it. 

'What have I done?' she faltered. 

'What? How can you ask what, when you know so well? You KNOW that I havedesignedly been kept in ignorance of something attaching to you, which, had I known of it, might have altered all my conduct; and yet you say, what?'

She drooped visibly, and made no answer. 

'Not that I believe in malicious letter-writers and whisperers; not I. I don't know whether I do or don't: upon my soul, I can't tell. I knowthis: a religion was building itself upon you in my heart. I lookedinto your eyes, and thought I saw there truth and innocence as pure andperfect as ever embodied by God in the flesh of woman. Perfect truth istoo much to expect, but ordinary truth I WILL HAVE or nothing at all. Just say, then; is the matter you keep back of the gravest importance, or is it not?'

'I don't understand all your meaning. If I have hidden anything fromyou, it has been because I loved you so, and I feared--feared--to loseyou. '

'Since you are not given to confidence, I want to ask you some plainquestions. Have I your permission?'

'Yes, ' she said, and there came over her face a weary resignation. 'Saythe harshest words you can; I will bear them!'

'There is a scandal in the air concerning you, Elfride; and I cannoteven combat it without knowing definitely what it is. It may not referto you entirely, or even at all. ' Knight trifled in the very bitternessof his feeling. 'In the time of the French Revolution, Pariseau, aballet-master, was beheaded by mistake for Parisot, a captain ofthe King's Guard. I wish there was another "E. Swancourt" in theneighbourhood. Look at this. '

He handed her the letter she had written and left on the table at Mrs. Jethway's. She looked over it vacantly. 

'It is not so much as it seems!' she pleaded. 'It seems wickedlydeceptive to look at now, but it had a much more natural origin than youthink. My sole wish was not to endanger our love. O Harry! that was allmy idea. It was not much harm. '

'Yes, yes; but independently of the poor miserable creature's remarks, it seems to imply--something wrong. '

'What remarks?'

'Those she wrote me--now torn to pieces. Elfride, DID you run awaywith a man you loved?--that was the damnable statement. Has such anaccusation life in it--really, truly, Elfride?'

'Yes, ' she whispered. 

Knight's countenance sank. 'To be married to him?' came huskily from hislips. 

'Yes. Oh, forgive me! I had never seen you, Harry. '

'To London?'

'Yes; but I----'

'Answer my questions; say nothing else, Elfride Did you everdeliberately try to marry him in secret?'

'No; not deliberately. '

'But did you do it?'

A feeble red passed over her face. 

'Yes, ' she said. 

'And after that--did you--write to him as your husband; and did headdress you as his wife?'

'Listen, listen! It was----'

'Do answer me; only answer me!'

'Then, yes, we did. ' Her lips shook; but it was with some little dignitythat she continued: 'I would gladly have told you; for I knew and know Ihad done wrong. But I dared not; I loved you too well. Oh, so well! Youhave been everything in the world to me--and you are now. Will you notforgive me?'

It is a melancholy thought, that men who at first will not allow theverdict of perfection they pronounce upon their sweethearts or wivesto be disturbed by God's own testimony to the contrary, will, oncesuspecting their purity, morally hang them upon evidence they would beashamed to admit in judging a dog. 

The reluctance to tell, which arose from Elfride's simplicity inthinking herself so much more culpable than she really was, had beendoing fatal work in Knight's mind. The man of many ideas, now thathis first dream of impossible things was over, vibrated too far inthe contrary direction; and her every movement of feature--everytremor--every confused word--was taken as so much proof of herunworthiness. 

'Elfride, we must bid good-bye to compliment, ' said Knight: 'we mustdo without politeness now. Look in my face, and as you believe in Godabove, tell me truly one thing more. Were you away alone with him?'

'Yes. '

'Did you return home the same day on which you left it?'

'No. '

The word fell like a bolt, and the very land and sky seemed to suffer. Knight turned aside. Meantime Elfride's countenance wore a lookindicating utter despair of being able to explain matters so that theywould seem no more than they really were, --a despair which not onlyrelinquishes the hope of direct explanation, but wearily gives up allcollateral chances of extenuation. 

The scene was engraved for years on the retina of Knight's eye: thedead and brown stubble, the weeds among it, the distant belt of beechesshutting out the view of the house, the leaves of which were now red andsick to death. 

'You must forget me, ' he said. 'We shall not marry, Elfride. '

How much anguish passed into her soul at those words from him was toldby the look of supreme torture she wore. 

'What meaning have you, Harry? You only say so, do you?'

She looked doubtingly up at him, and tried to laugh, as if the unrealityof his words must be unquestionable. 

'You are not in earnest, I know--I hope you are not? Surely I belong toyou, and you are going to keep me for yours?'

'Elfride, I have been speaking too roughly to you; I have said what Iought only to have thought. I like you; and let me give you a word ofadvice. Marry your man as soon as you can. However weary of each otheryou may feel, you belong to each other, and I am not going to stepbetween you. Do you think I would--do you think I could for a moment? Ifyou cannot marry him now, and another makes you his wife, do not revealthis secret to him after marriage, if you do not before. Honesty wouldbe damnation then. '

Bewildered by his expressions, she exclaimed--

'No, no; I will not be a wife unless I am yours; and I must be yours!'

'If we had married----'

'But you don't MEAN--that--that--you will go away and leave me, and notbe anything more to me--oh, you don't!'

Convulsive sobs took all nerve out of her utterance. She checked them, and continued to look in his face for the ray of hope that was not to befound there. 

'I am going indoors, ' said Knight. 'You will not follow me, Elfride; Iwish you not to. '

'Oh no; indeed, I will not. '

'And then I am going to Castle Boterel. Good-bye. '

He spoke the farewell as if it were but for the day--lightly, as he hadspoken such temporary farewells many times before--and she seemed tounderstand it as such. Knight had not the power to tell her plainly thathe was going for ever; he hardly knew for certain that he was: whetherhe should rush back again upon the current of an irresistible emotion, or whether he could sufficiently conquer himself, and her in him, toestablish that parting as a supreme farewell, and present himself to theworld again as no woman's. 

Ten minutes later he had left the house, leaving directions that if hedid not return in the evening his luggage was to be sent to his chambersin London, whence he intended to write to Mr. Swancourt as to thereasons of his sudden departure. He descended the valley, and could notforbear turning his head. He saw the stubble-field, and a slight girlishfigure in the midst of it--up against the sky. Elfride, docile as ever, had hardly moved a step, for he had said, Remain. He looked and saw heragain--he saw her for weeks and months. He withdrew his eyes fromthe scene, swept his hand across them, as if to brush away the sight, breathed a low groan, and went on. 

Chapter XXXV

 'And wilt thou leave me thus?--say nay--say nay!'

The scene shifts to Knight's chambers in Bede's Inn. It was late in theevening of the day following his departure from Endelstow. A drizzlingrain descended upon London, forming a humid and dreary halo over everywell-lighted street. The rain had not yet been prevalent long enough togive to rapid vehicles that clear and distinct rattle which followsthe thorough washing of the stones by a drenching rain, but was justsufficient to make footway and roadway slippery, adhesive, and cloggingto both feet and wheels. 

Knight was standing by the fire, looking into its expiring embers, previously to emerging from his door for a dreary journey home toRichmond. His hat was on, and the gas turned off. The blind of thewindow overlooking the alley was not drawn down; and with the light frombeneath, which shone over the ceiling of the room, came, in place of theusual babble, only the reduced clatter and quick speech which were theresult of necessity rather than choice. 

Whilst he thus stood, waiting for the expiration of the few minutes thatwere wanting to the time for his catching the train, a light tappingupon the door mingled with the other sounds that reached his ears. Itwas so faint at first that the outer noises were almost sufficient todrown it. Finding it repeated Knight crossed the lobby, crowded withbooks and rubbish, and opened the door. 

A woman, closely muffled up, but visibly of fragile build, was standingon the landing under the gaslight. She sprang forward, flung her armsround Knight's neck, and uttered a low cry--

'O Harry, Harry, you are killing me! I could not help coming. Don't sendme away--don't! Forgive your Elfride for coming--I love you so!'

Knight's agitation and astonishment mastered him for a few moments. 

'Elfride!' he cried, 'what does this mean? What have you done?'

'Do not hurt me and punish me--Oh, do not! I couldn't help coming; itwas killing me. Last night, when you did not come back, I could not bearit--I could not! Only let me be with you, and see your face, Harry; Idon't ask for more. '

Her eyelids were hot, heavy, and thick with excessive weeping, andthe delicate rose-red of her cheeks was disfigured and inflamed by theconstant chafing of the handkerchief in wiping her many tears. 

'Who is with you? Have you come alone?' he hurriedly inquired. 

'Yes. When you did not come last night, I sat up hoping you wouldcome--and the night was all agony--and I waited on and on, and you didnot come! Then when it was morning, and your letter said you were gone, I could not endure it; and I ran away from them to St. Launce's, andcame by the train. And I have been all day travelling to you, and youwon't make me go away again, will you, Harry, because I shall alwayslove you till I die?'

'Yet it is wrong for you to stay. O Elfride! what have you committedyourself to? It is ruin to your good name to run to me like this!Has not your first experience been sufficient to keep you from thesethings?'

'My name! Harry, I shall soon die, and what good will my name be to methen? Oh, could I but be the man and you the woman, I would not leaveyou for such a little fault as mine! Do not think it was so vile a thingin me to run away with him. Ah, how I wish you could have run away withtwenty women before you knew me, that I might show you I would think itno fault, but be glad to get you after them all, so that I had you! Ifyou only knew me through and through, how true I am, Harry. Cannot I beyours? Say you love me just the same, and don't let me be separated fromyou again, will you? I cannot bear it--all the long hours and days andnights going on, and you not there, but away because you hate me!'

'Not hate you, Elfride, ' he said gently, and supported her with his arm. 'But you cannot stay here now--just at present, I mean. '

'I suppose I must not--I wish I might. I am afraid that if--you losesight of me--something dark will happen, and we shall not meet again. Harry, if I am not good enough to be your wife, I wish I could be yourservant and live with you, and not be sent away never to see you again. I don't mind what it is except that!'

'No, I cannot send you away: I cannot. God knows what dark future mayarise out of this evening's work; but I cannot send you away! You mustsit down, and I will endeavour to collect my thoughts and see what hadbetter be done. 

At that moment a loud knocking at the house door was heard by both, accompanied by a hurried ringing of the bell that echoed from attic tobasement. The door was quickly opened, and after a few hasty words ofconverse in the hall, heavy footsteps ascended the stairs. 

The face of Mr. Swancourt, flushed, grieved, and stern, appeared roundthe landing of the staircase. He came higher up, and stood beside them. Glancing over and past Knight with silent indignation, he turned to thetrembling girl. 

'O Elfride! and have I found you at last? Are these your tricks, madam?When will you get rid of your idiocies, and conduct yourself like adecent woman? Is my family name and house to be disgraced by acts thatwould be a scandal to a washerwoman's daughter? Come along, madam;come!'

'She is so weary!' said Knight, in a voice of intensest anguish. 'Mr. Swancourt, don't be harsh with her--let me beg of you to be tender withher, and love her!'

'To you, sir, ' said Mr. Swancourt, turning to him as if by the sheerpressure of circumstances, 'I have little to say. I can only remark, that the sooner I can retire from your presence the better I shall bepleased. Why you could not conduct your courtship of my daughter like anhonest man, I do not know. Why she--a foolish inexperienced girl--shouldhave been tempted to this piece of folly, I do not know. Even if shehad not known better than to leave her home, you might have, I shouldthink. '

'It is not his fault: he did not tempt me, papa! I came. '

'If you wished the marriage broken off, why didn't you say so plainly?If you never intended to marry, why could you not leave her alone? Uponmy soul, it grates me to the heart to be obliged to think so ill of aman I thought my friend!'

Knight, soul-sick and weary of his life, did not arouse himself to uttera word in reply. How should he defend himself when his defence was theaccusation of Elfride? On that account he felt a miserable satisfactionin letting her father go on thinking and speaking wrongfully. It was afaint ray of pleasure straying into the great gloominess of his brain tothink that the vicar might never know but that he, as her lover, temptedher away, which seemed to be the form Mr. Swancourt's misapprehensionhad taken. 

'Now, are you coming?' said Mr. Swancourt to her again. He took herunresisting hand, drew it within his arm, and led her down the stairs. Knight's eyes followed her, the last moment begetting in him a frantichope that she would turn her head. She passed on, and never looked back. 

He heard the door open--close again. The wheels of a cab grazed thekerbstone, a murmured direction followed. The door was slammed together, the wheels moved, and they rolled away. 

From that hour of her reappearance a dreadful conflict raged withinthe breast of Henry Knight. His instinct, emotion, affectiveness--orwhatever it may be called--urged him to stand forward, seize uponElfride, and be her cherisher and protector through life. Then camethe devastating thought that Elfride's childlike, unreasoning, andindiscreet act in flying to him only proved that the proprieties must bea dead letter with her; that the unreserve, which was really artlessnesswithout ballast, meant indifference to decorum; and what so likely asthat such a woman had been deceived in the past? He said to himself, in a mood of the bitterest cynicism: 'The suspicious discreet woman whoimagines dark and evil things of all her fellow-creatures is far tooshrewd to be deluded by man: trusting beings like Elfride are the womenwho fall. '

Hours and days went by, and Knight remained inactive. Lengtheningtime, which made fainter the heart-awakening power of her presence, strengthened the mental ability to reason her down. Elfride loved him, he knew, and he could not leave off loving her but marry her he wouldnot. If she could but be again his own Elfride--the woman she had seemedto be--but that woman was dead and buried, and he knew her no more! Andhow could he marry this Elfride, one who, if he had originally seen heras she was, would have been barely an interesting pitiable acquaintancein his eyes--no more?

It cankered his heart to think he was confronted by the closest instanceof a worse state of things than any he had assumed in the pleasantsocial philosophy and satire of his essays. 

The moral rightness of this man's life was worthy of all praise; but inspite of some intellectual acumen, Knight had in him a modicum of thatwrongheadedness which is mostly found in scrupulously honest people. With him, truth seemed too clean and pure an abstraction to be sohopelessly churned in with error as practical persons find it. Havingnow seen himself mistaken in supposing Elfride to be peerless, nothingon earth could make him believe she was not so very bad after all. 

He lingered in town a fortnight, doing little else than vibrate betweenpassion and opinions. One idea remained intact--that it was betterElfride and himself should not meet. 

When he surveyed the volumes on his shelves--few of which had beenopened since Elfride first took possession of his heart--their untouchedand orderly arrangement reproached him as an apostate from the old faithof his youth and early manhood. He had deserted those never-failingfriends, so they seemed to say, for an unstable delight in a ductilewoman, which had ended all in bitterness. The spirit of self-denial, verging on asceticism, which had ever animated Knight in old times, announced itself as having departed with the birth of love, with ithaving gone the self-respect which had compensated for the lackof self-gratification. Poor little Elfride, instead of holding, as formerly, a place in his religion, began to assume the hue of atemptation. Perhaps it was human and correctly natural that Knightnever once thought whether he did not owe her a little sacrifice for herunchary devotion in saving his life. 

With a consciousness of having thus, like Antony, kissed away kingdomsand provinces, he next considered how he had revealed his higher secretsand intentions to her, an unreserve he would never have allowed himselfwith any man living. How was it that he had not been able to refrainfrom telling her of adumbrations heretofore locked in the closeststrongholds of his mind?

Knight's was a robust intellect, which could escape outside theatmosphere of heart, and perceive that his own love, as well as otherpeople's, could be reduced by change of scene and circumstances. At thesame time the perception was a superimposed sorrow:

 'O last regret, regret can die!'

But being convinced that the death of this regret was the best thing forhim, he did not long shrink from attempting it. He closed his chambers, suspended his connection with editors, and left London for theContinent. Here we will leave him to wander without purpose, beyond thenominal one of encouraging obliviousness of Elfride. 

Chapter XXXVI

 'The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'. '

'I can't think what's coming to these St. Launce's people at all atall. '

'With their "How-d'ye-do's, " do you mean?'

'Ay, with their "How-d'ye-do's, " and shaking of hands, asking me in, andtender inquiries for you, John. '

These words formed part of a conversation between John Smith andhis wife on a Saturday evening in the spring which followed Knight'sdeparture from England. Stephen had long since returned to India; andthe persevering couple themselves had migrated from Lord Luxellian'spark at Endelstow to a comfortable roadside dwelling about a mile out ofSt. Launce's, where John had opened a small stone and slate yard in hisown name. 

'When we came here six months ago, ' continued Mrs. Smith, 'though Ihad paid ready money so many years in the town, my friskier shopkeeperswould only speak over the counter. Meet 'em in the street half-an-hourafter, and they'd treat me with staring ignorance of my face. '

'Look through ye as through a glass winder?'

'Yes, the brazen ones would. The quiet and cool ones would glance overthe top of my head, past my side, over my shoulder, but never meet myeye. The gentle-modest would turn their faces south if I were comingeast, flit down a passage if I were about to halve the pavement withthem. There was the spruce young bookseller would play the same tricks;the butcher's daughters; the upholsterer's young men. Hand in glovewhen doing business out of sight with you; but caring nothing for a' oldwoman when playing the genteel away from all signs of their trade. '

'True enough, Maria. '

'Well, to-day 'tis all different. I'd no sooner got to market than Mrs. Joakes rushed up to me in the eyes of the town and said, "My dear Mrs. Smith, now you must be tired with your walk! Come in and have somelunch! I insist upon it; knowing you so many years as I have! Don't youremember when we used to go looking for owls' feathers together in theCastle ruins?" There's no knowing what you may need, so I answered thewoman civilly. I hadn't got to the corner before that thriving younglawyer, Sweet, who's quite the dandy, ran after me out of breath. "Mrs. Smith, " he says, "excuse my rudeness, but there's a bramble on the tailof your dress, which you've dragged in from the country; allow me topull it off for you. " If you'll believe me, this was in the very frontof the Town Hall. What's the meaning of such sudden love for a' oldwoman?'

'Can't say; unless 'tis repentance. '

'Repentance! was there ever such a fool as you. John? Did anybody everrepent with money in's pocket and fifty years to live?'

'Now, I've been thinking too, ' said John, passing over the query ashardly pertinent, 'that I've had more loving-kindness from folks to-daythan I ever have before since we moved here. Why, old Alderman Topewalked out to the middle of the street where I was, to shake hands withme--so 'a did. Having on my working clothes, I thought 'twas odd. Ay, and there was young Werrington. '

'Who's he?'

'Why, the man in Hill Street, who plays and sells flutes, trumpets, andfiddles, and grand pehanners. He was talking to Egloskerry, that verysmall bachelor-man with money in the funds. I was going by, I'm sure, without thinking or expecting a nod from men of that glib kidney when inmy working clothes----'

'You always will go poking into town in your working clothes. Beg you tochange how I will, 'tis no use. '

'Well, however, I was in my working clothes. Werrington saw me. "Ah, Mr. Smith! a fine morning; excellent weather for building, " says he, out asloud and friendly as if I'd met him in some deep hollow, where he couldget nobody else to speak to at all. 'Twas odd: for Werrington is one ofthe very ringleaders of the fast class. '

At that moment a tap came to the door. The door was immediately openedby Mrs. Smith in person. 

'You'll excuse us, I'm sure, Mrs. Smith, but this beautiful springweather was too much for us. Yes, and we could stay in no longer; and Itook Mrs. Trewen upon my arm directly we'd had a cup of tea, and out wecame. And seeing your beautiful crocuses in such a bloom, we've takenthe liberty to enter. We'll step round the garden, if you don't mind. '

'Not at all, ' said Mrs. Smith; and they walked round the garden. She lifted her hands in amazement directly their backs were turned. 'Goodness send us grace!'

'Who be they?' said her husband. 

'Actually Mr. Trewen, the bank-manager, and his wife. '

John Smith, staggered in mind, went out of doors and looked over thegarden gate, to collect his ideas. He had not been there two minuteswhen wheels were heard, and a carriage and pair rolled along the road. A distinguished-looking lady, with the demeanour of a duchess, reclinedwithin. When opposite Smith's gate she turned her head, and instantlycommanded the coachman to stop. 

'Ah, Mr. Smith, I am glad to see you looking so well. I could not helpstopping a moment to congratulate you and Mrs. Smith upon the happinessyou must enjoy. Joseph, you may drive on. '

And the carriage rolled away towards St. Launce's. 

Out rushed Mrs. Smith from behind a laurel-bush, where she had stoodpondering. 

'Just going to touch my hat to her, ' said John; 'just for all the worldas I would have to poor Lady Luxellian years ago. '

'Lord! who is she?'

'The public-house woman--what's her name? Mrs. --Mrs. --at the Falcon. '

'Public-house woman. The clumsiness of the Smith family! You MIGHT saythe landlady of the Falcon Hotel, since we are in for politeness. Thepeople are ridiculous enough, but give them their due. '

The possibility is that Mrs. Smith was getting mollified, in spite ofherself, by these remarkably friendly phenomena among the people of St. Launce's. And in justice to them it was quite desirable that she shoulddo so. The interest which the unpractised ones of this town expressed sogrotesquely was genuine of its kind, and equal in intrinsic worth to themore polished smiles of larger communities. 

By this time Mr. And Mrs. Trewen were returning from the garden. 

'I'll ask 'em flat, ' whispered John to his wife. 'I'll say, "We be in afog--you'll excuse my asking a question, Mr. And Mrs. Trewen. How is ityou all be so friendly to-day?" Hey? 'Twould sound right and sensible, wouldn't it?'

'Not a word! Good mercy, when will the man have manners!'

'It must be a proud moment for you, I am sure, Mr. And Mrs. Smith, tohave a son so celebrated, ' said the bank-manager advancing. 

'Ah, 'tis Stephen--I knew it!' said Mrs. Smith triumphantly to herself. 

'We don't know particulars, ' said John. 

'Not know!'

'No. '

'Why, 'tis all over town. Our worthy Mayor alluded to it in a speech atthe dinner last night of the Every-Man-his-own-Maker Club. '

'And what about Stephen?' urged Mrs. Smith. 

'Why, your son has been feted by deputy-governors and Parsee princesand nobody-knows-who in India; is hand in glove with nabobs, and is todesign a large palace, and cathedral, and hospitals, colleges, halls, and fortifications, by the general consent of the ruling powers, Christian and Pagan alike. '

''Twas sure to come to the boy, ' said Mr. Smith unassumingly. 

''Tis in yesterday's St. Launce's Chronicle; and our worthy Mayor in thechair introduced the subject into his speech last night in a masterlymanner. '

''Twas very good of the worthy Mayor in the chair I'm sure, ' saidStephen's mother. 'I hope the boy will have the sense to keep what he'sgot; but as for men, they are a simple sex. Some woman will hook him. '

'Well, Mr. And Mrs. Smith, the evening closes in, and we must be going;and remember this, that every Saturday when you come in to market, youare to make our house as your own. There will be always a tea-cup andsaucer for you, as you know there has been for months, though you mayhave forgotten it. I'm a plain-speaking woman, and what I say I mean. '

When the visitors were gone, and the sun had set, and the moon's rayswere just beginning to assert themselves upon the walls of the dwelling, John Smith and his wife sat dawn to the newspaper they had hastilyprocured from the town. And when the reading was done, they consideredhow best to meet the new social requirements settling upon them, which Mrs. Smith considered could be done by new furniture and houseenlargement alone. 

'And, John, mind one thing, ' she said in conclusion. 'In writing toStephen, never by any means mention the name of Elfride Swancourt again. We've left the place, and know no more about her except by hearsay. Heseems to be getting free of her, and glad am I for it. It was a cloudyhour for him when he first set eyes upon the girl. That family's been nogood to him, first or last; so let them keep their blood to themselvesif they want to. He thinks of her, I know, but not so hopelessly. Sodon't try to know anything about her, and we can't answer his questions. She may die out of his mind then. '

'That shall be it, ' said John. 

Chapter XXXVII

 'After many days. '

Knight roamed south, under colour of studying Continental antiquities. 

He paced the lofty aisles of Amiens, loitered by Ardennes Abbey, climbedinto the strange towers of Laon, analyzed Noyon and Rheims. Then he wentto Chartres, and examined its scaly spires and quaint carving then heidled about Coutances. He rowed beneath the base of Mont St. Michel, andcaught the varied skyline of the crumbling edifices encrusting it. St. Ouen's, Rouen, knew him for days; so did Vezelay, Sens, and many ahallowed monument besides. Abandoning the inspection of early French artwith the same purposeless haste as he had shown in undertaking it, hewent further, and lingered about Ferrara, Padua, and Pisa. Satiated withmediaevalism, he tried the Roman Forum. Next he observed moonlight andstarlight effects by the bay of Naples. He turned to Austria, becameenervated and depressed on Hungarian and Bohemian plains, and wasrefreshed again by breezes on the declivities of the Carpathians. 

Then he found himself in Greece. He visited the plain of Marathon, andstrove to imagine the Persian defeat; to Mars Hill, to picture St. Pauladdressing the ancient Athenians; to Thermopylae and Salamis, to runthrough the facts and traditions of the Second Invasion--the result ofhis endeavours being more or less chaotic. Knight grew as weary of theseplaces as of all others. Then he felt the shock of an earthquake in theIonian Islands, and went to Venice. Here he shot in gondolas up and downthe winding thoroughfare of the Grand Canal, and loitered on calle andpiazza at night, when the lagunes were undisturbed by a ripple, and nosound was to be heard but the stroke of the midnight clock. Afterwardshe remained for weeks in the museums, galleries, and libraries ofVienna, Berlin, and Paris; and thence came home. 

Time thus rolls us on to a February afternoon, divided by fifteen monthsfrom the parting of Elfride and her lover in the brown stubble fieldtowards the sea. 

Two men obviously not Londoners, and with a touch of foreignness intheir look, met by accident on one of the gravel walks leading acrossHyde Park. The younger, more given to looking about him than his fellow, saw and noticed the approach of his senior some time before the latterhad raised his eyes from the ground, upon which they were bent in anabstracted gaze that seemed habitual with him. 

'Mr. Knight--indeed it is!' exclaimed the younger man. 

'Ah, Stephen Smith!' said Knight. 

Simultaneous operations might now have been observed progressing inboth, the result being that an expression less frank and impulsive thanthe first took possession of their features. It was manifest that thenext words uttered were a superficial covering to constraint on bothsides. 

'Have you been in England long?' said Knight. 

'Only two days, ' said Smith. 

'India ever since?'

'Nearly ever since. '

'They were making a fuss about you at St. Launce's last year. I fancy Isaw something of the sort in the papers. '

'Yes; I believe something was said about me. '

'I must congratulate you on your achievements. '

'Thanks, but they are nothing very extraordinary. A natural professionalprogress where there was no opposition. '

There followed that want of words which will always assert itselfbetween nominal friends who find they have ceased to be real ones, andhave not yet sunk to the level of mere acquaintance. Each looked upand down the Park. Knight may possibly have borne in mind during theintervening months Stephen's manner towards him the last time they hadmet, and may have encouraged his former interest in Stephen's welfare todie out of him as misplaced. Stephen certainly was full of the feelingsbegotten by the belief that Knight had taken away the woman he loved sowell. 

Stephen Smith then asked a question, adopting a certain recklessness ofmanner and tone to hide, if possible, the fact that the subject was amuch greater one to him than his friend had ever supposed. 

'Are you married?'

'I am not. '

Knight spoke in an indescribable tone of bitterness that was almostmoroseness. 

'And I never shall be, ' he added decisively. 'Are you?'

'No, ' said Stephen, sadly and quietly, like a man in a sick-room. Totally ignorant whether or not Knight knew of his own previous claimsupon Elfride, he yet resolved to hazard a few more words upon the topicwhich had an aching fascination for him even now. 

'Then your engagement to Miss Swancourt came to nothing, ' he said. 'Youremember I met you with her once?'

Stephen's voice gave way a little here, in defiance of his firmest willto the contrary. Indian affairs had not yet lowered those emotions downto the point of control. 

'It was broken off, ' came quickly from Knight. 'Engagements to marryoften end like that--for better or for worse. '

'Yes; so they do. And what have you been doing lately?'

'Doing? Nothing. '

'Where have you been?'

'I can hardly tell you. In the main, going about Europe; and it mayperhaps interest you to know that I have been attempting the seriousstudy of Continental art of the Middle Ages. My notes on each example Ivisited are at your service. They are of no use to me. '

'I shall be glad with them. .. . Oh, travelling far and near!'

'Not far, ' said Knight, with moody carelessness. 'You know, I daresay, that sheep occasionally become giddy--hydatids in the head, 'tis called, in which their brains become eaten up, and the animal exhibits thestrange peculiarity of walking round and round in a circle continually. I have travelled just in the same way--round and round like a giddyram. '

The reckless, bitter, and rambling style in which Knight talked, as ifrather to vent his images than to convey any ideas to Stephen, struckthe young man painfully. His former friend's days had become cankered insome way: Knight was a changed man. He himself had changed much, but notas Knight had changed. 

'Yesterday I came home, ' continued Knight, 'without having, to the bestof my belief, imbibed half-a-dozen ideas worth retaining. '

'You out-Hamlet Hamlet in morbidness of mood, ' said Stephen, withregretful frankness. 

Knight made no reply. 

'Do you know, ' Stephen continued, 'I could almost have sworn that youwould be married before this time, from what I saw?'

Knight's face grew harder. 'Could you?' he said. 

Stephen was powerless to forsake the depressing, luring subject. 

'Yes; and I simply wonder at it. '

'Whom did you expect me to marry?'

'Her I saw you with. '

'Thank you for that wonder. '

'Did she jilt you?'

'Smith, now one word to you, ' Knight returned steadily. 'Don't you everquestion me on that subject. I have a reason for making this request, mind. And if you do question me, you will not get an answer. '

'Oh, I don't for a moment wish to ask what is unpleasant to you--not I. I had a momentary feeling that I should like to explain something on myside, and hear a similar explanation on yours. But let it go, let it go, by all means. '

'What would you explain?'

'I lost the woman I was going to marry: you have not married as youintended. We might have compared notes. '

'I have never asked you a word about your case. '

'I know that. '

'And the inference is obvious. '

'Quite so. '

'The truth is, Stephen, I have doggedly resolved never to allude to thematter--for which I have a very good reason. '

'Doubtless. As good a reason as you had for not marrying her. '

'You talk insidiously. I had a good one--a miserably good one!'

Smith's anxiety urged him to venture one more question. 

'Did she not love you enough?' He drew his breath in a slow andattenuated stream, as he waited in timorous hope for the answer. 

'Stephen, you rather strain ordinary courtesy in pressing questions ofthat kind after what I have said. I cannot understand you at all. I mustgo on now. '

'Why, good God!' exclaimed Stephen passionately, 'you talk as if youhadn't at all taken her away from anybody who had better claims to herthan you!'

'What do you mean by that?' said Knight, with a puzzled air. 'What haveyou heard?'

'Nothing. I too must go on. Good-day. '

'If you will go, ' said Knight, reluctantly now, 'you must, I suppose. Iam sure I cannot understand why you behave so. '

'Nor I why you do. I have always been grateful to you, and as far as Iam concerned we need never have become so estranged as we have. '

'And have I ever been anything but well-disposed towards you, Stephen?Surely you know that I have not! The system of reserve began with you:you know that. '

'No, no! You altogether mistake our position. You were always from thefirst reserved to me, though I was confidential to you. That was, Isuppose, the natural issue of our differing positions in life. And whenI, the pupil, became reserved like you, the master, you did not like it. However, I was going to ask you to come round and see me. '

'Where are you staying?'

'At the Grosvenor Hotel, Pimlico. '

'So am I. '

'That's convenient, not to say odd. Well, I am detained in London for aday or two; then I am going down to see my father and mother, who liveat St. Launce's now. Will you see me this evening?'

'I may; but I will not promise. I was wishing to be alone for an hour ortwo; but I shall know where to find you, at any rate. Good-bye. '

Chapter XXXVIII

 'Jealousy is cruel as the grave. '

Stephen pondered not a little on this meeting with his old friend andonce-beloved exemplar. He was grieved, for amid all the distractions ofhis latter years a still small voice of fidelity to Knight had lingeredon in him. Perhaps this staunchness was because Knight ever treated himas a mere disciple--even to snubbing him sometimes; and had at last, though unwittingly, inflicted upon him the greatest snub of all, that oftaking away his sweetheart. The emotional side of his constitution wasbuilt rather after a feminine than a male model; and that tremendouswound from Knight's hand may have tended to keep alive a warmth whichsolicitousness would have extinguished altogether. 

Knight, on his part, was vexed, after they had parted, that he had nottaken Stephen in hand a little after the old manner. Those words whichSmith had let fall concerning somebody having a prior claim to Elfride, would, if uttered when the man was younger, have provoked such a queryas, 'Come, tell me all about it, my lad, ' from Knight, and Stephen wouldstraightway have delivered himself of all he knew on the subject. 

Stephen the ingenuous boy, though now obliterated externally by Stephenthe contriving man, returned to Knight's memory vividly that afternoon. He was at present but a sojourner in London; and after attending to thetwo or three matters of business which remained to be done that day, hewalked abstractedly into the gloomy corridors of the British Museum forthe half-hour previous to their closing. That meeting with Smith hadreunited the present with the past, closing up the chasm of his absencefrom England as if it had never existed, until the final circumstancesof his previous time of residence in London formed but a yesterdayto the circumstances now. The conflict that then had raged in himconcerning Elfride Swancourt revived, strengthened by its sleep. Indeed, in those many months of absence, though quelling the intention to makeher his wife, he had never forgotten that she was the type of womanadapted to his nature; and instead of trying to obliterate thoughtsof her altogether, he had grown to regard them as an infirmity it wasnecessary to tolerate. 

Knight returned to his hotel much earlier in the evening than he wouldhave done in the ordinary course of things. He did not care to thinkwhether this arose from a friendly wish to close the gap that had slowlybeen widening between himself and his earliest acquaintance, or froma hankering desire to hear the meaning of the dark oracles Stephen hadhastily pronounced, betokening that he knew something more of Elfridethan Knight had supposed. 

He made a hasty dinner, inquired for Smith, and soon was usheredinto the young man's presence, whom he found sitting in front ofa comfortable fire, beside a table spread with a few scientificperiodicals and art reviews. 

'I have come to you, after all, ' said Knight. 'My manner was odd thismorning, and it seemed desirable to call; but that you had too muchsense to notice, Stephen, I know. Put it down to my wanderings in Franceand Italy. '

'Don't say another word, but sit down. I am only too glad to see youagain. '

Stephen would hardly have cared to tell Knight just then that the minutebefore Knight was announced he had been reading over some old lettersof Elfride's. They were not many; and until to-night had been sealedup, and stowed away in a corner of his leather trunk, with a few othermementoes and relics which had accompanied him in his travels. Thefamiliar sights and sounds of London, the meeting with his friend, hadwith him also revived that sense of abiding continuity with regard toElfride and love which his absence at the other side of the world had tosome extent suspended, though never ruptured. He at first intendedonly to look over these letters on the outside; then he read one; thenanother; until the whole was thus re-used as a stimulus to sad memories. He folded them away again, placed them in his pocket, and instead ofgoing on with an examination into the state of the artistic world, hadremained musing on the strange circumstance that he had returned to findKnight not the husband of Elfride after all. 

The possibility of any given gratification begets a cumulative sense ofits necessity. Stephen gave the rein to his imagination, and felt moreintensely than he had felt for many months that, without Elfride, hislife would never be any great pleasure to himself, or honour to hisMaker. 

They sat by the fire, chatting on external and random subjects, neithercaring to be the first to approach the matter each most longedto discuss. On the table with the periodicals lay two or threepocket-books, one of them being open. Knight seeing from the exposedpage that the contents were sketches only, began turning the leaves overcarelessly with his finger. When, some time later, Stephen was outof the room, Knight proceeded to pass the interval by looking at thesketches more carefully. 

The first crude ideas, pertaining to dwellings of all kinds, wereroughly outlined on the different pages. Antiquities had been copied;fragments of Indian columns, colossal statues, and outlandish ornamentfrom the temples of Elephanta and Kenneri, were carelessly intrudedupon by outlines of modern doors, windows, roofs, cooking-stoves, andhousehold furniture; everything, in short, which comes within the rangeof a practising architect's experience, who travels with his eyesopen. Among these occasionally appeared rough delineations of mediaevalsubjects for carving or illumination--heads of Virgins, Saints, andProphets. 

Stephen was not professedly a free-hand draughtsman, but he drew thehuman figure with correctness and skill. In its numerous repetitions onthe sides and edges of the leaves, Knight began to notice a peculiarity. All the feminine saints had one type of feature. There were large nimbiand small nimbi about their drooping heads, but the face was always thesame. That profile--how well Knight knew that profile!

Had there been but one specimen of the familiar countenance, he mighthave passed over the resemblance as accidental; but a repetition meantmore. Knight thought anew of Smith's hasty words earlier in the day, andlooked at the sketches again and again. 

On the young man's entry, Knight said with palpable agitation--

'Stephen, who are those intended for?'

Stephen looked over the book with utter unconcern, 'Saints and angels, done in my leisure moments. They were intended as designs for thestained glass of an English church. '

'But whom do you idealize by that type of woman you always adopt for theVirgin?'

'Nobody. '

And then a thought raced along Stephen's mind and he looked up at hisfriend. 

The truth is, Stephen's introduction of Elfride's lineaments had been sounconscious that he had not at first understood his companion's drift. The hand, like the tongue, easily acquires the trick of repetition byrote, without calling in the mind to assist at all; and this had beenthe case here. Young men who cannot write verses about their Lovesgenerally take to portraying them, and in the early days of hisattachment Smith had never been weary of outlining Elfride. Thelay-figure of Stephen's sketches now initiated an adjustment of manythings. Knight had recognized her. The opportunity of comparing noteshad come unsought. 

'Elfride Swancourt, to whom I was engaged, ' he said quietly. 

'Stephen!'

'I know what you mean by speaking like that. '

'Was it Elfride? YOU the man, Stephen?'

'Yes; and you are thinking why did I conceal the fact from you that timeat Endelstow, are you not?'

'Yes, and more--more. '

'I did it for the best; blame me if you will; I did it for the best. Andnow say how could I be with you afterwards as I had been before?'

'I don't know at all; I can't say. '

Knight remained fixed in thought, and once he murmured--

'I had a suspicion this afternoon that there might be some such meaningin your words about my taking her away. But I dismissed it. How came youto know her?' he presently asked, in almost a peremptory tone. 

'I went down about the church; years ago now. '

'When you were with Hewby, of course, of course. Well, I can'tunderstand it. ' His tones rose. 'I don't know what to say, yourhoodwinking me like this for so long!'

'I don't see that I have hoodwinked you at all. '

'Yes, yes, but'----

Knight arose from his seat, and began pacing up and down the room. Hisface was markedly pale, and his voice perturbed, as he said--

'You did not act as I should have acted towards you under thosecircumstances. I feel it deeply; and I tell you plainly, I shall neverforget it!'

'What?'

'Your behaviour at that meeting in the family vault, when I told youwe were going to be married. Deception, dishonesty, everywhere; all theworld's of a piece!'

Stephen did not much like this misconstruction of his motives, eventhough it was but the hasty conclusion of a friend disturbed by emotion. 

'I could do no otherwise than I did, with due regard to her, ' he saidstiffly. 

'Indeed!' said Knight, in the bitterest tone of reproach. 'Nor couldyou with due regard to her have married her, I suppose! I havehoped--longed--that HE, who turns out to be YOU, would ultimately havedone that. '

'I am much obliged to you for that hope. But you talk very mysteriously. I think I had about the best reason anybody could have had for not doingthat. '

'Oh, what reason was it?'

'That I could not. '

'You ought to have made an opportunity; you ought to do so now, in barejustice to her, Stephen!' cried Knight, carried beyond himself. 'Thatyou know very well, and it hurts and wounds me more than you dream tofind you never have tried to make any reparation to a woman of thatkind--so trusting, so apt to be run away with by her feelings--poorlittle fool, so much the worse for her!'

'Why, you talk like a madman! You took her away from me, did you not?'

'Picking up what another throws down can scarcely be called "takingaway. " However, we shall not agree too well upon that subject, so we hadbetter part. '

'But I am quite certain you misapprehend something most grievously, 'said Stephen, shaken to the bottom of his heart. 'What have I done; tellme? I have lost Elfride, but is that such a sin?'

'Was it her doing, or yours?'

'Was what?'

'That you parted. '

'I will tell you honestly. It was hers entirely, entirely. '

'What was her reason?'

'I can hardly say. But I'll tell the story without reserve. '

Stephen until to-day had unhesitatingly held that she grew tired of himand turned to Knight; but he did not like to advance the statement now, or even to think the thought. To fancy otherwise accorded better withthe hope to which Knight's estrangement had given birth: that love forhis friend was not the direct cause, but a result of her suspension oflove for himself. 

'Such a matter must not be allowed to breed discord between us, ' Knightreturned, relapsing into a manner which concealed all his true feeling, as if confidence now was intolerable. 'I do see that your reticencetowards me in the vault may have been dictated by prudentialconsiderations. ' He concluded artificially, 'It was a strange thingaltogether; but not of much importance, I suppose, at this distance oftime; and it does not concern me now, though I don't mind hearing yourstory. '

These words from Knight, uttered with such an air of renunciation andapparent indifference, prompted Smith to speak on--perhaps with alittle complacency--of his old secret engagement to Elfride. He toldthe details of its origin, and the peremptory words and actions of herfather to extinguish their love. 

Knight persevered in the tone and manner of a disinterested outsider. It had become more than ever imperative to screen his emotions fromStephen's eye; the young man would otherwise be less frank, and theirmeeting would be again embittered. What was the use of untoward candour?

Stephen had now arrived at the point in his ingenuous narrative wherehe left the vicarage because of her father's manner. Knight's interestincreased. Their love seemed so innocent and childlike thus far. 

'It is a nice point in casuistry, ' he observed, 'to decide whether youwere culpable or not in not telling Swancourt that your friends wereparishioners of his. It was only human nature to hold your tongue underthe circumstances. Well, what was the result of your dismissal by him?'

'That we agreed to be secretly faithful. And to insure this we thoughtwe would marry. '

Knight's suspense and agitation rose higher when Stephen entered uponthis phase of the subject. 

'Do you mind telling on?' he said, steadying his manner of speech. 

'Oh, not at all. '

Then Stephen gave in full the particulars of the meeting with Elfride atthe railway station; the necessity they were under of going to London, unless the ceremony were to be postponed. The long journey of theafternoon and evening; her timidity and revulsion of feeling; itsculmination on reaching London; the crossing over to the down-platformand their immediate departure again, solely in obedience to her wish;the journey all night; their anxious watching for the dawn; theirarrival at St. Launce's at last--were detailed. And he told how avillage woman named Jethway was the only person who recognized them, either going or coming; and how dreadfully this terrified Elfride. Hetold how he waited in the fields whilst this then reproachful sweetheartwent for her pony, and how the last kiss he ever gave her was given amile out of the town, on the way to Endelstow. 

These things Stephen related with a will. He believed that in doing sohe established word by word the reasonableness of his claim to Elfride. 

'Curse her! curse that woman!--that miserable letter that parted us! OGod!'

Knight began pacing the room again, and uttered this at further end. 

'What did you say?' said Stephen, turning round. 

'Say? Did I say anything? Oh, I was merely thinking about your story, and the oddness of my having a fancy for the same woman afterwards. Andthat now I--I have forgotten her almost; and neither of us care abouther, except just as a friend, you know, eh?'

Knight still continued at the further end of the room, somewhat inshadow. 

'Exactly, ' said Stephen, inwardly exultant, for he was really deceivedby Knight's off-hand manner. 

Yet he was deceived less by the completeness of Knight's disguise thanby the persuasive power which lay in the fact that Knight had neverbefore deceived him in anything. So this supposition that his companionhad ceased to love Elfride was an enormous lightening of the weightwhich had turned the scale against him. 

'Admitting that Elfride COULD love another man after you, ' said theelder, under the same varnish of careless criticism, 'she was none theworse for that experience. '

'The worse? Of course she was none the worse. '

'Did you ever think it a wild and thoughtless thing for her to do?'

'Indeed, I never did, ' said Stephen. 'I persuaded her. She saw no harmin it until she decided to return, nor did I; nor was there, except tothe extent of indiscretion. '

'Directly she thought it was wrong she would go no further?'

'That was it. I had just begun to think it wrong too. '

'Such a childish escapade might have been misrepresented by anyevil-disposed person, might it not?'

'It might; but I never heard that it was. Nobody who really knew all thecircumstances would have done otherwise than smile. If all the world hadknown it, Elfride would still have remained the only one who thought heraction a sin. Poor child, she always persisted in thinking so, and wasfrightened more than enough. '

'Stephen, do you love her now?'

'Well, I like her; I always shall, you know, ' he said evasively, andwith all the strategy love suggested. 'But I have not seen her for solong that I can hardly be expected to love her. Do you love her still?'

'How shall I answer without being ashamed? What fickle beings wemen are, Stephen! Men may love strongest for a while, but women lovelongest. I used to love her--in my way, you know. '

'Yes, I understand. Ah, and I used to love her in my way. In fact, I loved her a good deal at one time; but travel has a tendency toobliterate early fancies. '

'It has--it has, truly. '

Perhaps the most extraordinary feature in this conversation was thecircumstance that, though each interlocutor had at first his suspicionsof the other's abiding passion awakened by several little acts, neitherwould allow himself to see that his friend might now be speakingdeceitfully as well as he. 

'Stephen. ' resumed Knight, 'now that matters are smooth between us, Ithink I must leave you. You won't mind my hurrying off to my quarters?'

'You'll stay to some sort of supper surely? didn't you come to dinner!'

'You must really excuse me this once. '

'Then you'll drop in to breakfast to-morrow. '

'I shall be rather pressed for time. '

'An early breakfast, which shall interfere with nothing?'

'I'll come, ' said Knight, with as much readiness as it was possible tograft upon a huge stock of reluctance. 'Yes, early; eight o'clock say, as we are under the same roof. '

'Any time you like. Eight it shall be. '

And Knight left him. To wear a mask, to dissemble his feelings as hehad in their late miserable conversation, was such torture that he couldsupport it no longer. It was the first time in Knight's life that hehad ever been so entirely the player of a part. And the man he had thusdeceived was Stephen, who had docilely looked up to him from youth as asuperior of unblemished integrity. 

He went to bed, and allowed the fever of his excitement to rageuncontrolled. Stephen--it was only he who was the rival--only Stephen!There was an anti-climax of absurdity which Knight, wretched andconscience-stricken as he was, could not help recognizing. Stephen wasbut a boy to him. Where the great grief lay was in perceiving that thevery innocence of Elfride in reading her little fault as one so gravewas what had fatally misled him. Had Elfride, with any degree ofcoolness, asserted that she had done no harm, the poisonous breath ofthe dead Mrs. Jethway would have been inoperative. Why did he notmake his little docile girl tell more? If on that subject he had onlyexercised the imperativeness customary with him on others, all mighthave been revealed. It smote his heart like a switch when he rememberedhow gently she had borne his scourging speeches, never answering himwith a single reproach, only assuring him of her unbounded love. 

Knight blessed Elfride for her sweetness, and forgot her fault. Hepictured with a vivid fancy those fair summer scenes with her. Heagain saw her as at their first meeting, timid at speaking, yet in hereagerness to be explanatory borne forward almost against her will. How she would wait for him in green places, without showing any of theordinary womanly affectations of indifference! How proud she was to beseen walking with him, bearing legibly in her eyes the thought that hewas the greatest genius in the world!

He formed a resolution; and after that could make pretence of slumber nolonger. Rising and dressing himself, he sat down and waited for day. 

That night Stephen was restless too. Not because of the unwontednessof a return to English scenery; not because he was about to meet hisparents, and settle down for awhile to English cottage life. He wasindulging in dreams, and for the nonce the warehouses of Bombay and theplains and forts of Poonah were but a shadow's shadow. His dream wasbased on this one atom of fact: Elfride and Knight had become separated, and their engagement was as if it had never been. Their rupture musthave occurred soon after Stephen's discovery of the fact of their union;and, Stephen went on to think, what so probable as that a return of hererrant affection to himself was the cause?

Stephen's opinions in this matter were those of a lover, and not thebalanced judgment of an unbiassed spectator. His naturally sanguinespirit built hope upon hope, till scarcely a doubt remained in his mindthat her lingering tenderness for him had in some way been perceived byKnight, and had provoked their parting. 

To go and see Elfride was the suggestion of impulses it was impossibleto withstand. At any rate, to run down from St. Launce's to CastlePoterel, a distance of less than twenty miles, and glide like a ghostabout their old haunts, making stealthy inquiries about her, would be afascinating way of passing the first spare hours after reaching home onthe day after the morrow. 

He was now a richer man than heretofore, standing on his own bottom; andthe definite position in which he had rooted himself nullified old localdistinctions. He had become illustrious, even sanguine clarus, judgingfrom the tone of the worthy Mayor of St. Launce's. 

Chapter XXXIX

 'Each to the loved one's side. '

The friends and rivals breakfasted together the next morning. Not a wordwas said on either side upon the matter discussed the previous eveningso glibly and so hollowly. Stephen was absorbed the greater part of thetime in wishing he were not forced to stay in town yet another day. 

'I don't intend to leave for St. Launce's till to-morrow, as you know, 'he said to Knight at the end of the meal. 'What are you going to do withyourself to-day?'

'I have an engagement just before ten, ' said Knight deliberately; 'andafter that time I must call upon two or three people. '

'I'll look for you this evening, ' said Stephen. 

'Yes, do. You may as well come and dine with me; that is, if we canmeet. I may not sleep in London to-night; in fact, I am absolutelyunsettled as to my movements yet. However, the first thing I am going todo is to get my baggage shifted from this place to Bede's Inn. Good-byefor the present. I'll write, you know, if I can't meet you. '

It now wanted a quarter to nine o'clock. When Knight was gone, Stephenfelt yet more impatient of the circumstance that another day would haveto drag itself away wearily before he could set out for that spot ofearth whereon a soft thought of him might perhaps be nourished still. Ona sudden he admitted to his mind the possibility that the engagement hewas waiting in town to keep might be postponed without much harm. 

It was no sooner perceived than attempted. Looking at his watch, hefound it wanted forty minutes to the departure of the ten o'clock trainfrom Paddington, which left him a surplus quarter of an hour before itwould be necessary to start for the station. 

Scribbling a hasty note or two--one putting off the business meeting, another to Knight apologizing for not being able to see him in theevening--paying his bill, and leaving his heavier luggage to followhim by goods-train, he jumped into a cab and rattled off to the GreatWestern Station. 

Shortly afterwards he took his seat in the railway carriage. 

The guard paused on his whistle, to let into the next compartment toSmith's a man of whom Stephen had caught but a hasty glimpse as he ranacross the platform at the last moment. 

Smith sank back into the carriage, stilled by perplexity. The man waslike Knight--astonishingly like him. Was it possible it could be he?To have got there he must have driven like the wind to Bede's Inn, andhardly have alighted before starting again. No, it could not be he; thatwas not his way of doing things. 

During the early part of the journey Stephen Smith's thoughts busiedthemselves till his brain seemed swollen. One subject was concerninghis own approaching actions. He was a day earlier than his letter tohis parents had stated, and his arrangement with them had been thatthey should meet him at Plymouth; a plan which pleased the worthy couplebeyond expression. Once before the same engagement had been made, whichhe had then quashed by ante-dating his arrival. This time he would goright on to Castle Boterel; ramble in that well-known neighbourhoodduring the evening and next morning, making inquiries; and return toPlymouth to meet them as arranged--a contrivance which would leave theircherished project undisturbed, relieving his own impatience also. 

At Chippenham there was a little waiting, and some loosening andattaching of carriages. 

Stephen looked out. At the same moment another man's head emerged fromthe adjoining window. Each looked in the other's face. 

Knight and Stephen confronted one another. 

'You here!' said the younger man. 

'Yes. It seems that you are too, ' said Knight, strangely. 

'Yes. '

The selfishness of love and the cruelty of jealousy were fairlyexemplified at this moment. Each of the two men looked at his friendas he had never looked at him before. Each was TROUBLED at the other'spresence. 

'I thought you said you were not coming till to-morrow, ' remarkedKnight. 

'I did. It was an afterthought to come to-day. This journey was yourengagement, then?'

'No, it was not. This is an afterthought of mine too. I left a note toexplain it, and account for my not being able to meet you this eveningas we arranged. '

'So did I for you. '

'You don't look well: you did not this morning. '

'I have a headache. You are paler to-day than you were. '

'I, too, have been suffering from headache. We have to wait here a fewminutes, I think. '

They walked up and down the platform, each one more and moreembarrassingly concerned with the awkwardness of his friend'spresence. They reached the end of the footway, and paused in sheerabsent-mindedness. Stephen's vacant eyes rested upon the operations ofsome porters, who were shifting a dark and curious-looking van from therear of the train, to shunt another which was between it and the forepart of the train. This operation having been concluded, the two friendsreturned to the side of their carriage. 

'Will you come in here?' said Knight, not very warmly. 

'I have my rug and portmanteau and umbrella with me: it is ratherbothering to move now, ' said Stephen reluctantly. 'Why not you comehere?'

'I have my traps too. It is hardly worth while to shift them, for Ishall see you again, you know. '

'Oh, yes. '

And each got into his own place. Just at starting, a man on the platformheld up his hands and stopped the train. 

Stephen looked out to see what was the matter. 

One of the officials was exclaiming to another, 'That carriage shouldhave been attached again. Can't you see it is for the main line? Quick!What fools there are in the world!'

'What a confounded nuisance these stoppages are!' exclaimed Knightimpatiently, looking out from his compartment. 'What is it?'

'That singular carriage we saw has been unfastened from our train bymistake, it seems, ' said Stephen. 

He was watching the process of attaching it. The van or carriage, whichhe now recognized as having seen at Paddington before they started, wasrich and solemn rather than gloomy in aspect. It seemed to be quitenew, and of modern design, and its impressive personality attracted thenotice of others beside himself. He beheld it gradually wheeled forwardby two men on each side: slower and more sadly it seemed to approach:then a slight concussion, and they were connected with it, and offagain. 

Stephen sat all the afternoon pondering upon the reason of Knight'sunexpected reappearance. Was he going as far as Castle Boterel? If so, he could only have one object in view--a visit to Elfride. And what anidea it seemed!

At Plymouth Smith partook of a little refreshment, and then went roundto the side from which the train started for Camelton, the new stationnear Castle Boterel and Endelstow. 

Knight was already there. 

Stephen walked up and stood beside him without speaking. Two men at thismoment crept out from among the wheels of the waiting train. 

'The carriage is light enough, ' said one in a grim tone. 'Light asvanity; full of nothing. '

'Nothing in size, but a good deal in signification, ' said the other, aman of brighter mind and manners. 

Smith then perceived that to their train was attached that same carriageof grand and dark aspect which had haunted them all the way from London. 

'You are going on, I suppose?' said Knight, turning to Stephen, afteridly looking at the same object. 

'Yes. '

'We may as well travel together for the remaining distance, may we not?'

'Certainly we will;' and they both entered the same door. 

Evening drew on apace. It chanced to be the eve of St. Valentine's--thatbishop of blessed memory to youthful lovers--and the sun shone low underthe rim of a thick hard cloud, decorating the eminences of the landscapewith crowns of orange fire. As the train changed its direction on acurve, the same rays stretched in through the window, and coaxed openKnight's half-closed eyes. 

'You will get out at St. Launce's, I suppose?' he murmured. 

'No, ' said Stephen, 'I am not expected till to-morrow. ' Knight wassilent. 

'And you--are you going to Endelstow?' said the younger man pointedly. 

'Since you ask, I can do no less than say I am, Stephen, ' continuedKnight slowly, and with more resolution of manner than he had shown allthe day. 'I am going to Endelstow to see if Elfride Swancourt is stillfree; and if so, to ask her to be my wife. '

'So am I, ' said Stephen Smith. 

'I think you'll lose your labour, ' Knight returned with decision. 

'Naturally you do. ' There was a strong accent of bitterness in Stephen'svoice. 'You might have said HOPE instead of THINK, ' he added. 

'I might have done no such thing. I gave you my opinion. ElfrideSwancourt may have loved you once, no doubt, but it was when she was soyoung that she hardly knew her own mind. '

'Thank you, ' said Stephen laconically. 'She knew her mind as well as Idid. We are the same age. If you hadn't interfered----'

'Don't say that--don't say it, Stephen! How can you make out that Iinterfered? Be just, please!'

'Well, ' said his friend, 'she was mine before she was yours--you knowthat! And it seemed a hard thing to find you had got her, and that ifit had not been for you, all might have turned out well for me. ' Stephenspoke with a swelling heart, and looked out of the window to hide theemotion that would make itself visible upon his face. 

'It is absurd, ' said Knight in a kinder tone, 'for you to look at thematter in that light. What I tell you is for your good. You naturally donot like to realize the truth--that her liking for you was only a girl'sfirst fancy, which has no root ever. '

'It is not true!' said Stephen passionately. 'It was you put me out. Andnow you'll be pushing in again between us, and depriving me of my chanceagain! My right, that's what it is! How ungenerous of you to comeanew and try to take her away from me! When you had won her, I did notinterfere; and you might, I think, Mr. Knight, do by me as I did byyou!'

'Don't "Mr. " me; you are as well in the world as I am now. '

'First love is deepest; and that was mine. '

'Who told you that?' said Knight superciliously. 

'I had her first love. And it was through me that you and she parted. Ican guess that well enough. '

'It was. And if I were to explain to you in what way that operated inparting us, I should convince you that you do quite wrong in intrudingupon her--that, as I said at first, your labour will be lost. I don'tchoose to explain, because the particulars are painful. But if you won'tlisten to me, go on, for Heaven's sake. I don't care what you do, myboy. '

'You have no right to domineer over me as you do. Just because, whenI was a lad, I was accustomed to look up to you as a master, and youhelped me a little, for which I was grateful to you and have lovedyou, you assume too much now, and step in before me. It is cruel--it isunjust--of you to injure me so!'

Knight showed himself keenly hurt at this. 'Stephen, those words areuntrue and unworthy of any man, and they are unworthy of you. You knowyou wrong me. If you have ever profited by any instruction of mine, I amonly too glad to know it. You know it was given ungrudgingly, and that Ihave never once looked upon it as making you in any way a debtor to me. '

Stephen's naturally gentle nature was touched, and it was in a troubledvoice that he said, 'Yes, yes. I am unjust in that--I own it. '

'This is St. Launce's Station, I think. Are you going to get out?'

Knight's manner of returning to the matter in hand drew Stephen againinto himself. 'No; I told you I was going to Endelstow, ' he resolutelyreplied. 

Knight's features became impassive, and he said no more. The traincontinued rattling on, and Stephen leant back in his corner and closedhis eyes. The yellows of evening had turned to browns, the duskyshades thickened, and a flying cloud of dust occasionally stroked thewindow--borne upon a chilling breeze which blew from the north-east. The previously gilded but now dreary hills began to lose their daylightaspects of rotundity, and to become black discs vandyked against thesky, all nature wearing the cloak that six o'clock casts over thelandscape at this time of the year. 

Stephen started up in bewilderment after a long stillness, and it wassome time before he recollected himself. 

'Well, how real, how real!' he exclaimed, brushing his hand across hiseyes. 

'What is?' said Knight. 

'That dream. I fell asleep for a few minutes, and have had a dream--themost vivid I ever remember. '

He wearily looked out into the gloom. They were now drawing near toCamelton. The lighting of the lamps was perceptible through the veil ofevening--each flame starting into existence at intervals, and blinkingweakly against the gusts of wind. 

'What did you dream?' said Knight moodily. 

'Oh, nothing to be told. 'Twas a sort of incubus. There is neveranything in dreams. '

'I hardly supposed there was. '

'I know that. However, what I so vividly dreamt was this, since youwould like to hear. It was the brightest of bright mornings at EastEndelstow Church, and you and I stood by the font. Far away in thechancel Lord Luxellian was standing alone, cold and impassive, andutterly unlike his usual self: but I knew it was he. Inside the altarrail stood a strange clergyman with his book open. He looked up and saidto Lord Luxellian, "Where's the bride?" Lord Luxellian said, "There's nobride. " At that moment somebody came in at the door, and I knew her tobe Lady Luxellian who died. He turned and said to her, "I thought youwere in the vault below us; but that could have only been a dream ofmine. Come on. " Then she came on. And in brushing between us she chilledme so with cold that I exclaimed, "The life is gone out of me!" and, inthe way of dreams, I awoke. But here we are at Camelton. '

They were slowly entering the station. 

'What are you going to do?' said Knight. 'Do you really intend to callon the Swancourts?'

'By no means. I am going to make inquiries first. I shall stay at theLuxellian Arms to-night. You will go right on to Endelstow, I suppose, at once?'

'I can hardly do that at this time of the day. Perhaps you are not awarethat the family--her father, at any rate--is at variance with me as muchas with you. 

'I didn't know it. '

'And that I cannot rush into the house as an old friend any more thanyou can. Certainly I have the privileges of a distant relationship, whatever they may be. '

Knight let down the window, and looked ahead. 'There are a great manypeople at the station, ' he said. 'They seem all to be on the look-outfor us. '

When the train stopped, the half-estranged friends could perceive by thelamplight that the assemblage of idlers enclosed as a kernel a group ofmen in black cloaks. A side gate in the platform railing was open, and outside this stood a dark vehicle, which they could not at firstcharacterize. Then Knight saw on its upper part forms against the skylike cedars by night, and knew the vehicle to be a hearse. Few peoplewere at the carriage doors to meet the passengers--the majority hadcongregated at this upper end. Knight and Stephen alighted, and turnedfor a moment in the same direction. 

The sombre van, which had accompanied them all day from London, nowbegan to reveal that their destination was also its own. It had beendrawn up exactly opposite the open gate. The bystanders all fell back, forming a clear lane from the gateway to the van, and the men in cloaksentered the latter conveyance. 

'They are labourers, I fancy, ' said Stephen. 'Ah, it is strange; but Irecognize three of them as Endelstow men. Rather remarkable this. '

Presently they began to come out, two and two; and under the rays ofthe lamp they were seen to bear between them a light-coloured coffin ofsatin-wood, brightly polished, and without a nail. The eight men tookthe burden upon their shoulders, and slowly crossed with it over to thegate. 

Knight and Stephen went outside, and came close to the procession as itmoved off. A carriage belonging to the cortege turned round close toa lamp. The rays shone in upon the face of the vicar of Endelstow, Mr. Swancourt--looking many years older than when they had last seen him. Knight and Stephen involuntarily drew back. 

Knight spoke to a bystander. 'What has Mr. Swancourt to do with thatfuneral?'

'He is the lady's father, ' said the bystander. 

'What lady's father?' said Knight, in a voice so hollow that the manstared at him. 

'The father of the lady in the coffin. She died in London, you know, andhas been brought here by this train. She is to be taken home to-night, and buried to-morrow. '

Knight stood staring blindly at where the hearse had been; as if he sawit, or some one, there. Then he turned, and beheld the lithe form ofStephen bowed down like that of an old man. He took his young friend'sarm, and led him away from the light. 

Chapter XL

 'Welcome, proud lady. '

Half an hour has passed. Two miserable men are wandering in the darknessup the miles of road from Camelton to Endelstow. 

'Has she broken her heart?' said Henry Knight. 'Can it be that I havekilled her? I was bitter with her, Stephen, and she has died! And mayGod have NO mercy upon me!'

'How can you have killed her more than I?'

'Why, I went away from her--stole away almost--and didn't tell her Ishould not come again; and at that last meeting I did not kiss her once, but let her miserably go. I have been a fool--a fool! I wish the mostabject confession of it before crowds of my countrymen could in any waymake amends to my darling for the intense cruelty I have shown her!'

'YOUR darling!' said Stephen, with a sort of laugh. 'Any man can saythat, I suppose; any man can. I know this, she was MY darling before shewas yours; and after too. If anybody has a right to call her his own, itis I. '

'You talk like a man in the dark; which is what you are. Did she ever doanything for you? Risk her name, for instance, for you?'

Yes, she did, ' said Stephen emphatically. 

'Not entirely. Did she ever live for you--prove she could not livewithout you--laugh and weep for you?'

'Yes. '

'Never! Did she ever risk her life for you--no! My darling did for me. '

'Then it was in kindness only. When did she risk her life for you?'

'To save mine on the cliff yonder. The poor child was with me looking atthe approach of the Puffin steamboat, and I slipped down. We both had anarrow escape. I wish we had died there!'

'Ah, but wait, ' Stephen pleaded with wet eyes. 'She went on that cliffto see me arrive home: she had promised it. She told me she would monthsbefore. And would she have gone there if she had not cared for me atall?'

'You have an idea that Elfride died for you, no doubt, ' said Knight, with a mournful sarcasm too nerveless to support itself. 

'Never mind. If we find that--that she died yours, I'll say no moreever. '

'And if we find she died yours, I'll say no more. '

'Very well--so it shall be. '

The dark clouds into which the sun had sunk had begun to drop rain in anincreasing volume. 

'Can we wait somewhere here till this shower is over?' said Stephendesultorily. 

'As you will. But it is not worth while. We'll hear the particulars, andreturn. Don't let people know who we are. I am not much now. '

They had reached a point at which the road branched into two--justoutside the west village, one fork of the diverging routes passing intothe latter place, the other stretching on to East Endelstow. Having comesome of the distance by the footpath, they now found that the hearse wasonly a little in advance of them. 

'I fancy it has turned off to East Endelstow. Can you see?'

'I cannot. You must be mistaken. '

Knight and Stephen entered the village. A bar of fiery light lay acrossthe road, proceeding from the half-open door of a smithy, in whichbellows were heard blowing and a hammer ringing. The rain had increased, and they mechanically turned for shelter towards the warm and cosyscene. 

Close at their heels came another man, without over-coat or umbrella, and with a parcel under his arm. 

'A wet evening, ' he said to the two friends, and passed by them. Theystood in the outer penthouse, but the man went in to the fire. 

The smith ceased his blowing, and began talking to the man who hadentered. 

'I have walked all the way from Camelton, ' said the latter. 'Was obligedto come to-night, you know. '

He held the parcel, which was a flat one, towards the firelight, tolearn if the rain had penetrated it. Resting it edgewise on the forge, he supported it perpendicularly with one hand, wiping his face with thehandkerchief he held in the other. 

'I suppose you know what I've got here?' he observed to the smith. 

'No, I don't, ' said the smith, pausing again on his bellows. 

'As the rain's not over, I'll show you, ' said the bearer. 

He laid the thin and broad package, which had acute angles in differentdirections, flat upon the anvil, and the smith blew up the fire to givehim more light. First, after untying the package, a sheet of brown paperwas removed: this was laid flat. Then he unfolded a piece of baize: thisalso he spread flat on the paper. The third covering was a wrapperof tissue paper, which was spread out in its turn. The enclosure wasrevealed, and he held it up for the smith's inspection. 

'Oh--I see!' said the smith, kindling with a chastened interest, anddrawing close. 'Poor young lady--ah, terrible melancholy thing--so soontoo!'

Knight and Stephen turned their heads and looked. 

'And what's that?' continued the smith. 

'That's the coronet--beautifully finished, isn't it? Ah, that cost somemoney!'

''Tis as fine a bit of metal work as ever I see--that 'tis. '

'It came from the same people as the coffin, you know, but was not readysoon enough to be sent round to the house in London yesterday. I've gotto fix it on this very night. '

The carefully-packed articles were a coffin-plate and coronet. 

Knight and Stephen came forward. The undertaker's man, on seeing themlook for the inscription, civilly turned it round towards them, and eachread, almost at one moment, by the ruddy light of the coals:

 E L F R I D E, Wife of Spenser Hugo Luxellian, Fifteenth Baron Luxellian: Died February 10, 18--. 

They read it, and read it, and read it again--Stephen and Knight--as ifanimated by one soul. Then Stephen put his hand upon Knight's arm, andthey retired from the yellow glow, further, further, till the chilldarkness enclosed them round, and the quiet sky asserted its presenceoverhead as a dim grey sheet of blank monotony. 

'Where shall we go?' said Stephen. 

'I don't know. '

A long silence ensued. .. . 'Elfride married!' said Stephen then in a thinwhisper, as if he feared to let the assertion loose on the world. 

'False, ' whispered Knight. 

'And dead. Denied us both. I hate "false"--I hate it!'

Knight made no answer. 

Nothing was heard by them now save the slow measurement of time by theirbeating pulses, the soft touch of the dribbling rain upon their clothes, and the low purr of the blacksmith's bellows hard by. 

'Shall we follow Elfie any further?' Stephen said. 

'No: let us leave her alone. She is beyond our love, and let her bebeyond our reproach. Since we don't know half the reasons that made herdo as she did, Stephen, how can we say, even now, that she was not pureand true in heart?' Knight's voice had now become mild and gentle as achild's. He went on: 'Can we call her ambitious? No. Circumstance has, as usual, overpowered her purposes--fragile and delicate as she--liableto be overthrown in a moment by the coarse elements of accident. I knowthat's it, --don't you?'

'It may be--it must be. Let us go on. '

They began to bend their steps towards Castle Boterel, whither theyhad sent their bags from Camelton. They wandered on in silence for manyminutes. Stephen then paused, and lightly put his hand within Knight'sarm. 

'I wonder how she came to die, ' he said in a broken whisper. 'Shall wereturn and learn a little more?'

They turned back again, and entering Endelstow a second time, came to adoor which was standing open. It was that of an inn called the WelcomeHome, and the house appeared to have been recently repaired and entirelymodernized. The name too was not that of the same landlord as formerly, but Martin Cannister's. 

Knight and Smith entered. The inn was quite silent, and they followedthe passage till they reached the kitchen, where a huge fire wasburning, which roared up the chimney, and sent over the floor, ceiling, and newly-whitened walls a glare so intense as to make the candle quitea secondary light. A woman in a white apron and black gown was standingthere alone behind a cleanly-scrubbed deal table. Stephen first, andKnight afterwards, recognized her as Unity, who had been parlour-maid atthe vicarage and young lady's-maid at the Crags. 

'Unity, ' said Stephen softly, 'don't you know me?'

She looked inquiringly a moment, and her face cleared up. 

'Mr. Smith--ay, that it is!' she said. 'And that's Mr. Knight. I beg youto sit down. Perhaps you know that since I saw you last I have marriedMartin Cannister. '

'How long have you been married?'

'About five months. We were married the same day that my dear Miss Elfiebecame Lady Luxellian. ' Tears appeared in Unity's eyes, and filled them, and fell down her cheek, in spite of efforts to the contrary. 

The pain of the two men in resolutely controlling themselves when thusexampled to admit relief of the same kind was distressing. They bothturned their backs and walked a few steps away. 

Then Unity said, 'Will you go into the parlour, gentlemen?'

'Let us stay here with her, ' Knight whispered, and turning said, 'No; wewill sit here. We want to rest and dry ourselves here for a time, if youplease. '

That evening the sorrowing friends sat with their hostess beside thelarge fire, Knight in the recess formed by the chimney breast, where hewas in shade. And by showing a little confidence they won hers, andshe told them what they had stayed to hear--the latter history of poorElfride. 

'One day--after you, Mr. Knight, left us for the last time--she wasmissed from the Crags, and her father went after her, and brought herhome ill. Where she went to, I never knew--but she was very unwell forweeks afterwards. And she said to me that she didn't care what became ofher, and she wished she could die. When she was better, I said she wouldlive to be married yet, and she said then, "Yes; I'll do anythingfor the benefit of my family, so as to turn my useless life to somepractical account. " Well, it began like this about Lord Luxelliancourting her. The first Lady Luxellian had died, and he was in greattrouble because the little girls were left motherless. After a whilethey used to come and see her in their little black frocks, for theyliked her as well or better than their own mother---that's true. They used to call her "little mamma. " These children made her a shadelivelier, but she was not the girl she had been--I could see that--andshe grew thinner a good deal. Well, my lord got to ask the Swancourtsoftener and oftener to dinner--nobody else of his acquaintance--and atlast the vicar's family were backwards and forwards at all hours of theday. Well, people say that the little girls asked their father to letMiss Elfride come and live with them, and that he said perhaps he wouldif they were good children. However, the time went on, and one day Isaid, "Miss Elfride, you don't look so well as you used to; and thoughnobody else seems to notice it I do. " She laughed a little, and said, "Ishall live to be married yet, as you told me. "

'"Shall you, miss? I am glad to hear that, " I said. 

'"Whom do you think I am going to be married to?" she said again. 

'"Mr. Knight, I suppose, " said I. 

'"Oh!" she cried, and turned off so white, and afore I could get to hershe had sunk down like a heap of clothes, and fainted away. Well, then, she came to herself after a time, and said, "Unity, now we'll go on withour conversation. "

'"Better not to-day, miss, " I said. 

'"Yes, we will, " she said. "Whom do you think I am going to be marriedto?"

'"I don't know, " I said this time. 

'"Guess, " she said. 

'"'Tisn't my lord, is it?" says I. 

'"Yes, 'tis, " says she, in a sick wild way. 

'"But he don't come courting much, " I said. 

"'Ah! you don't know, " she said, and told me 'twas going to be inOctober. After that she freshened up a bit--whether 'twas with thethought of getting away from home or not, I don't know. For, perhaps, Imay as well speak plainly, and tell you that her home was no home to hernow. Her father was bitter to her and harsh upon her; and though Mrs. Swancourt was well enough in her way, 'twas a sort of cold politenessthat was not worth much, and the little thing had a worrying time of italtogether. About a month before the wedding, she and my lord and thetwo children used to ride about together upon horseback, and a verypretty sight they were; and if you'll believe me, I never saw him oncewith her unless the children were with her too--which made the courtingso strange-looking. Ay, and my lord is so handsome, you know, so that atlast I think she rather liked him; and I have seen her smile and blush abit at things he said. He wanted her the more because the children did, for everybody could see that she would be a most tender mother to them, and friend and playmate too. And my lord is not only handsome, buta splendid courter, and up to all the ways o't. So he made her thebeautifullest presents; ah, one I can mind--a lovely bracelet, withdiamonds and emeralds. Oh, how red her face came when she saw it! Theold roses came back to her cheeks for a minute or two then. I helpeddress her the day we both were married--it was the last service I didher, poor child! When she was ready, I ran upstairs and slipped on myown wedding gown, and away they went, and away went Martin and I; and nosooner had my lord and my lady been married than the parson married us. It was a very quiet pair of weddings--hardly anybody knew it. Well, hope will hold its own in a young heart, if so be it can; and my ladyfreshened up a bit, for my lord was SO handsome and kind. '

'How came she to die--and away from home?' murmured Knight. 

'Don't you see, sir, she fell off again afore they'd been married long, and my lord took her abroad for change of scene. They were coming home, and had got as far as London, when she was taken very ill and couldn'tbe moved, and there she died. '

'Was he very fond of her?'

'What, my lord? Oh, he was!'

'VERY fond of her?'

'VERY, beyond everything. Not suddenly, but by slow degrees. 'Twas hernature to win people more when they knew her well. He'd have died forher, I believe. Poor my lord, he's heart-broken now!'

'The funeral is to-morrow?'

'Yes; my husband is now at the vault with the masons, opening the stepsand cleaning down the walls. '

The next day two men walked up the familiar valley from Castle Boterelto East Endelstow Church. And when the funeral was over, and every onehad left the lawn-like churchyard, the pair went softly down the stepsof the Luxellian vault, and under the low-groined arches they had beheldonce before, lit up then as now. In the new niche of the crypt lay arather new coffin, which had lost some of its lustre, and a newer coffinstill, bright and untarnished in the slightest degree. 

Beside the latter was the dark form of a man, kneeling on the dampfloor, his body flung across the coffin, his hands clasped, and hiswhole frame seemingly given up in utter abandonment to grief. He wasstill young--younger, perhaps, than Knight--and even now showed howgraceful was his figure and symmetrical his build. He murmured a prayerhalf aloud, and was quite unconscious that two others were standingwithin a few yards of him. 

Knight and Stephen had advanced to where they once stood beside Elfrideon the day all three had met there, before she had herself gone downinto silence like her ancestors, and shut her bright blue eyes for ever. Not until then did they see the kneeling figure in the dim light. Knightinstantly recognized the mourner as Lord Luxellian, the bereaved husbandof Elfride. 

They felt themselves to be intruders. Knight pressed Stephen back, andthey silently withdrew as they had entered. 

'Come away, ' he said, in a broken voice. 'We have no right to be there. Another stands before us--nearer to her than we!'

And side by side they both retraced their steps down the grey stillvalley to Castle Boterel.