Elfride Kingsmore - born Luxellian, and that is Arthur, her
husband. I have heard my father say that they - he - ran away with
her, and married her against the wish of her parents.'
'Then I imagine this to be where you got your Christian name, Miss
Swancourt?' said Knight, turning to her. 'I think you told me it
was three or four generations ago that your family branched off
from the Luxellians?'
'She was my grandmother,' said Elfride, vainly endeavouring to
moisten her dry lips before she spoke. Elfride had then the
conscience-stricken look of Guido's Magdalen, rendered upon a more
childlike form. She kept her face partially away from Knight and
Stephen, and set her eyes upon the sky visible outside, as if her
salvation depended upon quickly reaching it. Her left hand rested
lightly within Knight's arm, half withdrawn, from a sense of shame
at claiming him before her old lover, yet unwilling to renounce
him; so that her glove merely touched his sleeve. '"Can one be
pardoned, and retain the offence?"' quoted Elfride's heart then.
Conversation seemed to have no self-sustaining power, and went on
in the shape of disjointed remarks. 'One's mind gets thronged
with thoughts while standing so solemnly here,' Knight said, in a
measured quiet voice. 'How much has been said on death from time
to time! how much we ourselves can think upon it! We may fancy
each of these who lie here saying:
'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 am
thinking 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 to reach 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
as these seem to compel us to roam outside ourselves, far away
from the fragile frame we live in, and to expand till our
perception grows so vast that our physical reality bears no sort
of proportion to it. We look back upon the weak and minute stem
on which this luxuriant growth depends, and ask, Can it be
possible that such a capacity has a foundation so small? Must I
again return to my daily walk in that narrow cell, 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 a sentient being possesses should be committed to the frail
casket of a body. What weakens one's intentions regarding the
future like the thought of this?...However, let us tune ourselves
to a more cheerful chord, for there's a great deal to be done yet
by us all.'
As Knight meditatively addressed his juniors thus, unconscious of
the deception practised, for different reasons, by the severed
hearts at his side, and of the scenes that had in earlier days
united them, each one felt that he and she did not gain by
contrast with their musing mentor. Physically not so handsome as
either the youthful architect or the vicar's daughter, the
thoroughness and integrity of Knight illuminated his features with
a dignity not even incipient in the other two. It is difficult to
frame rules which shall apply to both sexes, and Elfride, an
undeveloped girl, must, perhaps, hardly be laden with the moral
responsibilities which attach to a man in like circumstances. The
charm of woman, too, lies partly in her subtleness in matters of
love. But if honesty is a virtue in itself, Elfride, having none
of it now, seemed, being for being, scarcely good enough for
Knight. Stephen, though deceptive for no unworthy purpose, was
deceptive after all; and whatever good results grace such strategy
if it succeed, it seldom draws admiration, 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 be confiding.
'Stephen,' he said, 'this lady is Miss Swancourt. I am staying at
her father's house, as you probably know.' He stepped a few paces
nearer to Smith, and said in a lower tone: 'I may as well tell you
that we are engaged to be married.'
Low as the words had been spoken, Elfride had heard them, and
awaited Stephen's reply in breathless silence, if that could be
called silence where Elfride's dress, at each throb of her heart,
shook and indicated it like a pulse-glass, rustling also against
the wall in reply to the same throbbing. The ray of daylight
which reached her face lent it a blue pallor in comparison with
those of the other two.
'I congratulate you,' Stephen whispered; and said aloud, 'I know
Miss Swancourt - a little. You must remember that my father is a
parishioner of Mr. Swancourt's.'
'I thought you might possibly not have lived at home since they
have been 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 have stood so persistently between you. But the fact
is, Smith, you seem a boy to me, even now.'
Stephen appeared to have a more than previous consciousness of the
intense cruelty of his fate at the present moment. He could not
repress the 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
reply a laughing tone in Elfride's ears, and an earnestness in
Stephen's: in both which efforts he signally failed, and produced
a forced speech pleasant to neither. 'Well, let us go into the
open air again; Miss Swancourt, you are particularly silent. You
mustn't mind Smith. I have known 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 on his first arrival at her house as a stranger
to the place.
They ascended to the daylight, Knight taking no further notice of
Elfride's manner, which, as usual, he attributed to the natural
shyness of a young woman at being discovered walking with him on
terms which left not much doubt of their meaning. Elfride stepped
a little in advance, and passed through the churchyard.
'You are changed very considerably, Smith,' said Knight, 'and I
suppose it is no more than was to be expected. However, don't
imagine that I shall feel any the less interest in you and your
fortunes whenever you care to confide them to me. I have not
forgotten the attachment you spoke 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
gladness under such circumstances - all depending upon the
character of the match - Knight took shelter in the safe words: 'I
trust it was for the best.'
'I hope it was. But I beg that you will not press me further: no,
you have not pressed me - I don't mean that - but I would rather not
speak upon the subject.'
Stephen's words were hurried.
Knight said no more, and they followed in the footsteps of
Elfride, who still kept some paces in advance, and had not heard
Knight's unconscious allusion to her. Stephen bade him adieu at
the churchyard-gate without going outside, and watched whilst he
and his sweetheart mounted their horses.
'Good heavens, Elfride,' Knight exclaimed, 'how pale you are! I
suppose I 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 was so 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
into the saddle.
Her old lover still looked on at the performance as he leant over
the gate a dozen yards off. Once in the saddle, and having a firm
grip of the reins, she turned her head as if by a resistless
fascination, and for the first time since that memorable parting
on the moor outside St. Launce's after the passionate attempt at
marriage with him, Elfride looked in the face of the young man she
first had loved. He was the youth who had called her his
inseparable wife many a time, and whom she had even addressed as
her husband. Their eyes met. Measurement of life should be
proportioned rather to the intensity of the experience than to its
actual length. Their glance, but a moment chronologically, was a
season in their history. To Elfride the intense agony of reproach
in Stephen's eye was a nail piercing her heart with a deadliness
no words can describe. With a spasmodic effort she withdrew her
eyes, urged on the horse, and in the chaos of perturbed memories
was oblivious of any presence beside her. The deed of deception
was complete.
Gaining a knoll on which the park transformed itself into wood and
copse, Knight came still closer to her side, and said, 'Are you
better now, dearest?'
'Oh yes.' She pressed a hand to her eyes, as if to blot out the
image of Stephen. A vivid scarlet spot now shone with
preternatural brightness in the centre of each cheek, leaving the
remainder of her face lily-white as before.
'Elfride,' said Knight, rather in his old tone of mentor, 'you
know I don't for a moment chide you, but is there not a great deal
of unwomanly weakness in your allowing yourself to be so
overwhelmed by the sight of what, after all, is no novelty? Every
woman worthy of the name should, I think, be able to look upon
death with something like composure. Surely you think so too?'
'Yes; I own it.'
His obtuseness to the cause of her indisposition, by evidencing
his entire freedom from the suspicion of anything behind the
scenes, showed how incapable Knight was of deception himself,
rather than any inherent dulness in him regarding human nature.
This, clearly perceived by Elfride, added poignancy to her self-
reproach, and she idolized him the more because of their
difference. Even the recent sight of Stephen's face and the sound
of his voice, which for a moment had stirred a chord or two of
ancient kindness, were unable to keep down the adoration re-
existent now that he was again out of view.
She had replied to Knight's question hastily, and immediately went
on to speak of indifferent subjects. After they had reached home
she was apart from him till dinner-time. When dinner was over,
and they were watching the dusk in the drawing-room, Knight
stepped out upon the terrace. Elfride went after him very
decisively, on the spur of a virtuous intention.
'Mr. Knight, I want to tell you something,' she said, with quiet
firmness.
'And what is it about?' gaily returned her lover. 'Happiness, I
hope. Do not 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
of it,' she said. 'And that I will do to-morrow. I have been
reminded of it to-day. It is about something I once did, and
don't think I ought to have done.'
This, it must be said, was rather a mild way of referring to a
frantic passion and flight, which, much or little in itself, only
accident had saved 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
slight decline in the firmness of her voice. 'It is not light as
you think it - it troubles me a great deal.' Fearing now the
effect of her own earnestness, she added forcedly, 'Though,
perhaps, you may think it light 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 you to fix an hour, because I am weak, and may otherwise try
to get out of it.' She added a little artificial laugh, which
showed how timorous her resolution 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, and Knight was regarding her from the terrace balustrade,
upon which he had been idly sitting for some time - dividing the
glances of his eye between the pages of a book in his hand, the
brilliant hues of the geraniums and calceolarias, 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
long night's rest.'
She appeared at the door shortly after, took his offered arm, and
together they walked slowly down the gravel path leading to the
river and away under the trees.
Her resolution, sustained during the last fifteen hours, had been
to tell the whole truth, and now the moment had come.
Step by step they advanced, and still she did not speak. They
were nearly 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
not true. 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 a confidence and obtain forgiveness with a kiss, could string
Elfride up to the venture. Her dread lest he should be
unforgiving was heightened by the thought of yesterday's artifice,
which might possibly add disgust to his disappointment. The
certainty of one more day's affection, which she gained by
silence, outvalued the hope of a perpetuity combined with the risk
of all.
The trepidation caused by these thoughts on what she had intended
to say shook so naturally the words she did say, that Knight never
for a moment suspected them to be a last moment's substitution.
He smiled and pressed her hand warmly.
'My dear Elfie - yes, you are now - no protestation - what a winning
little woman you are, to be so absurdly scrupulous about a mere
iota! Really, I never once have thought whether your nineteenth
year was the last or the present. And, by George, well I may not;
for it would never do for a staid 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, I don't deserve it now.'
But Knight, being in an exceptionally genial mood, merely saw this
distressful exclamation as modesty. 'Well,' he added, after a
minute, 'I like you all the better, you know, for such moral
precision, although I 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 truthful and clear as heaven's light. I
could put up with anything if I had that - forgive nothing if I had
it not. Elfride, you have such a soul, if ever woman had; and
having it, retain it, and don't ever listen to the fashionable
theories of the day about a woman's privileges and natural right
to practise wiles. Depend upon it, my dear girl, that a noble
woman 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 all the delicate dealings of love, to which the
licence given to your sex particularly 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 her
companionship at so cheap a price. 'You sit down there a minute.'
And he turned and walked rapidly back to the house for the article
in question.
Elfride sat down upon one of the rustic benches which adorned this
portion of the grounds, and remained with her eyes upon the grass.
She was induced to lift them by hearing the brush of light and
irregular footsteps hard by. Passing along the path which
intersected the one she was in and traversed the outer
shrubberies, Elfride beheld the farmer's widow, Mrs. Jethway.
Before she noticed Elfride, she paused to look at the house,
portions of which were visible through the bushes. Elfride,
shrinking back, hoped the unpleasant woman might go on without
seeing her. But Mrs. Jethway, silently apostrophizing the house,
with actions which seemed dictated by a half-overturned reason,
had discerned the girl, 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
there still, 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
good deal. He died because you were his own well-agreed
sweetheart, and then proved false - and it killed him. Yes, Miss
Swancourt,' she said in an excited whisper, 'you killed my son!'
'How can you be so wicked and foolish!' replied Elfride, rising
indignantly. But indignation was not natural to her, and having
been so worn and harrowed by late events, she lost any powers of
defence that 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,
Miss Elfride. Yes: you said you liked the name of Felix better
than any other name in the parish, and you knew it was his name,
and that those you said it to would report it to him.'
'I knew it was his name - of course I did; but I am sure, Mrs.
Jethway, I did 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 Jim Drake and George Upway and three or four more
ran forward to hold your pony, and Felix stood back timid, why did
you beckon to him, and say you would rather he held it? '
'O Mrs. Jethway, you do think so mistakenly! I liked him best -
that's why I wanted him to do it. He was gentle and nice - I
always thought him so - and I liked him.'
'Then why did you let him kiss you?'
'It is a falsehood; oh, it is, it is!' said Elfride, weeping with
desperation. 'He came behind me, and attempted to kiss me; and
that was why I told him never to let me see him again.'
'But you did not tell your father or anybody, as you would have if
you had 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
wish I had now. I little expected to be scourged with my own
kindness. Pray leave me, Mrs. Jethway.' The girl only
expostulated now.
'Well, you harshly dismissed him, and he died. And before his
body was cold, you took another to your heart. Then as carelessly
sent him about his business, and took a third. And if you
consider that nothing, Miss Swancourt,' she continued, drawing
closer; 'it led on to what was very serious indeed. Have you
forgotten the would-be runaway marriage? The journey 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 far
less light than yours? You may have: I have not. Fickleness
towards a lover 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 man
of yours! As much of the story as was known is creeping about the
neighbourhood even now; but I know more than any of them, and why
should I respect your love?'
'I defy you!' cried Elfride tempestuously. 'Do and say all you
can to ruin me; try; put your tongue at work; I invite it! I defy
you as a slanderous woman! Look, there he comes.' And her voice
trembled greatly as she saw through the leaves the beloved form of
Knight coming from the door 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's cheeks; and hastily wiping her eyes, she walked farther
on, so that by the time her lover had overtaken her the traces of
emotion had nearly disappeared from her face. Knight put the hat
upon her head, took her hand, 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 her
company that day. They rambled along the valley. The season was
that period in the autumn when the foliage alone of an ordinary
plantation is rich enough in hues to exhaust the chromatic
combinations of an artist's palette. Most lustrous of all are the
beeches, graduating from bright rusty red at the extremity of the
boughs to a bright yellow at their inner parts; young oaks are
still of a neutral green; Scotch firs and hollies are nearly blue;
whilst occasional dottings of other varieties give maroons and
purples of every tinge.
The river - such as it was - here pursued its course amid flagstones
as level as a pavement, but divided by crevices of irregular
width. With the summer drought the torrent had narrowed till it
was now but a thread of crystal clearness, meandering along a
central channel in the rocky bed of the winter current. Knight
scrambled through the bushes which at this point nearly covered
the brook from sight, and leapt down upon the dry portion of the
river bottom.
'Elfride, I never saw such a sight!' he exclaimed. 'The hazels
overhang the river's course in a perfect arch, and the floor is
beautifully paved. The place reminds one of the passages of a
cloister. Let me help you 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 year were submerged beneath a gushing bourne. From
their feet trickled the attenuated thread of water which alone
remained to tell the intent and reason of this leaf-covered aisle,
and journeyed on in a zigzag line till lost in the shade.
Knight, leaning on his elbow, after contemplating all this, looked
critically at Elfride.
'Does not such a luxuriant head of hair exhaust itself and get
thin as the years go on from eighteen to eight-and-twenty?' he
asked at length.
'Oh no!' she said quickly, with a visible disinclination to
harbour such a thought, which came upon her with an unpleasantness
whose force it would be difficult for men to understand. She
added afterwards, with smouldering uneasiness, 'Do you really
think that a great abundance of hair is more likely to get thin
than a moderate quantity?'
'Yes, I really do. I believe - am almost sure, in fact - that if
statistics could be obtained on the subject, you would find the
persons with thin hair were those who had a superabundance
originally, and that those who start with a moderate quantity
retain it without much loss.'
Elfride's troubles sat upon her face as well as in her heart.
Perhaps to a woman it is almost as dreadful to think of losing her
beauty as of losing her reputation. At any rate, she looked quite
as gloomy as she had looked at any minute that day.
'You shouldn't be so troubled about a mere personal adornment,'
said Knight, with some of the severity of tone that had been
customary before she had beguiled him into softness.
'I think it is a woman's duty to be as beautiful as she can. If I
were a scholar, I would give you chapter and verse for it from one
of your own Latin authors. I know there is such a passage, for
papa has alluded to it.'
"'Munditiae, et ornatus, et cultus," &c. - is that it? A passage in
Livy which is no defence at all.'
'No, it is not that.'
'Never mind, then; for I have a reason for not taking up my old
cudgels against you, Elfie. Can you guess what the reason is?'
'No; but I am glad to hear it,' she said thankfully. 'For it is
dreadful when 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 get thin.'
'Of course; a sensible woman would rather lose her wits than her
beauty.'
'I don't care if you do say satire and judge me cruelly. I know
my hair is beautiful; everybody says so.'
'Why, my dear Miss Swancourt,' he tenderly replied, 'I have not
said anything against it. But you know what is said about
handsome being and handsome doing.'
'Poor Miss Handsome-does cuts but a sorry figure beside Miss
Handsome-is in every man's eyes, your own not excepted, Mr.
Knight, though it pleases you to throw off so,' said Elfride
saucily. And lowering her voice: 'You ought not to have taken so
much trouble to save me from falling over the cliff, for you don't
think mine a life worth much trouble 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
bent the same way.
'You talk about my severity with you, Elfride. You are unkind to
me, you know.'
'How?' she asked, looking up from her idle occupation.
'After my taking trouble to get jewellery to please you, you
wouldn't accept it.'
'Perhaps I would now; perhaps I want to.'
'Do!' said Knight.
And the packet was withdrawn from his pocket and presented the
third time. Elfride took it with delight. The obstacle was rent
in twain, and the significant gift was hers.
'I'll take out these ugly ones at once,' she exclaimed, 'and I'll
wear yours - shall I?'
'I should be gratified.'
Now, though it may seem unlikely, considering how far the two had
gone in converse, Knight had never yet ventured to kiss Elfride.
Far slower was he than Stephen Smith in matters like that. The
utmost advance he had made in such demonstrations had been to the
degree witnessed by Stephen in the summer-house. So Elfride's
cheek being still forbidden fruit to him, he said impulsively.
'Elfie, I should like to touch that seductive ear of yours. Those
are my gifts; 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 miniature cataract.
The stillness of things was disturbed by a bird coming to the
streamlet to drink. After watching him dip his bill, sprinkle
himself, and fly into a tree, Knight replied, with the courteous
brusqueness she so much liked to hear -
'Elfride, now you may as well be fair. You would mind my doing it
but little, I think; so give me leave, do.'
'I will be fair, then,' she said confidingly, and looking him full
in the face. It was a particular pleasure to her to be able to do
a little honesty without fear. 'I should not mind your doing so -
I should like such an attention. My thought was, would it be
right to let you?'
'Then I will!' he rejoined, with that singular earnestness about a
small matter - in the eyes of a ladies' man but a momentary peg for
flirtation or jest - which is only found in deep natures who have
been wholly unused to toying with womankind, and which, from its
unwontedness, is in itself a tribute the most precious that can be
rendered, and homage the most exquisite to be received.
'And you shall,' she whispered, without reserve, and no longer
mistress of the ceremonies. And then Elfride inclined herself
towards him, thrust back her hair, and poised her head sideways.
In doing this her arm and shoulder necessarily rested against his
breast.
At the touch, the sensation of both seemed to be concentrated at
the point of contact. All the time he was performing the delicate
manoeuvre Knight 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.
Now turn round, dearest.'
She was powerless to disobey, and turned forthwith; and then,
without any defined intention in either's mind, his face and hers
drew closer together; and he supported her there, and kissed her.
Knight was at once the most ardent and the coolest man alive.
When his emotions slumbered he appeared almost phlegmatic; when
they were moved he was no less than passionate. And now, without
having quite intended an early marriage, he put the question
plainly. It came with all the ardour which was the accumulation
of long years behind a natural reserve.
'Elfride, when shall we be married?'
The words were sweet to her; but there was a bitter in the sweet.
These newly-overt acts of his, which had culminated in this plain
question, coming on the very day of Mrs. Jethway's blasting
reproaches, painted distinctly her fickleness as an enormity.
Loving him in secret had not seemed such thorough-going
inconstancy as the same love recognized and acted upon in the face
of threats. Her distraction was interpreted by him 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 was not likely to give a lucid reply. 'Take your time.'
Knight was as honourable a man as was ever loved and deluded by
woman. It may be said that his blindness in love proved the
point, for shrewdness in love usually goes with meanness in
general. Once the passion had mastered him, the intellect had
gone for naught. Knight, as a 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 at arm's length, as if she had been a large bouquet, and
looked at her with critical affection.
'Does your pretty gift become me?' she inquired, with tears of
excitement on the fringes of her eyes.
'Undoubtedly, perfectly!' said her lover, adopting a lighter tone
to put her 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 see
myself.'
'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
smooth small pool. Knight supported her whilst she knelt down and
leant over it.
'I can see myself. Really, try as religiously as I will, I cannot
help admiring my appearance in them.'
'Doubtless. How can you be so fond of finery? I believe you are
corrupting me into a taste for it. I used to hate every such
thing before I knew you.'
'I like ornaments, because I want people to admire what you
possess, and envy you, and say, "I wish I was he." '
'I suppose I ought not to object after that. And how much longer
are you going 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 do you like best now?'
Knight did not answer at the moment.
'Say light, do!' she whispered coaxingly. 'Don't say dark, as you
did that 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 and
kissed her the second time, which operations he performed with the
carefulness of a fruiterer touching a bunch of grapes so as not to
disturb their bloom.
Elfride objected to a second, and flung away her face, the
movement causing a slight disarrangement of hat and hair. Hardly
thinking what she said in the trepidation of the moment, she
exclaimed, clapping her hand 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
look passed 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 of
autumn sunsets irradiates London, even to its uttermost eastern
end. Between the eye and the flaming West, columns of smoke stand
up in the still air like tall trees. Everything in the shade is
rich and misty blue.
Mr. and Mrs. Swancourt and Elfride are looking at these lustrous
and lurid contrasts from the window of a large hotel near London
Bridge. The visit to their friends at St. Leonards is over, and
they are staying a day or two in the metropolis on their way home.
Knight spent the same interval of time in crossing over to
Brittany by way of Jersey and St. Malo. He then passed through
Normandy, and returned to London also, his arrival there having
been two days later than that of Elfride and her parents.
So the evening of this October day saw them all meeting at the
above-mentioned hotel, where they had previously engaged
apartments. During the afternoon Knight had been to his lodgings
at Richmond to make a little change in the nature of his baggage;
and on coming up again there was never ushered by a bland waiter
into a comfortable room a happier man than Knight when shown to
where Elfride and her step-mother were sitting after a fatiguing
day of shopping.
Elfride looked none the better for her change: Knight was as brown
as a nut. They were soon engaged by themselves in a corner of the
room. Now that the precious words of promise had been spoken, the
young girl had no idea of keeping up her price by the system of
reserve which other more accomplished maidens use. Her lover was
with her again, and it was enough: she made her heart over to him
entirely.
Dinner was soon despatched. And when a preliminary round of
conversation concerning their doings since the last parting had
been concluded, they reverted to the subject of to-morrow's
journey home.
'That enervating ride through the myrtle climate of South Devon -
how I dread it to-morrow!' Mrs. Swancourt was saying. 'I had
hoped the weather would 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 reach Plymouth in about forty hours, I think, and the boats
start from just below 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
you wouldn't mind that?'
'No: we wouldn't mind.'
'And the saloon is a place like the fishmarket of a ninth-rate
country town, but that wouldn't matter?'
'Oh dear, no. If we had only thought of it soon enough, we might
have had the use of Lord Luxellian's yacht. But never mind, we'll
go. We shall escape the worrying rattle through the whole length
of London to-morrow morning - not to mention the risk of being
killed by excursion trains, which is not a little one at this time
of the year, if the papers are true.'
Elfride, too, thought the arrangement delightful; and accordingly,
ten o'clock the following morning saw two cabs crawling round by
the Mint, and between the preternaturally high walls of
Nightingale Lane towards the river side.
The first vehicle was occupied by the travellers in person, and
the second 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 such attendant at robing times, her stepmother
forced her into a semblance of familiarity with one when they were
away from home.
Presently waggons, bales, and smells of all descriptions increased
to such an extent that the advance of the cabs was at the slowest
possible rate. At intervals it was necessary to halt entirely,
that the heavy vehicles unloading in front might be moved aside, a
feat which was not accomplished without a deal of swearing and
noise. The vicar put his head out of the window.
'Surely there must be some mistake in the way,' he said with great
concern, drawing in his head again. 'There's not a respectable
conveyance to be seen here except ours. I've heard that there are
strange dens in this part of London, into which people have been
entrapped and murdered - surely there is no conspiracy on the part
of the cabman?'
'Oh no, no. It is all right,' said Mr. Knight, who was as placid
as dewy eve by the side of Elfride.
'But what I argue from,' said the vicar, with a greater emphasis
of uneasiness, 'are plain appearances. This can't be the highway
from London 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 on
between the hindmost cabman and a crowd of light porters who had
charged him in column, to obtain possession of the bags and boxes,
Mrs. Snewson's hands being seen stretched towards heaven in the
midst of the melee. Knight advanced gallantly, and after a hard
struggle reduced the crowd to two, upon whose shoulders and trucks
the goods vanished away in the direction of the water's edge with
startling rapidity.
Then more of the same tribe, who had run on ahead, were heard
shouting to 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. I thought such customs were confined to
continental ports. Aren't you astonished, Elfride?'