“Fare thee weel awhile!”
Simultaneously with the conclusion of Stephen’s remark, the sound of
the closing of an external door in their immediate neighbourhood
reached Elfride’s ears. It came from the further side of the wing
containing the illuminated room. She then discerned, by the aid of the
dusky departing light, a figure, whose sex was undistinguishable,
walking down the gravelled path by the parterre towards the river. The
figure grew fainter, and vanished under the trees.
Mr. Swancourt’s voice was heard calling out their names from a distant
corridor in the body of the building. They retraced their steps, and
found him with his coat buttoned up and his hat on, awaiting their
advent in a mood of self-satisfaction at having brought his search to a
successful close. The carriage was brought round, and without further
delay the trio drove away from the mansion, under the echoing gateway
arch, and along by the leafless sycamores, as the stars began to kindle
their trembling lights behind the maze of branches and twigs.
No words were spoken either by youth or maiden. Her unpractised mind
was completely occupied in fathoming its recent acquisition. The young
man who had inspired her with such novelty of feeling, who had come
directly from London on business to her father, having been brought by
chance to Endelstow House had, by some means or other, acquired the
privilege of approaching some lady he had found therein, and of
honouring her by petits 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
could guess, it was Lord Luxellian’s business-room, or office. What
people were in the house? None but the governess and servants, as far
as she knew, and of these he had professed a total ignorance. Had the
person she had indistinctly seen leaving the house anything to do with
the performance? It was impossible to say without appealing to the
culprit himself, and that she would never do. The more Elfride
reflected, the more certain did it appear that the meeting was a chance
rencounter, and not an appointment. On the ultimate inquiry as to the
individuality of the 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 women beneath 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 of girlish sensations, vexed with him. No
more pleasure came in recognizing that from liking to attract him she
was getting on to love him, boyish as he was and innocent as he had
seemed.
They reached the bridge which formed a link between the eastern and
western halves of the parish. Situated in a valley that was bounded
outwardly by the sea, it formed a point of depression from which the
road ascended with great steepness to West Endelstow and the Vicarage.
There was no absolute necessity for either of them to alight, but as it
was the vicar’s custom after a long journey to humour the horse in
making this winding ascent, Elfride, moved by an imitative instinct,
suddenly jumped out when Pleasant had just begun to adopt the
deliberate stalk 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, immediately
following her example by jumping down on the other side.
“Oh no, not at all,” replied she coldly; the shadow phenomenon at
Endelstow House still paramount within her.
Stephen walked along by himself for two or three minutes, wrapped in
the rigid reserve dictated by her tone. Then apparently thinking that
it was only for girls to pout, he came serenely round to her side, and
offered his arm with Castilian gallantry, to assist her in ascending
the remaining three-quarters of the steep.
Here was a temptation: it was the first time in her life that Elfride
had been treated as a grown-up woman in this way—offered an arm in a
manner implying that she had a right to refuse it. Till to-night she
had never received masculine attentions beyond those which might be
contained in such homely remarks as “Elfride, give me your hand;”
“Elfride, take hold of my arm,” from her father. Her callow heart made
an epoch of the incident; she considered her array of feelings, for and
against. Collectively they were for taking this offered arm; the single
one 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. Fearing
more the issue of such an undertaking than what a gentle young man
might think of her waywardness, she immediately afterwards determined
to please 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 have
none.”
“You don’t know: I have a trouble; though some might think it less a
trouble 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 her
head. She had just learnt that a good deal of dignity is lost by asking
a question to which an answer is refused, even ever so politely; for
though politeness does good service in cases of requisition and
compromise, it but little helps a direct refusal. “I don’t wish to know
anything of it; I don’t wish it,” she went on. “The carriage is waiting
for us at the top of the hill; we must get in;” and Elfride flitted to
the front. “Papa, here is your Elfride!” she exclaimed to the dusky
figure of the old gentleman, as she sprang up and sank by his side
without deigning to accept aid from Stephen.
“Ah, yes!” uttered the vicar in artificially alert tones, awaking from
a most 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 said
very hastily, endeavouring to dodge back to his original position with
the air of a man who had not moved at all. “The fact is I was so lost
in deep meditation that I forgot whereabouts we were.” And in a minute
the vicar was snoring again.
That evening, being the last, seemed to throw an exceptional shade of
sadness over Stephen Smith, and the repeated injunctions of the vicar,
that he was to come and revisit them in the summer, apparently tended
less to raise his spirits than to unearth some misgiving.
He left them in the gray light of dawn, whilst the colours of earth
were sombre, and the sun was yet hidden in the east. Elfride had
fidgeted all night in her little bed lest none of the household should
be awake soon enough to start him, and also lest she might miss seeing
again the bright eyes and curly hair, to which their owner’s possession
of a hidden mystery added a deeper tinge of romance. To some extent—so
soon does womanly interest take a solicitous turn—she felt herself
responsible for his safe conduct. They breakfasted before daylight; Mr.
Swancourt, being more and more taken with his guest’s ingenuous
appearance, having determined to rise early and bid him a friendly
farewell. It was, however, rather to the vicar’s astonishment, that he
saw Elfride walk in to the breakfast-table, candle in hand.
Whilst William Worm performed his toilet (during which performance the
inmates of the vicarage were always in the habit of waiting with
exemplary patience), Elfride wandered desultorily to the summer house.
Stephen followed her thither. The copse-covered valley was visible from
this position, a mist now lying all along its length, hiding the stream
which trickled through it, though the observers themselves were in
clear air.
They stood close together, leaning over the rustic balustrading which
bounded the arbour on the outward side, and formed the crest of a steep
slope beneath Elfride constrainedly pointed out some features of the
distant uplands rising irregularly opposite. But the artistic eye was,
either from nature or circumstance, very faint in Stephen now, and he
only half attended to her description, as if he spared time from some
other thought going on within him.
“Well, good-bye,” he said suddenly; “I must never see you again, I
suppose, Miss Swancourt, in spite of invitations.”
His genuine tribulation played directly upon the delicate chords of her
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 face
lent 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
on my account; on yours.”
“Goodness! As if anything in connection with you could hurt me,” she
said with serene supremacy; but seeing that this plan of treatment was
inappropriate, she tuned a smaller note. “Ah, I know why you will not
come. You don’t want to. You’ll go home to London and to all the
stirring 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 as
before.”
“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
tell her to keep my newspapers till I get back.”
“You needn’t have explained: it was not my business at all.” Miss
Elfride was rather relieved to hear that statement, nevertheless. “And
you 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 interrupted
petulantly.
“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
meeting of yours with a lady at Endelstow Vicarage clash with—any
interest you may take in me?”
He started a little. “It does not,” he said emphatically; and looked
into the pupils of her eyes with the confidence that only honesty can
give, and even that to youth alone.
The explanation had not come, but a gloom left her. She could not but
believe that utterance. Whatever enigma might lie in the shadow on the
blind, 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 the
step in his slippers. Worm was adjusting a buckle in the harness, and
murmuring about his poor head; and everything was ready for Stephen’s
departure.
“You named August for your visit. August it shall be; that is, if you
care for the society of such a fossilized Tory,” said Mr. Swancourt.
Mr. Smith only responded hesitatingly, that he should like to come
again.
“You said you would, and you must,” insisted Elfride, coming to the
door and speaking under her father’s arm.
Whatever reason the youth may have had for not wishing to enter the
house as a guest, it no longer predominated. He promised, and bade them
adieu, and got into the pony-carriage, which crept up the slope, and
bore him out of their sight.
“I never was so much taken with anybody in my life as I am with that
young fellow—never! I cannot understand it—can’t understand it anyhow,”
said Mr. Swancourt quite energetically to himself; and went indoors.