“Beneath the shelter of an aged tree.”
Stephen retraced his steps towards the cottage he had visited only two
or three hours previously. He drew near and under the rich foliage
growing about the outskirts of Endelstow Park, the spotty lights and
shades from the shining moon maintaining a race over his head and down
his back in an endless gambol. When he crossed the plank bridge and
entered the garden-gate, he saw an illuminated figure coming from the
enclosed 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 to closing 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 as
injured but slightly, though it might possibly have been considered a
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 the
inconvenience to the world of his doing nothing for the next two days,
rather than of concern for the pain of the accident. Together they
entered the house.
John Smith—brown as autumn as to skin, white as winter as to
clothes—was a satisfactory specimen of the village artificer in stone.
In common with most rural mechanics, he had too much individuality to
be a typical “working-man”—a resultant of that beach-pebble attrition
with his kind only to be experienced in large towns, which
metamorphoses the unit Self into a fraction of the unit Class.
There was not the speciality in his labour which distinguishes the
handicraftsmen of towns. Though only a mason, strictly speaking, he was
not above handling a brick, if bricks were the order of the day; or a
slate or tile, if a roof had to be covered before the wet weather set
in, and nobody was near who could do it better. Indeed, on one or two
occasions in the depth of winter, when frost peremptorily forbids all
use of the trowel, making foundations to settle, stones to fly, and
mortar 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
an emergency, he might have made a living by that calling.
Probably our countryman was not such an accomplished artificer in a
particular direction as his town brethren in the trades. But he was, in
truth, like that clumsy pin-maker who made the whole pin, and who was
despised by Adam Smith on that account and respected by Macaulay, much
more the artist nevertheless.
Appearing now, indoors, by the light of the candle, his stalwart
healthiness was a sight to see. His beard was close and knotted as that
of a chiselled Hercules; his shirt sleeves were partly rolled up, his
waistcoat unbuttoned; the difference in hue between the snowy linen and
the ruddy arms and face contrasting like the white of an egg and its
yolk. Mrs. Smith, on hearing them enter, advanced from the pantry.
Mrs. Smith was a matron whose countenance addressed itself to the mind
rather than to the eye, though not exclusively. She retained her
personal freshness even now, in the prosy afternoon-time of her life;
but what her features were primarily indicative of was a sound common
sense behind them; as a whole, appearing to carry with them a sort of
argumentative commentary on the world in general.
The details of the accident were then rehearsed by Stephen’s father, in
the dramatic manner also common to Martin Cannister, other individuals
of the neighbourhood, and the rural world generally. Mrs. Smith threw
in her sentiments between the acts, as Coryphaeus of the tragedy, to
make the description complete. The story at last came to an end, as the
longest will, and Stephen directed the conversation into another
channel.
“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 them
before,” continued the young man.
Mrs. Smith at this point abstracted her mind from the former subject.
“I don’t see what you have to grieve about, Stephen,” she said. “People
who accidentally get friends don’t, as a first stroke, tell the history
of their families.”
“Ye’ve done no wrong, certainly,” said his father.
“No; but I should have spoken sooner. There’s more in this visit of
mine than you think—a good deal more.”
“Not more than I think,” Mrs. Smith replied, looking contemplatively at
him. Stephen blushed; and his father looked from one to the other in a
state of utter incomprehension.
“She’s a pretty piece enough,” Mrs. Smith continued, “and very
lady-like and clever too. But though she’s very well fit for you as far
as that is, 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 his
forehead, “That’s the way the wind d’blow, is it?” he said.
“Mother,” exclaimed Stephen, “how absurdly you speak! Criticizing
whether she’s fit for me or no, as if there were room for doubt on the
matter! Why, to marry her would be the great blessing of my
life—socially and practically, as well as in other respects. No such
good fortune as that, I’m afraid; she’s too far above me. Her family
doesn’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 want
them, and go to better families who do want you.”
“Ah, yes; but I could never put up with the distaste of being welcomed
among such people as you mean, whilst I could get indifference among
such people as hers.”
“What crazy twist o’ thinking will enter your head next?” said his
mother. “And come to that, she’s not a bit too high for you, or you too
low for her. See how careful I be to keep myself up. I’m sure I never
stop for more than a minute together to talk to any journeymen people;
and I never invite anybody to our party o’ Christmases who are not in
business for themselves. And I talk to several toppermost carriage
people that come to my lord’s without saying ma’am or sir to ’em, and
they 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 have
got very little curtseying from me!” said Mrs. Smith, bridling and
sparkling with vexation. “You go on at me, Stephen, as if I were your
worst 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 his
greatness, and what happened when he was a young fellow at college, and
I don’t know what-all; the tongue o’ en flopping round his mouth like a
mop-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,
must expect a father-in-law of a rank lower than her father. The men
have gone up so, and the women have stood still. Every man you meet is
more the 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’s
girl then.”
“The fact is, mother,” said Stephen impatiently, “you don’t know
anything about it. I shall never go higher, because I don’t want to,
nor should I if I lived to be a hundred. As to you saying that she’s
after me, I don’t like such a remark about her, for it implies a
scheming woman, 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 my
opinion,” said his father, in the tone of the fox who had a cold and
could not smell.
“She couldn’t have been very backward anyhow, considering the short
time you have known her,” said his mother. “Well I think that five
years hence you’ll be plenty young enough to think of such things. And
really she can very well afford to wait, and will too, take my word.
Living down in an out-step place like this, I am sure she ought to be
very thankful that you took notice of her. She’d most likely have died
an old maid 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 complacent
tone now that Stephen had been talked down; “there’s not a word to say
against her, I’ll own. I see her sometimes decked out like a horse
going to fair, and I admire her for’t. A perfect little lady. But
people can’t help their thoughts, and if she’d learnt to make figures
instead of letters 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 papers
for nothing, and I know men all move up a stage by marriage. Men of her
class, 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 of
gentlewomen are left single, or marry out of their class.”
“But you said just now, dear mother——” retorted Stephen, unable to
resist the temptation of showing his mother her inconsistency. Then he
paused.
“Well, what did I say?” And Mrs. Smith prepared her lips for a new
campaign.
Stephen, regretting that he had begun, since a volcano might be the
consequence, 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’ll
warrant that you’ll pick holes in everything your mother says, if you
can, Stephen. You are just like your father for that; take anybody’s
part but mine. Whilst I am speaking and talking and trying and slaving
away for your good, you are waiting to catch me out in that way. So you
are in her class, but ’tis what HER people would CALL marrying out of
her class. Don’t be so quarrelsome, Stephen!”
Stephen preserved a discreet silence, in which he was imitated by his
father, and for several minutes nothing was heard but the ticking of
the green-faced case-clock against the wall.
“I’m sure,” added Mrs. Smith in a more philosophic tone, and as a
terminative speech, “if there’d been so much trouble to get a husband
in my time as there is in these days—when you must make a god-almighty
of a man to get en to hae ye—I’d have trod clay for bricks before I’d
ever have 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
his parents farewell for the evening, his mother none the less warmly
for their sparring; for although Mrs. Smith and Stephen were always
contending, 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 to
London, don’t be alarmed, will you?”
“But didn’t you come for a fortnight?” said his mother. “And haven’t
you a 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 say
nothing about my having been here, for her sake. At what time of the
morning does the carrier pass Endelstow lane?”
“Seven o’clock.”
And then he left them. His thoughts were, that should the vicar permit
him to become engaged, to hope for an engagement, or in any way to
think of his beloved Elfride, he might stay longer. Should he be
forbidden to think of any such thing, he resolved to go at once. And
the latter, even to 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 little
weirs, the modest light of the moon, the freshening smell of the dews
out-spread around. It was a time when mere seeing is meditation, and
meditation peace. Stephen was hardly philosopher enough to avail
himself of Nature’s offer. His constitution was made up of very simple
particulars; 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 receptive
powers, and no great creativeness. Quickly acquiring any kind of
knowledge he saw around him, and having a plastic adaptability more
common in woman than in man, he changed colour like a chameleon as the
society he found himself in assumed a higher and more artificial tone.
He had not many original ideas, and yet there was scarcely an idea to
which, under proper training, he could not have added a respectable
co-ordinate.
He saw nothing outside himself to-night; and what he saw within was a
weariness to his flesh. Yet to a dispassionate observer, his
pretensions to Elfride, though rather premature, were far from absurd
as marriages go, unless the accidental proximity of simple but honest
parents could be said to make them so.
The clock struck eleven when he entered the house. Elfride had been
waiting with scarcely a movement since he departed. Before he had
spoken to 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 he desired.
A nervous headache had been growing on the excitable girl during the
absence of Stephen, and now she could do nothing beyond going up again
to her room as she had done before. Instead of lying down she sat again
in the darkness without closing the door, and listened with a beating
heart to every sound from downstairs. The servants had gone to bed. She
ultimately heard the two men come from the study and cross to the
dining-room, where supper had been lingering for more than an hour. The
door was left open, and she found that the meal, such as it was, passed
off between her father and her lover without any remark, save
commonplaces as to cucumbers and melons, their wholesomeness and
culture, uttered in a stiff and formal way. It seemed to prefigure
failure.
Shortly afterwards Stephen came upstairs to his bedroom, and was almost
immediately followed by her father, who also retired for the night. Not
inclined to get a light, she partly undressed and sat on the bed, where
she remained in pained thought for some time, possibly an hour. Then
rising to close her door previously to fully unrobing, she saw a streak
of light shining across the landing. Her father’s door was shut, and he
could be heard snoring regularly. The light came from Stephen’s room,
and the slight sounds also coming thence emphatically denoted what he
was doing. In the perfect silence she could hear the closing of a lid
and the clicking of a lock,—he was fastening his hat-box. Then the
buckling of straps and the click of another key,—he was securing his
portmanteau. With trebled foreboding she opened her door softly, and
went towards his. One sensation pervaded her to distraction. Stephen,
her handsome youth and darling, was going away, and she might never see
him again except in secret and in sadness—perhaps never more. At any
rate, she could no longer wait till the morning to hear the result of
the interview, as she had intended. She flung her dressing-gown round
her, tapped lightly at his door, and whispered “Stephen!” He came
instantly, 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 you
good-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 the
drawing-room for a few minutes; he will hear us here.”
She preceded him down the staircase with the taper light in her hand,
looking unnaturally tall and thin in the long dove-coloured
dressing-gown she wore. She did not stop to think of the propriety or
otherwise of this midnight interview under such circumstances. She
thought that the tragedy of her life was beginning, and, for the first
time almost, felt that her existence might have a grave side, the shade
of which enveloped and rendered invisible the delicate gradations of
custom and punctilio. Elfride softly opened the drawing-room door and
they both went in. When she had placed the candle on the table, he
enclosed her with his arms, dried her eyes with his handkerchief, and
kissed their lids.
“Stephen, it is over—happy love is over; and there is no more sunshine
now!”
“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 him
some time hence as a man of established name, he will accept me—I know
he will. He is not a wicked man.”
“No, he is not wicked. But you say ‘some time hence,’ as if it were no
time. To you, among bustle and excitement, it will be comparatively a
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-hearted
woman. The remark awoke in Stephen the converse fear. “You, too, may be
persuaded 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 will
be no long visits from me to support you. Circumstances will always
tend to obliterate me.”
“Stephen,” she said, filled with her own misgivings, and unheeding his
last words, “there are beautiful women where you live—of course I know
there are—and they may win you away from me.” Her tears came visibly as
she drew a mental picture of his faithlessness. “And it won’t be your
fault,” she continued, looking into the candle with doleful eyes. “No!
You will think that our family don’t want you, and get to include me
with them. And there will be a vacancy in your heart, and some others
will 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
caring at first, and then you will look and be interested, and after a
while you will think, ‘Ah, they know all about city life, and
assemblies, and coteries, and the manners of the titled, and poor
little Elfie, with all the fuss that’s made about her having me,
doesn’t know about anything but a little house and a few cliffs and a
space of sea, far away.’ And then you’ll be more interested in them,
and they’ll make you have them instead of me, on purpose to be cruel to
me because I am silly, and they are clever and hate me. And I hate
them, too; yes, I do!”
Her impulsive words had power to impress him at any rate with the
recognition of the uncertainty of all that is not accomplished. And,
worse than that general feeling, there of course remained the sadness
which arose from the special features of his own case. However remote a
desired issue may be, the mere fact of having entered the groove which
leads to it, cheers to some extent with a sense of accomplishment. Had
Mr. Swancourt consented to an engagement of no less length than ten
years, Stephen would have been comparatively cheerful in waiting; they
would 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 any
prospect of the beginning; the zero of hope had yet to be reached. Mr.
Swancourt would have to revoke his formidable words before the waiting
for 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 only
thing that ever does sweethearts good!”
“Secretly would do, would it not, Elfie?”
“Yes, secretly would do; secretly would indeed be best,” she said, and
went on reflectively: “All we want is to render it absolutely
impossible for any future circumstance to upset our future intention of
being happy together; 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
to put 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 circumstance
strong enough to make any woman in the world marry against her will: no
conceivable pressure, up to torture or starvation, can make a woman
once married to her lover anybody else’s wife.”
Now up to this point the idea of an immediate secret marriage had been
held by both as an untenable hypothesis, wherewith simply to beguile a
miserable moment. During a pause which followed Stephen’s last remark,
a fascinating perception, then an alluring conviction, flashed along
the brain of both. The perception was that an immediate marriage COULD
be contrived; the conviction that such an act, in spite of its daring,
its fathomless results, its deceptiveness, would be preferred by each
to the life they must lead under any other conditions.
The youth spoke first, and his voice trembled with the magnitude of the
conception he was cherishing. “How strong we should feel, Elfride!
going on our separate courses as before, without the fear of ultimate
separation! O Elfride! think of it; think of it!”
It is certain that the young girl’s love for Stephen received a fanning
from her father’s opposition which made it blaze with a dozen times the
intensity it would have exhibited if left alone. Never were conditions
more favourable for developing a girl’s first passing fancy for a
handsome boyish face—a fancy rooted in inexperience and nourished by
seclusion—into a wild unreflecting passion fervid enough for anything.
All the elements of such a development were there, the chief one being
hopelessness—a necessary ingredient always to perfect the mixture of
feelings united under the name of loving to distraction.
“We would tell papa soon, would we not?” she inquired timidly. “Nobody
else need know. He would then be convinced that hearts cannot be played
with; love encouraged be ready to grow, love discouraged be ready to
die, at a moment’s notice. Stephen, do you not think that if marriages
against a parent’s consent are ever justifiable, they are when young
people have been favoured up to a point, as we have, and then have had
that favour suddenly withdrawn?”
“Yes. It is not as if we had from the beginning acted in opposition to
your papa’s wishes. Only think, Elfie, how pleasant he was towards me
but six hours ago! He liked me, praised me, never objected to my being
alone with you.”
“I believe he MUST like you now,” she cried. “And if he found that you
irremediably belonged to me, he would own it and help you. “O Stephen,
Stephen,” she burst out again, as the remembrance of his packing came
afresh to her mind, “I cannot bear your going away like this! It is too
dreadful. All I have been expecting miserably killed within me like
this!”
Stephen flushed hot with impulse. “I will not be a doubt to you—thought
of you shall not be a misery to me!” he said. “We will be wife and
husband before we part for long!”
She hid her face on his shoulder. “Anything to make SURE!” she
whispered.
“I did not like to propose it immediately,” continued Stephen. “It
seemed to me—it seems to me now—like trying to catch you—a girl better
in the world than I.”
“Not that, indeed! And am I better in worldly station? What’s the use
of have beens? We may have been something once; we are nothing now.”
Then they whispered long and earnestly together; Stephen hesitatingly
proposing this and that plan, Elfride modifying them, with quick
breathings, and hectic flush, and unnaturally bright eyes. It was two
o’clock before an arrangement was finally concluded.
She then told him to leave her, giving him his light to go up to his
own room. They parted with an agreement not to meet again in the
morning. After his door had been some time closed he heard her softly
gliding into her chamber.