“Then fancy shapes—as fancy can.”
On a day about three weeks later, the Swancourt trio were sitting
quietly in the drawing-room of The Crags, Mrs. Swancourt’s house at
Endelstow, chatting, and taking easeful survey of their previous month
or two of town—a tangible weariness even to people whose acquaintances
there might be counted on the fingers.
A mere season in London with her practised step-mother had so advanced
Elfride’s perceptions, that her courtship by Stephen seemed emotionally
meagre, and to have drifted back several years into a childish past. In
regarding our mental experiences, as in visual observation, our own
progress reads like a dwindling of that we progress from.
She was seated on a low chair, looking over her romance with melancholy
interest for the first time since she had become acquainted with the
remarks of the PRESENT thereupon.
“Still thinking of that reviewer, Elfie?”
“Not of him personally; but I am thinking of his opinion. Really, on
looking into the volume after this long time has elapsed, he seems to
have estimated one part of it fairly enough.”
“No, no; I wouldn’t show the white feather now! Fancy that of all
people in the world the writer herself should go over to the enemy. How
shall Monmouth’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 I
regret all the more that he should think so mistakenly of my motives in
one or two instances. It is more vexing to be misunderstood than to be
misrepresented; and he misunderstands me. I cannot be easy whilst a
person goes to rest night after night attributing to me intentions I
never had.”
“He doesn’t know your name, or anything about you. And he has doubtless
forgotten there is such a book in existence by this time.”
“I myself should certainly like him to be put right upon one or two
matters,” said the vicar, who had hitherto been silent. “You see,
critics go on writing, and are never corrected or argued with, and
therefore 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 a
masculine pseudonym in vanity or conceit, but because she was afraid it
would be thought presumptuous to publish her name, and that she did not
mean the story for such as he, but as a sweetener of history for young
people, who might thereby acquire a taste for what went on in their own
country hundreds of years ago, and be tempted to dive deeper into the
subject. 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 the
critic. “You shall write a clear account of what he is wrong in, and I
will 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
and slightly yawned, and in the manner of elderly people began to cool
from his 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,” said
Mrs. Swancourt, coming to her step-daughter’s rescue. “An envelope
addressed, ‘To the Critic of THE COURT OF KELLYON CASTLE, care of the
Editor 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 would
be 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 my
initials 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 last
fortnight seemed likely to be realized. As happens with sensitive and
secluded minds, a continual dwelling upon the subject had magnified to
colossal proportions the space she assumed herself to occupy or to have
occupied in the occult critic’s mind. At noon and at night she had been
pestering herself with endeavours to perceive more distinctly his
conception of her as a woman apart from an author: whether he really
despised her; whether he thought more or less of her than of ordinary
young women who never ventured into the fire of criticism at all. Now
she would have the satisfaction of feeling that at any rate he knew her
true intent in crossing his path, and annoying him so by her
performance, and be taught perhaps to despise it a little less.
Four days later an envelope, directed to Miss Swancourt in a strange
hand, made its appearance from the post-bag.
“Oh,” said Elfride, her heart sinking within her. “Can it be from that
man—a lecture for impertinence? And actually one for Mrs. Swancourt in
the same hand-writing!” She feared to open hers. “Yet how can he know
my name? No; it is somebody else.”
“Nonsense!” said her father grimly. “You sent your initials, and the
Directory was available. Though he wouldn’t have taken the trouble to
look there unless he had been thoroughly savage with you. I thought you
wrote with rather more asperity than simple literary discussion
required.” This timely clause was introduced to save the character of
the 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 up from
her own letter. “Christopher, I quite forgot to tell you, when I
mentioned that I had seen my distant relative, Harry Knight, that I
invited him here for whatever length of time he could spare. And now he
says he can come any day in August.”
“Write, and say the first of the month,” replied the indiscriminate
vicar.
She read on, “Goodness me—and that isn’t all. He is actually the
reviewer of Elfride’s book. How absurd, to be sure! I had no idea he
reviewed novels or had anything to do with the PRESENT. He is a
barrister—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 seemed
harsh to you, it is a pleasure to find that they have been the means of
bringing forth such an ingeniously argued reply. Unfortunately, it is
so long since I wrote my review, that my memory does not serve me
sufficiently to say a single word in my defence, even supposing there
remains one to be said, which is doubtful. You will find from a letter
I have written to Mrs. Swancourt, that we are not such strangers to
each other as we have been imagining. Possibly, I may have the pleasure
of seeing you soon, when any argument you choose to advance shall
receive all 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,
chuckling in undertones.
“And he will come and see me, and find the authoress as contemptible in
speech as she has been impertinent in manner. I do heartily wish I had
never written a word to him!”
“Never mind,” said Mrs. Swancourt, also laughing in low quiet jerks;
“it will make the meeting such a comical affair, and afford splendid
by-play for your father and myself. The idea of our running our heads
against Harry Knight all the time! I cannot get over that.”
The vicar had immediately remembered the name to be that of Stephen
Smith’s preceptor and friend; but having ceased to concern himself in
the matter he made no remark to that effect, consistently forbearing to
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 the complication of relationship a mesh that her stepmother knew
nothing of.
The identification scarcely heightened Knight’s attractions now, though
a twelvemonth ago she would only have cared to see him for the interest
he possessed as Stephen’s friend. Fortunately for Knight’s advent, such
a reason for welcome had only begun to be awkward to her at a time when
the interest he had acquired on his own account made it no longer
necessary.
These coincidences, in common with all relating to him, tended to keep
Elfride’s mind upon the stretch concerning Knight. As was her custom
when upon the horns of a dilemma, she walked off by herself among the
laurel bushes, and there, standing still and splitting up a leaf
without removing it from its stalk, fetched back recollections of
Stephen’s frequent words in praise of his friend, and wished she had
listened more attentively. Then, still pulling the leaf, she would
blush at some fancied mortification that would accrue to her from his
words when they met, in consequence of her intrusiveness, as she now
considered it, in writing to him.
The next development of her meditations was the subject of what this
man’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 she
might thereby incur of some teasing remark being returned. Ultimately
Elfride would say, “Oh, what a plague that reviewer is to me!” and turn
her face to where she imagined India lay, and murmur to herself, “Ah,
my little husband, what are you doing now? Let me see, where are
you—south, east, where? Behind that hill, ever so far behind!”