“I mean the confession you coaxed out of me—that I had never been in the position of lover before.”
“It is a satisfaction, I suppose, to be the first in your heart,” she said 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 of deeper guilt than merely getting red.
“Oh no—I shall not think that,” she said, because obliged to say something 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,” she faltered.
Knight, overstrained in sentiment as he knew the feeling to be, felt some 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 my lover.”
Knight said nothing to this for a minute or more, and kept silent time with his finger to the tick of the old library clock, in which room the colloquy was going on.
“You don’t mind, Harry, do you?” she said anxiously, nestling close to him, and watching his face.
“Of course, I don’t seriously mind. In reason, a man cannot object to such a trifle. I only thought you hadn’t—that was all.”
However, one ray was abstracted from the glory about her head. But afterwards, when Knight was wandering by himself over the bare and breezy hills, and meditating on the subject, that ray suddenly returned. For she might have had a lover, and never have cared in the least for him. She might have used the word improperly, and meant “admirer” all the time. Of course she had been admired; and one man might have made his admiration more prominent than that of the rest—a very natural case.
They were sitting on one of the garden seats when he found occasion to put the supposition to the test. “Did you love that lover or admirer of yours ever so little, Elfie?”
She murmured reluctantly, “Yes, I think I did.”
Knight felt the same faint touch of misery. “Only a very little?” he said.
“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 eyes filling with tears. “Harry, don’t be severe with me, and don’t question me. I did not love him as I do you. And could it be deeply if I did not think him cleverer than myself? For I did not. You grieve me so much—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 of weaknesses in me after I am out of your sight; and not knowing what they are, 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 such a 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 in their 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, I fancy—as far as I have been able to observe the world.”
“Yes; I suppose it is right. Shallowness has this advantage, that you can’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 are very humdrum, are they not? Yes, it would kill me quite. You please me best 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 this point, what would he say did he know all, and see it as Mrs. Jethway saw it? He would never make her the happiest girl in the world by taking her to be his own for aye. The thought enclosed her as a tomb whenever it presented itself to her perturbed brain. She tried to believe that Mrs. Jethway would never do her such a cruel wrong as to increase the bad appearance of her folly by innuendoes; and concluded that concealment, having been begun, must be persisted in, if possible. For what he might consider as bad as the fact, was her previous concealment of it by strategy.
But Elfride knew Mrs. Jethway to be her enemy, and to hate her. It was possible she would do her worst. And should she do it, all might be over.
Would the woman listen to reason, and be persuaded not to ruin one who had never intentionally harmed her?
It was night in the valley between Endelstow Crags and the shore. The brook which trickled that way to the sea was distinct in its murmurs now, and over the line of its course there began to hang a white ribbon of fog. Against the sky, on the left hand of the vale, the black form of the church could be seen. On the other rose hazel-bushes, a few trees, and where these were absent, furze tufts—as tall as
