That evening the sorrowing friends sat with their hostess beside the large fire, Knight in the recess formed by the chimney breast, where he was in shade. And by showing a little confidence they won hers, and she told them what they had stayed to hear—the latter history of poor Elfride.
“One day—after you, Mr. Knight, left us for the last time—she was missed from the Crags, and her father went after her, and brought her home ill. Where she went to, I never knew—but she was very unwell for weeks afterwards. And she said to me that she didn’t care what became of her, and she wished she could die. When she was better, I said she would live to be married yet, and she said then, ‘Yes; I’ll do anything for the benefit of my family, so as to turn my useless life to some practical account.’ Well, it began like this about Lord Luxellian courting her. The first Lady Luxellian had died, and he was in great trouble because the little girls were left motherless. After a while they used to come and see her in their little black frocks, for they liked her as well or better than their own mother—that’s true. They used to call her ‘little mamma.’ These children made her a shade livelier, but she was not the girl she had been—I could see that—and she grew thinner a good deal. Well, my lord got to ask the Swancourts oftener and oftener to dinner—nobody else of his acquaintance—and at last the vicar’s family were backwards and forwards at all hours of the day. Well, people say that the little girls asked their father to let Miss Elfride come and live with them, and that he said perhaps he would if they were good children. However, the time went on, and one day I said, ‘Miss Elfride, you don’t look so well as you used to; and though nobody else seems to notice it I do.’ She laughed a little, and said, ‘I shall live to be married yet, as you told me.’
“ ‘Shall you, miss? I am glad to hear that,’ I said.
“ ‘Whom do you think I am going to be married to?’ she said again.
“ ‘Mr. Knight, I suppose,’ said I.
“ ‘Oh!’ she cried, and turned off so white, and afore I could get to her she had sunk down like a heap of clothes, and fainted away. Well, then, she came to herself after a time, and said, ‘Unity, now we’ll go on with our conversation.’
“ ‘Better not today, miss,’ I said.
“ ‘Yes, we will,’ she said. ‘Whom do you think I am going to be married to?’
“ ‘I don’t know,’ I said this time.
“ ‘Guess,’ she said.
“ ‘ ’Tisn’t my lord, is it?’ says I.
“ ‘Yes, ’tis,’ says she, in a sick wild way.
“ ‘But he don’t come courting much,’ I said.
“ ‘Ah! you don’t know,’ she said, and told me ’twas going to be in October. After that she freshened up a bit—whether ’twas with the thought of getting away from home or not, I don’t know. For, perhaps, I may as well speak plainly, and tell you that her home was no home to her now. Her father was bitter to her and harsh upon her; and though Mrs. Swancourt was well enough in her way, ’twas a sort of cold politeness that was not worth much, and the little thing had a worrying time of it altogether. About a month before the wedding, she and my lord and the two children used to ride about together upon horseback, and a very pretty sight they were; and if you’ll believe me, I never saw him once with her unless the children were with her too—which made the courting so strange-looking. Ay, and my lord is so handsome, you know, so that at last I think she rather liked him; and I have seen her smile and blush a bit at things he said. He wanted her the more because the children did, for everybody could see that she would be a most tender mother to them, and friend and playmate too. And my lord is not only handsome, but a splendid courter, and up to all the ways o’t. So he made her the beautifullest presents; ah, one I can mind—a lovely bracelet, with diamonds and emeralds. Oh, how red her face came when she saw it! The old roses came back to her cheeks for a minute or two then. I helped dress her the day we both were married—it was the last service I did her, poor child! When she was ready, I ran upstairs and slipped on my own wedding gown, and away they went, and away went Martin and I; and no sooner had my lord and my lady been married than the parson married us. It was a very quiet pair of weddings—hardly anybody knew it. Well, hope will hold its own in a young heart, if so be it can; and my lady freshened up a bit, for my lord was so handsome and kind.”
“How came she to die—and away from home?” murmured Knight.
“Don’t you see, sir, she fell off again afore they’d been married long, and my lord took her abroad for change of scene. They were coming home, and had got as far as London, when she was taken very ill and couldn’t be moved, and there she died.”
“Was he very fond of her?”
“What, my lord? Oh, he was!”
“Very fond of her?”
“Very, beyond everything. Not suddenly, but by slow degrees. ’Twas her nature to win people more when they knew her well. He’d have died for her, I believe. Poor my lord, he’s heartbroken now!”
“The funeral is tomorrow?”
“Yes; my husband is now at the vault with the masons, opening the steps and cleaning down the walls.”
The next day two men walked up the familiar valley from Castle Boterel to
