That day she was seen little of. By the evening she had come to a resolution, and acted upon it. The packet was sealed up—with a tear of regret as she closed the case upon the pretty forms it contained—directed, and placed upon the writing-table in Knight’s room. And a letter was written to Stephen, stating that as yet she hardly understood her position with regard to the money sent; but declaring that she was ready to fulfil her promise to marry him. After this letter had been written she delayed posting it—although never ceasing to feel strenuously that the deed must be done.
Several days passed. There was another Indian letter for Elfride. Coming unexpectedly, her father saw it, but made no remark—why, she could not tell. The news this time was absolutely overwhelming. Stephen, as he had wished, had been actually chosen as the most fitting to execute the ironwork commission he had alluded to as impending. This duty completed he would have three months’ leave. His letter continued that he should follow it in a week, and should take the opportunity to plainly ask her father to permit the engagement. Then came a page expressive of his delight and hers at the reunion; and finally, the information that he would write to the shipping agents, asking them to telegraph and tell her when the ship bringing him home should be in sight—knowing how acceptable such information would be.
Elfride lived and moved now as in a dream. Knight had at first become almost angry at her persistent refusal of his offering—and no less with the manner than the fact of it. But he saw that she began to look worn and ill—and his vexation lessened to simple perplexity.
He ceased now to remain in the house for long hours together as before, but made it a mere centre for antiquarian and geological excursions in the neighbourhood. Throw up his cards and go away he fain would have done, but could not. And, thus, availing himself of the privileges of a relative, he went in and out the premises as fancy led him—but still lingered on.
“I don’t wish to stay here another day if my presence is distasteful,” he said one afternoon. “At first you used to imply that I was severe with you; and when I am kind you treat me unfairly.”
“No, no. Don’t say so.”
The origin of their acquaintanceship had been such as to render their manner towards each other peculiar and uncommon. It was of a kind to cause them to speak out their minds on any feelings of objection and difference: to be reticent on gentler matters.
“I have a good mind to go away and never trouble you again,” continued Knight.
She said nothing, but the eloquent expression of her eyes and wan face was enough to reproach him for harshness.
“Do you like me to be here, then?” inquired Knight gently.
“Yes,” she said. Fidelity to the old love and truth to the new were ranged on opposite sides, and truth virtuelessly prevailed.
“Then I’ll stay a little longer,” said Knight.
“Don’t be vexed if I keep by myself a good deal, will you? Perhaps something may happen, and I may tell you something.”
“Mere coyness,” said Knight to himself; and went away with a lighter heart. The trick of reading truly the enigmatical forces at work in women at given times, which with some men is an unerring instinct, is peculiar to minds less direct and honest than Knight’s.
The next evening, about five o’clock, before Knight had returned from a pilgrimage along the shore, a man walked up to the house. He was a messenger from Camelton, a town a few miles off, to which place the railway had been advanced during the summer.
“A telegram for Miss Swancourt, and three and sixpence to pay for the special messenger.” Miss Swancourt sent out the money, signed the paper, and opened her letter with a trembling hand. She read:
Johnson, Liverpool, to Miss Swancourt, Endelstow, near Castle Boterel.
Amaryllis telegraphed off Holyhead, four o’clock. Expect will dock and land passengers at Canning’s Basin ten o’clock tomorrow morning.
Her father called her into the study.
“Elfride, who sent you that message?” he asked suspiciously.
“Johnson.”
“Who is Johnson, for Heaven’s sake?”
“I don’t know.”
“The deuce you don’t! Who is to know, then?”
“I have never heard of him till now.”
“That’s a singular story, isn’t it.”
“I don’t know.”
“Come, come, miss! What was the telegram?”
“Do you really wish to know, papa?”
“Well, I do.”
“Remember, I am a full-grown woman now.”
“Well, what then?”
“Being a woman, and not a child, I may, I think, have a secret or two.”
“You will, it seems.”
“Women have, as a rule.”
“But don’t keep them. So speak out.”
“If you will not press me now, I give my word to tell you the meaning of all this before the week is past.”
“On your honour?”
“On my honour.”
“Very well. I have had a certain suspicion, you know; and I shall be glad to find it false. I don’t like your manner lately.”
“At the end of the week, I said, papa.”
Her father did not reply, and Elfride left the room.
She began to look out for the postman again. Three mornings later he brought an inland letter from Stephen. It contained very little matter, having been written in haste; but the meaning was bulky enough. Stephen said that, having executed a commission in Liverpool, he should arrive at his father’s house, East Endelstow, at five or six o’clock that same evening; that he would after dusk walk on to the next village, and meet her, if she would, in the church porch, as in the old time. He proposed this plan because he thought it unadvisable to call formally at her house so late in the evening; yet he could not sleep
