“Yes,” said Stephen and Elfride.
“One has a sense of wrong, too, that such an appreciative breadth as a sentient being possesses should be committed to the frail casket of a body. What weakens one’s intentions regarding the future like the thought of this? … However, let us tune ourselves to a more cheerful chord, for there’s a great deal to be done yet by us all.”
As Knight meditatively addressed his juniors thus, unconscious of the deception practised, for different reasons, by the severed hearts at his side, and of the scenes that had in earlier days united them, each one felt that he and she did not gain by contrast with their musing mentor. Physically not so handsome as either the youthful architect or the vicar’s daughter, the thoroughness and integrity of Knight illuminated his features with a dignity not even incipient in the other two. It is difficult to frame rules which shall apply to both sexes, and Elfride, an undeveloped girl, must, perhaps, hardly be laden with the moral responsibilities which attach to a man in like circumstances. The charm of woman, too, lies partly in her subtleness in matters of love. But if honesty is a virtue in itself, Elfride, having none of it now, seemed, being for being, scarcely good enough for Knight. Stephen, though deceptive for no unworthy purpose, was deceptive after all; and whatever good results grace such strategy if it succeed, it seldom draws admiration, especially when it fails.
On an ordinary occasion, had Knight been even quite alone with Stephen, he would hardly have alluded to his possible relationship to Elfride. But moved by attendant circumstances Knight was impelled to be confiding.
“Stephen,” he said, “this lady is Miss Swancourt. I am staying at her father’s house, as you probably know.” He stepped a few paces nearer to Smith, and said in a lower tone: “I may as well tell you that we are engaged to be married.”
Low as the words had been spoken, Elfride had heard them, and awaited Stephen’s reply in breathless silence, if that could be called silence where Elfride’s dress, at each throb of her heart, shook and indicated it like a pulse-glass, rustling also against the wall in reply to the same throbbing. The ray of daylight which reached her face lent it a blue pallor in comparison with those of the other two.
“I congratulate you,” Stephen whispered; and said aloud, “I know Miss Swancourt—a little. You must remember that my father is a parishioner of Mr. Swancourt’s.”
“I thought you might possibly not have lived at home since they have been here.”
“I have never lived at home, certainly, since that time.”
“I have seen Mr. Smith,” faltered Elfride.
“Well, there is no excuse for me. As strangers to each other I ought, I suppose, to have introduced you: as acquaintances, I should not have stood so persistently between you. But the fact is, Smith, you seem a boy to me, even now.”
Stephen appeared to have a more than previous consciousness of the intense cruelty of his fate at the present moment. He could not repress the words, uttered with a dim bitterness:
“You should have said that I seemed still the rural mechanic’s son I am, and hence an unfit subject for the ceremony of introductions.”
“Oh, no, no! I won’t have that.” Knight endeavoured to give his reply a laughing tone in Elfride’s ears, and an earnestness in Stephen’s: in both which efforts he signally failed, and produced a forced speech pleasant to neither. “Well, let us go into the open air again; Miss Swancourt, you are particularly silent. You mustn’t mind Smith. I have known him for years, as I have told you.”
“Yes, you have,” she said.
“To think she has never mentioned her knowledge of me!” Smith murmured, and thought with some remorse how much her conduct resembled his own on his first arrival at her house as a stranger to the place.
They ascended to the daylight, Knight taking no further notice of Elfride’s manner, which, as usual, he attributed to the natural shyness of a young woman at being discovered walking with him on terms which left not much doubt of their meaning. Elfride stepped a little in advance, and passed through the churchyard.
“You are changed very considerably, Smith,” said Knight, “and I suppose it is no more than was to be expected. However, don’t imagine that I shall feel any the less interest in you and your fortunes whenever you care to confide them to me. I have not forgotten the attachment you spoke of as your reason for going away to India. A London young lady, was it not? I hope all is prosperous?”
“No: the match is broken off.”
It being always difficult to know whether to express sorrow or gladness under such circumstances—all depending upon the character of the match—Knight took shelter in the safe words: “I trust it was for the best.”
“I hope it was. But I beg that you will not press me further: no, you have not pressed me—I don’t mean that—but I would rather not speak upon the subject.”
Stephen’s words were hurried.
Knight said no more, and they followed in the footsteps of Elfride, who still kept some paces in advance, and had not heard Knight’s unconscious allusion to her. Stephen bade him adieu at the churchyard-gate without going outside, and watched whilst he and his sweetheart mounted their horses.
“Good heavens, Elfride,” Knight exclaimed, “how pale you are! I suppose I ought not to have taken you into that vault. What is the matter?”
“Nothing,” said Elfride faintly. “I shall be myself in a moment. All was so strange and unexpected down there, that it made me unwell.”
“I thought you said very little. Shall I get some water?”
“No, no.”
“Do you think it is safe for you to mount?”
“Quite—indeed it is,” she said, with a look of appeal.
“Now then—up she goes!” whispered Knight, and lifted her tenderly into the saddle.
Her old lover still looked on at the performance as he
