The trepidation caused by these thoughts on what she had intended to say shook so naturally the words she did say, that Knight never for a moment suspected them to be a last moment’s substitution. He smiled and pressed her hand warmly.
“My dear Elfie—yes, you are now—no protestation—what a winning little woman you are, to be so absurdly scrupulous about a mere iota! Really, I never once have thought whether your nineteenth year was the last or the present. And, by George, well I may not; for it would never do for a staid fogey a dozen years older to stand upon such a trifle as that.”
“Don’t praise me—don’t praise me! Though I prize it from your lips, I don’t deserve it now.”
But Knight, being in an exceptionally genial mood, merely saw this distressful exclamation as modesty. “Well,” he added, after a minute, “I like you all the better, you know, for such moral precision, although I called it absurd.” He went on with tender earnestness: “For, Elfride, there is one thing I do love to see in a woman—that is, a soul truthful and clear as heaven’s light. I could put up with anything if I had that—forgive nothing if I had it not. Elfride, you have such a soul, if ever woman had; and having it, retain it, and don’t ever listen to the fashionable theories of the day about a woman’s privileges and natural right to practise wiles. Depend upon it, my dear girl, that a noble woman must be as honest as a noble man. I specially mean by honesty, fairness not only in matters of business and social detail, but in all the delicate dealings of love, to which the licence given to your sex particularly refers.”
Elfride looked troublously at the trees.
“Now let us go on to the river, Elfie.”
“I would if I had a hat on,” she said with a sort of suppressed woe.
“I will get it for you,” said Knight, very willing to purchase her companionship at so cheap a price. “You sit down there a minute.” And he turned and walked rapidly back to the house for the article in question.
Elfride sat down upon one of the rustic benches which adorned this portion of the grounds, and remained with her eyes upon the grass. She was induced to lift them by hearing the brush of light and irregular footsteps hard by. Passing along the path which intersected the one she was in and traversed the outer shrubberies, Elfride beheld the farmer’s widow, Mrs. Jethway. Before she noticed Elfride, she paused to look at the house, portions of which were visible through the bushes. Elfride, shrinking back, hoped the unpleasant woman might go on without seeing her. But Mrs. Jethway, silently apostrophizing the house, with actions which seemed dictated by a half-overturned reason, had discerned the girl, and immediately came up and stood in front of her.
“Ah, Miss Swancourt! Why did you disturb me? Mustn’t I trespass here?”
“You may walk here if you like, Mrs. Jethway. I do not disturb you.”
“You disturb my mind, and my mind is my whole life; for my boy is there still, and he is gone from my body.”
“Yes, poor young man. I was sorry when he died.”
“Do you know what he died of?”
“Consumption.”
“Oh no, no!” said the widow. “That word ‘consumption’ covers a good deal. He died because you were his own well-agreed sweetheart, and then proved false—and it killed him. Yes, Miss Swancourt,” she said in an excited whisper, “you killed my son!”
“How can you be so wicked and foolish!” replied Elfride, rising indignantly. But indignation was not natural to her, and having been so worn and harrowed by late events, she lost any powers of defence that mood might have lent her. “I could not help his loving me, Mrs. Jethway!”
“That’s just what you could have helped. You know how it began, Miss Elfride. Yes: you said you liked the name of Felix better than any other name in the parish, and you knew it was his name, and that those you said it to would report it to him.”
“I knew it was his name—of course I did; but I am sure, Mrs. Jethway, I did not intend anybody to tell him.”
“But you knew they would.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“And then, after that, when you were riding on Revels-day by our house, and the lads were gathered there, and you wanted to dismount, when Jim Drake and George Upway and three or four more ran forward to hold your pony, and Felix stood back timid, why did you beckon to him, and say you would rather he held it?”
“O Mrs. Jethway, you do think so mistakenly! I liked him best—that’s why I wanted him to do it. He was gentle and nice—I always thought him so—and I liked him.”
“Then why did you let him kiss you?”
“It is a falsehood; oh, it is, it is!” said Elfride, weeping with desperation. “He came behind me, and attempted to kiss me; and that was why I told him never to let me see him again.”
“But you did not tell your father or anybody, as you would have if you had looked upon it then as the insult you now pretend it was.”
“He begged me not to tell, and foolishly enough I did not. And I wish I had now. I little expected to be scourged with my own kindness. Pray leave me, Mrs. Jethway.” The girl only expostulated now.
“Well, you harshly dismissed him, and he died. And before his body was cold, you took another to your heart. Then as carelessly sent him about his business, and took a third. And if you consider that nothing, Miss Swancourt,” she continued, drawing closer; “it led on to what was very serious
