Chapter VI
'Fare thee weel awhile!'
Simultaneously with the conclusion of Stephen's remark, the sound
of the closing of an external door in their immediate
neighbourhood reached Elfride's ears. It came from the further
side of the wing containing the illuminated room. She then
discerned, by the aid of the dusky departing light, a figure,
whose sex was undistinguishable, walking down the gravelled path
by the parterre towards the river. The figure grew fainter, and
vanished under the trees.
Mr. Swancourt's voice was heard calling out their names from a
distant corridor in the body of the building. They retraced their
steps, and found him with his coat buttoned up and his hat on,
awaiting their advent in a mood of self-satisfaction at having
brought his search to a successful close. The carriage was
brought round, and without further delay the trio drove away from
the mansion, under the echoing gateway arch, and along by the
leafless sycamores, as the stars began to kindle their trembling
lights behind the maze of branches and twigs.
No words were spoken either by youth or maiden. Her unpractised
mind was completely occupied in fathoming its recent acquisition.
The young man who had inspired her with such novelty of feeling,
who had come directly from London on business to her father,
having been brought by chance to Endelstow House had, by some
means or other, acquired the privilege of approaching some lady he
had found therein, and of honouring her by petits soins of a
marked kind,--all in the space of half an hour.
What room were they standing in? thought Elfride. As nearly as
she could guess, it was Lord Luxellian's business-room, or office.
What people were in the house? None but the governess and
servants, as far as she knew, and of these he had professed a
total ignorance. Had the person she had indistinctly seen leaving
the house anything to do with the performance? It was impossible
to say without appealing to the culprit himself, and that she
would never do. The more Elfride reflected, the more certain did
it appear that the meeting was a chance rencounter, and not an
appointment. On the ultimate inquiry as to the individuality of
the woman, Elfride at once assumed that she could not be an
inferior. Stephen Smith was not the man to care about passages-
at-love with women beneath him. Though gentle, ambition was
visible in his kindling eyes; he evidently hoped for much; hoped
indefinitely, but extensively. Elfride was puzzled, and being
puzzled, was, by a natural sequence of girlish sensations, vexed
with him. No more pleasure came in recognizing that from liking
to attract him she was getting on to love him, boyish as he was
and innocent as he had seemed.
They reached the bridge which formed a link between the eastern
and western halves of the parish. Situated in a valley that was
bounded outwardly by the sea, it formed a point of depression from
which the road ascended with great steepness to West Endelstow and
the Vicarage. There was no absolute necessity for either of them
to alight, but as it was the vicar's custom after a long journey
to humour the horse in making this winding ascent, Elfride, moved
by an imitative instinct, suddenly jumped out when Pleasant had
just begun to adopt the deliberate stalk he associated with this
portion of the road.
The young man seemed glad of any excuse for breaking the silence.
'Why, Miss Swancourt, what a risky thing to do!' he exclaimed,
immediately following her example by jumping down on the other
side.
'Oh no, not at all,' replied she coldly; the shadow phenomenon at
Endelstow House still paramount within her.
Stephen walked along by himself for two or three minutes, wrapped
in the rigid reserve dictated by her tone. Then apparently
thinking that it was only for girls to pout, he came serenely
round to her side, and offered his arm with Castilian gallantry,
to assist her in ascending the remaining three-quarters of the
steep.
Here was a temptation: it was the first time in her life that
Elfride had been treated as a grown-up woman in this way--offered
an arm in a manner implying that she had a right to refuse it.
Till to-night she had never received masculine attentions beyond
those which might be contained in such homely remarks as 'Elfride,
give me your hand;' 'Elfride, take hold of my arm,' from her
father. Her callow heart made an epoch of the incident; she
considered her array of feelings, for and against. Collectively
they were for taking this offered arm; the single one of pique
determined her to punish Stephen by refusing.
'No, thank you, Mr. Smith; I can get along better by myself'
It was Elfride's first fragile attempt at browbeating a lover.
Fearing more the issue of such an undertaking than what a gentle
young man might think of her waywardness, she immediately
afterwards determined to please herself by reversing her
statement.
'On second thoughts, I will take it,' she said.
They slowly went their way up the hill, a few yards behind the
carriage.
'How silent you are, Miss Swancourt!' Stephen observed.
'Perhaps I think you silent too,' she returned.
'I may have reason to be.'
'Scarcely; it is sadness that makes people silent, and you can
have none.'
'You don't know: I have a trouble; though some might think it less
a trouble than a dilemma.'
'What is it?' she asked impulsively.
Stephen hesitated. 'I might tell,' he said; 'at the same time,
perhaps, it is as well----'
She let go his arm and imperatively pushed it from her, tossing
her head. She had just learnt that a good deal of dignity is lost
by asking a question to which an answer is refused, even ever so
politely; for though politeness does good service in cases of
requisition and compromise, it but little helps a direct refusal.
'I don't wish to know anything of it; I don't wish it,' she went
on. 'The carriage is waiting for us at the top of the hill; we
must get in;' and Elfride flitted to the front. 'Papa, here is
your Elfride!' she exclaimed to the dusky figure of the old
gentleman, as she sprang up and sank by his side without deigning
to accept aid from Stephen.
'Ah, yes!' uttered the vicar in artificially alert tones, awaking
from a most profound sleep, and suddenly preparing to alight.
'Why, what are you doing, papa? We are not home yet.'
'Oh no, no; of course not; we are not at home yet,' Mr. Swancourt
said very hastily, endeavouring to dodge back to his original
position with the air of a man who had not moved at all. 'The
fact is I was so lost in deep meditation that I forgot whereabouts
we were.' And in a minute the vicar was snoring again.
That evening, being the last, seemed to throw an exceptional shade
of sadness over Stephen Smith, and the repeated injunctions of the
vicar, that he was to come and revisit them in the summer,
apparently tended less to raise his spirits than to unearth some
misgiving.
He left them in the gray light of dawn, whilst the colours of
earth were sombre, and the sun was yet hidden in the east. Elfride
had fidgeted all night in her little bed lest none of the
household should be awake soon enough to start him, and also lest
she might miss seeing again the bright eyes and curly hair, to
which their owner's possession of a hidden mystery added a deeper
tinge of romance. To some extent--so soon does womanly interest
take a solicitous turn--she felt herself responsible for his safe
conduct. They breakfasted before daylight; Mr. Swancourt, being
more and more taken with his guest's ingenuous appearance, having
determined to rise early and bid him a friendly farewell. It was,
however, rather to the vicar's astonishment, that he saw Elfride
walk in to the breakfast-table, candle in hand.
Whilst William Worm performed his toilet (during which performance
the inmates of the vicarage were always in the habit of waiting
with exemplary patience), Elfride wandered desultorily to the
summer house. Stephen followed her thither. The copse-covered
valley was visible from this position, a mist now lying all along
its length, hiding the stream which trickled through it, though
the observers themselves were in clear air.
They stood close together, leaning over the rustic balustrading
which bounded the arbour on the outward side, and formed the crest
of a steep slope beneath Elfride constrainedly pointed out some
features of the distant uplands rising irregularly opposite. But
the artistic eye was, either from nature or circumstance, very
faint in Stephen now, and he only half attended to her
description, as if he spared time from some other thought going on
within him.
'Well, good-bye,' he said suddenly; 'I must never see you again, I
suppose, Miss Swancourt, in spite of invitations.'
His genuine tribulation played directly upon the delicate chords
of her nature. She could afford to forgive him for a concealment
or two. Moreover, the shyness which would not allow him to look
her in the face lent bravery to her own eyes and tongue.
'Oh, DO come again, Mr. Smith!' she said prettily.
'I should delight in it; but it will be better if I do not.'
'Why?'
'Certain circumstances in connection with me make it undesirable.
Not on my account; on yours.'
'Goodness! As if anything in connection with you could hurt me,'
she said with serene supremacy; but seeing that this plan of
treatment was inappropriate, she tuned a smaller note. 'Ah, I
know why you will not come. You don't want to. You'll go home to
London and to all the stirring people there, and will never want
to see us any more!'
'You know I have no such reason.'
'And go on writing letters to the lady you are engaged to, just as
before.'
'What does that mean? I am not engaged.'
'You wrote a letter to a Miss Somebody; I saw it in the letter-
rack.'
'Pooh! an elderly woman who keeps a stationer's shop; and it was
to tell her to keep my newspapers till I get back.'
'You needn't have explained: it was not my business at all.' Miss
Elfride was rather relieved to hear that statement, nevertheless.
'And you won't come again to see my father?' she insisted.
'I should like to--and to see you again, but----'
'Will you reveal to me that matter you hide?' she interrupted
petulantly.
'No; not now.'
She could not but go on, graceless as it might seem.
'Tell me this,' she importuned with a trembling mouth. 'Does any
meeting of yours with a lady at Endelstow Vicarage clash with--any
interest you may take in me?'
He started a little. 'It does not,' he said emphatically; and
looked into the pupils of her eyes with the confidence that only
honesty can give, and even that to youth alone.
The explanation had not come, but a gloom left her. She could not
but believe that utterance. Whatever enigma might lie in the
shadow on the blind, it was not an enigma of underhand passion.
She turned towards the house, entering it through the
conservatory. Stephen went round to the front door. Mr.
Swancourt was standing on the step in his slippers. Worm was
adjusting a buckle in the harness, and murmuring about his poor
head; and everything was ready for Stephen's departure.
'You named August for your visit. August it shall be; that is, if
you care for the society of such a fossilized Tory,' said Mr.
Swancourt.
Mr. Smith only responded hesitatingly, that he should like to come
again.
'You said you would, and you must,' insisted Elfride, coming to
the door and speaking under her father's arm.
Whatever reason the youth may have had for not wishing to enter
the house as a guest, it no longer predominated. He promised, and
bade them adieu, and got into the pony-carriage, which crept up
the slope, and bore him out of their sight.
'I never was so much taken with anybody in my life as I am with
that young fellow--never! I cannot understand it--can't understand
it anyhow,' said Mr. Swancourt quite energetically to himself; and
went indoors.
