Chapter XV
'A wandering voice.'
Though sheer and intelligible griefs are not charmed away by being
confided to mere acquaintances, the process is a palliative to
certain ill-humours. Among these, perplexed vexation is one--a
species of trouble which, like a stream, gets shallower by the
simple operation of widening it in any quarter.
On the evening of the day succeeding that of the meeting in the
Park, Elfride and Mrs. Swancourt were engaged in conversation in
the dressing-room of the latter. Such a treatment of such a case
was in course of adoption here.
Elfride had just before received an affectionate letter from
Stephen Smith in Bombay, which had been forwarded to her from
Endelstow. But since this is not the case referred to, it is not
worth while to pry further into the contents of the letter than to
discover that, with rash though pardonable confidence in coming
times, he addressed her in high spirits as his darling future
wife. Probably there cannot be instanced a briefer and surer rule-
of-thumb test of a man's temperament--sanguine or cautious--than
this: did he or does he ante-date the word wife in corresponding
with a sweet-heart he honestly loves?
She had taken this epistle into her own room, read a little of it,
then SAVED the rest for to-morrow, not wishing to be so
extravagant as to consume the pleasure all at once. Nevertheless,
she could not resist the wish to enjoy yet a little more, so out
came the letter again, and in spite of misgivings as to
prodigality the whole was devoured. The letter was finally
reperused and placed in her pocket.
What was this? Also a newspaper for Elfride, which she had
overlooked in her hurry to open the letter. It was the old number
of the PRESENT, containing the article upon her book, forwarded as
had been requested.
Elfride had hastily read it through, shrunk perceptibly smaller,
and had then gone with the paper in her hand to Mrs. Swancourt's
dressing-room, to lighten or at least modify her vexation by a
discriminating estimate from her stepmother.
She was now looking disconsolately out of the window.
'Never mind, my child,' said Mrs. Swancourt after a careful
perusal of the matter indicated. 'I don't see that the review is
such a terrible one, after all. Besides, everybody has forgotten
about it by this time. I'm sure the opening is good enough for
any book ever written. Just listen--it sounds better read aloud
than when you pore over it silently: "THE COURT OF KELLYON CASTLE.
A ROMANCE OF THE MIDDLE AGES. BY ERNEST FIELD. In the belief
that we were for a while escaping the monotonous repetition of
wearisome details in modern social scenery, analyses of
uninteresting character, or the unnatural unfoldings of a
sensation plot, we took this volume into our hands with a feeling
of pleasure. We were disposed to beguile ourselves with the fancy
that some new change might possibly be rung upon donjon keeps,
chain and plate armour, deeply scarred cheeks, tender maidens
disguised as pages, to which we had not listened long ago." Now,
that's a very good beginning, in my opinion, and one to be proud
of having brought out of a man who has never seen you.'
'Ah, yes,' murmured Elfride wofully. 'But, then, see further on!'
'Well the next bit is rather unkind, I must own,' said Mrs.
Swancourt, and read on. '"Instead of this we found ourselves in
the hands of some young lady, hardly arrived at years of
discretion, to judge by the silly device it has been thought worth
while to adopt on the title-page, with the idea of disguising her
sex."'
'I am not "silly"!' said Elfride indignantly. 'He might have
called me anything but that.'
'You are not, indeed. Well:--"Hands of a young lady...whose
chapters are simply devoted to impossible tournaments, towers, and
escapades, which read like flat copies of like scenes in the
stories of Mr. G. P. R. James, and the most unreal portions of
IVANHOE. The bait is so palpably artificial that the most
credulous gudgeon turns away." Now, my dear, I don't see overmuch
to complain of in that. It proves that you were clever enough to
make him think of Sir Walter Scott, which is a great deal.'
'Oh yes; though I cannot romance myself, I am able to remind him
of those who can!' Elfride intended to hurl these words
sarcastically at her invisible enemy, but as she had no more
satirical power than a wood-pigeon, they merely fell in a pretty
murmur from lips shaped to a pout.
'Certainly: and that's something. Your book is good enough to be
bad in an ordinary literary manner, and doesn't stand by itself in
a melancholy position altogether worse than assailable.--"That
interest in an historical romance may nowadays have any chance of
being sustained, it is indispensable that the reader find himself
under the guidance of some nearly extinct species of legendary,
who, in addition to an impulse towards antiquarian research and an
unweakened faith in the mediaeval halo, shall possess an inventive
faculty in which delicacy of sentiment is far overtopped by a
power of welding to stirring incident a spirited variety of the
elementary human passions." Well, that long-winded effusion
doesn't refer to you at all, Elfride, merely something put in to
fill up. Let me see, when does he come to you again;...not till
the very end, actually. Here you are finally polished off:
'"But to return to the little work we have used as the text of
this article. We are far from altogether disparaging the author's
powers. She has a certain versatility that enables her to use
with effect a style of narration peculiar to herself, which may be
called a murmuring of delicate emotional trifles, the particular
gift of those to whom the social sympathies of a peaceful time are
as daily food. Hence, where matters of domestic experience, and
the natural touches which make people real, can be introduced
without anachronisms too striking, she is occasionally felicitous;
and upon the whole we feel justified in saying that the book will
bear looking into for the sake of those portions which have
nothing whatever to do with the story."
'Well, I suppose it is intended for satire; but don't think
anything more of it now, my dear. It is seven o'clock.' And Mrs.
Swancourt rang for her maid.
Attack is more piquant than concord. Stephen's letter was
concerning nothing but oneness with her: the review was the very
reverse. And a stranger with neither name nor shape, age nor
appearance, but a mighty voice, is naturally rather an interesting
novelty to a lady he chooses to address. When Elfride fell asleep
that night she was loving the writer of the letter, but thinking
of the writer of that article.
