The scene shifts to KnightвАЩs chambers in BedeвАЩs Inn. It was late in the evening of the day following his departure from Endelstow. A drizzling rain descended upon London, forming a humid and dreary halo over every well-lighted street. The rain had not yet been prevalent long enough to give to rapid vehicles that clear and distinct rattle which follows the thorough washing of the stones by a drenching rain, but was just sufficient to make footway and roadway slippery, adhesive, and clogging to both feet and wheels.
Knight was standing by the fire, looking into its expiring embers, previously to emerging from his door for a dreary journey home to Richmond. His hat was on, and the gas turned off. The blind of the window overlooking the alley was not drawn down; and with the light from beneath, which shone over the ceiling of the room, came, in place of the usual babble, only the reduced clatter and quick speech which were the result of necessity rather than choice.
Whilst he thus stood, waiting for the expiration of the few minutes that were wanting to the time for his catching the train, a light tapping upon the door mingled with the other sounds that reached his ears. It was so faint at first that the outer noises were almost sufficient to drown it. Finding it repeated Knight crossed the lobby, crowded with books and rubbish, and opened the door.
A woman, closely muffled up, but visibly of fragile build, was standing on the landing under the gaslight. She sprang forward, flung her arms round KnightвАЩs neck, and uttered a low cryвБ†вАФ
вАЬO Harry, Harry, you are killing me! I could not help coming. DonвАЩt send me awayвБ†вАФdonвАЩt! Forgive your Elfride for comingвБ†вАФI love you so!вАЭ
KnightвАЩs agitation and astonishment mastered him for a few moments.
вАЬElfride!вАЭ he cried, вАЬwhat does this mean? What have you done?вАЭ
вАЬDo not hurt me and punish meвБ†вАФOh, do not! I couldnвАЩt help coming; it was killing me. Last night, when you did not come back, I could not bear itвБ†вАФI could not! Only let me be with you, and see your face, Harry; I donвАЩt ask for more.вАЭ
Her eyelids were hot, heavy, and thick with excessive weeping, and the delicate rose-red of her cheeks was disfigured and inflamed by the constant chafing of the handkerchief in wiping her many tears.
вАЬWho is with you? Have you come alone?вАЭ he hurriedly inquired.
вАЬYes. When you did not come last night, I sat up hoping you would comeвБ†вАФand the night was all agonyвБ†вАФand I waited on and on, and you did not come! Then when it was morning, and your letter said you were gone, I could not endure it; and I ran away from them to St.¬†LaunceвАЩs, and came by the train. And I have been all day travelling to you, and you wonвАЩt make me go away again, will you, Harry, because I shall always love you till I die?вАЭ
вАЬYet it is wrong for you to stay. O Elfride! what have you committed yourself to? It is ruin to your good name to run to me like this! Has not your first experience been sufficient to keep you from these things?вАЭ
вАЬMy name! Harry, I shall soon die, and what good will my name be to me then? Oh, could I but be the man and you the woman, I would not leave you for such a little fault as mine! Do not think it was so vile a thing in me to run away with him. Ah, how I wish you could have run away with twenty women before you knew me, that I might show you I would think it no fault, but be glad to get you after them all, so that I had you! If you only knew me through and through, how true I am, Harry. Cannot I be yours? Say you love me just the same, and donвАЩt let me be separated from you again, will you? I cannot bear itвБ†вАФall the long hours and days and nights going on, and you not there, but away because you hate me!вАЭ
вАЬNot hate you, Elfride,вАЭ he said gently, and supported her with his arm. вАЬBut you cannot stay here nowвБ†вАФjust at present, I mean.вАЭ
вАЬI suppose I must notвБ†вАФI wish I might. I am afraid that ifвБ†вАФyou lose sight of meвБ†вАФsomething dark will happen, and we shall not meet again. Harry, if I am not good enough to be your wife, I wish I could be your servant and live with you, and not be sent away never to see you again. I donвАЩt mind what it is except that!вАЭ
вАЬNo, I cannot send you away: I cannot. God knows what dark future may arise out of this eveningвАЩs work; but I cannot send you away! You must sit down, and I will endeavour to collect my thoughts and see what had better be done.вАЭ
At that moment a loud knocking at the house door was heard by both, accompanied by a hurried ringing of the bell that echoed from attic to basement. The door was quickly opened, and after a few hasty words of converse in the hall, heavy footsteps ascended the stairs.
The face of Mr. Swancourt, flushed, grieved, and stern, appeared round the landing of the staircase. He came higher up, and stood beside them. Glancing over and past Knight with silent indignation, he turned to the trembling girl.
вАЬO Elfride! and have I found you at last? Are these your tricks, madam? When will you get rid of your idiocies, and conduct yourself like a decent woman? Is my family name and house to be disgraced by acts that would be a scandal to a washerwomanвАЩs daughter? Come along, madam; come!вАЭ
вАЬShe is so weary!вАЭ said Knight, in a voice of intensest anguish. вАЬMr.¬†Swancourt, donвАЩt be harsh with herвБ†вАФlet me beg of you to be tender with her, and love her!вАЭ
вАЬTo you, sir,вАЭ said Mr.¬†Swancourt, turning to him as if by the sheer pressure of circumstances, вАЬI have little to say. I can only remark, that the sooner I can retire from your presence the better I shall be pleased. Why you could not conduct your courtship of my daughter like an honest man, I do not know. Why sheвБ†вАФa foolish inexperienced girlвБ†вАФshould have been tempted to this piece of folly, I do not know. Even if she had not known better than to leave her home, you might have, I should think.вАЭ
вАЬIt is not his fault: he did not tempt me, papa! I came.вАЭ
вАЬIf you wished the marriage broken off, why didnвАЩt you say so plainly? If you never intended to marry, why could you not leave her alone? Upon my soul, it grates me to the heart to be obliged to think so ill of a man I thought my friend!вАЭ
Knight, soul-sick and weary of his life, did not arouse himself to utter a word in reply. How should he defend himself when his defence was the accusation of Elfride? On that account he felt a miserable satisfaction in letting her father go on thinking and speaking wrongfully. It was a faint ray of pleasure straying into the great gloominess of his brain to think that the vicar might never know but that he, as her lover, tempted her away, which seemed to be the form Mr.¬†SwancourtвАЩs misapprehension had taken.
вАЬNow, are you coming?вАЭ said Mr.¬†Swancourt to her again. He took her unresisting hand, drew it within his arm, and led her down the stairs. KnightвАЩs eyes followed her, the last moment begetting in him a frantic hope that she would turn her head. She passed on, and never looked back.
He heard the door openвБ†вАФclose again. The wheels of a cab grazed the kerbstone, a murmured direction followed. The door was slammed together, the wheels moved, and they rolled away.
From that hour of her reappearance a dreadful conflict raged within the breast of Henry Knight. His instinct, emotion, affectivenessвБ†вАФor whatever it may be calledвБ†вАФurged him to stand forward, seize upon Elfride, and be her cherisher and protector through life. Then came the devastating thought that ElfrideвАЩs childlike, unreasoning, and indiscreet act in flying to him only proved that the proprieties must be a dead letter with her; that the unreserve, which was really artlessness without ballast, meant indifference to decorum; and what so likely as that such a woman had been deceived in the past? He said to himself, in a mood of the bitterest cynicism: вАЬThe suspicious discreet woman who imagines dark and evil things of all her fellow-creatures is far too shrewd to be deluded by man: trusting beings like Elfride are the women who fall.вАЭ
Hours and days went by, and Knight remained inactive. Lengthening time, which made fainter the heart-awakening power of her presence, strengthened the mental ability to reason her down. Elfride loved him, he knew, and he could not leave off loving her but marry her he would not. If she could but be again his own ElfrideвБ†вАФthe woman she had seemed to beвБ†вАФbut that woman was dead and buried, and he knew her no more! And how could he marry this Elfride, one who, if he had originally seen her as she was, would have been barely an interesting pitiable acquaintance in his eyesвБ†вАФno more?
It cankered his heart to think he was confronted by the closest instance of a worse state of things than any he had assumed in the pleasant social philosophy and satire of his essays.
The moral rightness of this manвАЩs life was worthy of all praise; but in spite of some intellectual acumen, Knight had in him a modicum of that wrongheadedness which is mostly found in scrupulously honest people. With him, truth seemed too clean and pure an abstraction to be so hopelessly churned in with error as practical persons find it. Having now seen himself mistaken in supposing Elfride to be peerless, nothing on earth could make him believe she was not so very bad after all.
He lingered in town a fortnight, doing little else than vibrate between passion and opinions. One idea remained intactвБ†вАФthat it was better Elfride and himself should not meet.
When he surveyed the volumes on his shelvesвБ†вАФfew of which had been opened since Elfride first took possession of his heartвБ†вАФtheir untouched and orderly arrangement reproached him as an apostate from the old faith of his youth and early manhood. He had deserted those never-failing friends, so they seemed to say, for an unstable delight in a ductile woman, which had ended all in bitterness. The spirit of self-denial, verging on asceticism, which had ever animated Knight in old times, announced itself as having departed with the birth of love, with it having gone the self-respect which had compensated for the lack of self-gratification. Poor little Elfride, instead of holding, as formerly, a place in his religion, began to assume the hue of a temptation. Perhaps it was human and correctly natural that Knight never once thought whether he did not owe her a little sacrifice for her unchary devotion in saving his life.
With a consciousness of having thus, like Antony, kissed away kingdoms and provinces, he next considered how he had revealed his higher secrets and intentions to her, an unreserve he would never have allowed himself with any man living. How was it that he had not been able to refrain from telling her of adumbrations heretofore locked in the closest strongholds of his mind?
KnightвАЩs was a robust intellect, which could escape outside the atmosphere of heart, and perceive that his own love, as well as other peopleвАЩs, could be reduced by change of scene and circumstances. At the same time the perception was a superimposed sorrow:
вАЬO last regret, regret can die!вАЭ
But being convinced that the death of this regret was the best thing for him, he did not long shrink from attempting it. He closed his chambers, suspended his connection with editors, and left London for the Continent. Here we will leave him to wander without purpose, beyond the nominal one of encouraging obliviousness of Elfride.