The few tattered clouds of the morning enlarged and united, the sun withdrew behind them to emerge no more that day, and the evening drew to a close in drifts of rain. The water-drops beat like duck shot against the window of the railway-carriage containing Stephen and Elfride.
The journey from Plymouth to Paddington, by even the most headlong express, allows quite enough leisure for passion of any sort to cool. ElfrideвАЩs excitement had passed off, and she sat in a kind of stupor during the latter half of the journey. She was aroused by the clanging of the maze of rails over which they traced their way at the entrance to the station.
вАЬIs this London?вАЭ she said.
вАЬYes, darling,вАЭ said Stephen in a tone of assurance he was far from feeling. To him, no less than to her, the reality so greatly differed from the prefiguring.
She peered out as well as the window, beaded with drops, would allow her, and saw only the lamps, which had just been lit, blinking in the wet atmosphere, and rows of hideous zinc chimney-pipes in dim relief against the sky. She writhed uneasily, as when a thought is swelling in the mind which must cause much pain at its deliverance in words. Elfride had known no more about the stings of evil report than the native wildfowl knew of the effects of CrusoeвАЩs first shot. Now she saw a little further, and a little further still.
The train stopped. Stephen relinquished the soft hand he had held all the day, and proceeded to assist her on to the platform.
This act of alighting upon strange ground seemed all that was wanted to complete a resolution within her.
She looked at her betrothed with despairing eyes.
вАЬO Stephen,вАЭ she exclaimed, вАЬI am so miserable! I must go home againвБ†вАФI mustвБ†вАФI must! Forgive my wretched vacillation. I donвАЩt like it hereвБ†вАФnor myselfвБ†вАФnor you!вАЭ
Stephen looked bewildered, and did not speak.
вАЬWill you allow me to go home?вАЭ she implored. вАЬI wonвАЩt trouble you to go with me. I will not be any weight upon you; only say you will agree to my returning; that you will not hate me for it, Stephen! It is better that I should return again; indeed it is, Stephen.вАЭ
вАЬBut we canвАЩt return now,вАЭ he said in a deprecatory tone.
вАЬI must! I will!вАЭ
вАЬHow? When do you want to go?вАЭ
вАЬNow. Can we go at once?вАЭ
The lad looked hopelessly along the platform.
вАЬIf you must go, and think it wrong to remain, dearest,вАЭ said he sadly, вАЬyou shall. You shall do whatever you like, my Elfride. But would you in reality rather go now than stay till tomorrow, and go as my wife?вАЭ
вАЬYes, yesвБ†вАФmuchвБ†вАФanything to go now. I must; I must!вАЭ she cried.
вАЬWe ought to have done one of two things,вАЭ he answered gloomily. вАЬNever to have started, or not to have returned without being married. I donвАЩt like to say it, ElfrideвБ†вАФindeed I donвАЩt; but you must be told this, that going back unmarried may compromise your good name in the eyes of people who may hear of it.вАЭ
вАЬThey will not; and I must go.вАЭ
вАЬO Elfride! I am to blame for bringing you away.вАЭ
вАЬNot at all. I am the elder.вАЭ
вАЬBy a month; and whatвАЩs that? But never mind that now.вАЭ He looked around. вАЬIs there a train for Plymouth tonight?вАЭ he inquired of a guard. The guard passed on and did not speak.
вАЬIs there a train for Plymouth tonight?вАЭ said Elfride to another.
вАЬYes, miss; the 8:10вБ†вАФleaves in ten minutes. You have come to the wrong platform; it is the other side. Change at Bristol into the night mail. Down that staircase, and under the line.вАЭ
They ran down the staircaseвБ†вАФElfride firstвБ†вАФto the booking-office, and into a carriage with an official standing beside the door. вАЬShow your tickets, please.вАЭ They are locked inвБ†вАФmen about the platform accelerate their velocities till they fly up and down like shuttles in a loomвБ†вАФa whistleвБ†вАФthe waving of a flagвБ†вАФa human cryвБ†вАФa steam groanвБ†вАФand away they go to Plymouth again, just catching these words as they glide off:
вАЬThose two youngsters had a near run for it, and no mistake!вАЭ
Elfride found her breath.
вАЬAnd have you come too, Stephen? Why did you?вАЭ
вАЬI shall not leave you till I see you safe at St.¬†LaunceвАЩs. Do not think worse of me than I am, Elfride.вАЭ
And then they rattled along through the night, back again by the way they had come. The weather cleared, and the stars shone in upon them. Their two or three fellow-passengers sat for most of the time with closed eyes. Stephen sometimes slept; Elfride alone was wakeful and palpitating hour after hour.
The day began to break, and revealed that they were by the sea. Red rocks overhung them, and, receding into distance, grew livid in the blue grey atmosphere. The sun rose, and sent penetrating shafts of light in upon their weary faces. Another hour, and the world began to be busy. They waited yet a little, and the train slackened its speed in view of the platform at St.¬†LaunceвАЩs.
She shivered, and mused sadly.
вАЬI did not see all the consequences,вАЭ she said. вАЬAppearances are woefully against me. If anybody finds me out, I am, I suppose, disgraced.вАЭ
вАЬThen appearances will speak falsely; and how can that matter, even if they do? I shall be your husband sooner or later, for certain, and so prove your purity.вАЭ
вАЬStephen, once in London I ought to have married you,вАЭ she said firmly. вАЬIt was my only safe defence. I see more things now than I did yesterday. My only remaining chance is not to be discovered; and that we must fight for most desperately.вАЭ
They stepped out. Elfride pulled a thick veil over her face.
A woman with red and scaly eyelids and glistening eyes was sitting on a bench just inside the office-door. She fixed her eyes upon Elfride with an expression whose force it was impossible to doubt, but the meaning of which was not clear; then upon the carriage they had left. She seemed to read a sinister story in the scene.
Elfride shrank back, and turned the other way.
вАЬWho is that woman?вАЭ said Stephen. вАЬShe looked hard at you.вАЭ
вАЬMrs.¬†JethwayвБ†вАФa widow, and mother of that young man whose tomb we sat on the other night. Stephen, she is my enemy. Would that God had had mercy enough upon me to have hidden this from her!вАЭ
вАЬDo not talk so hopelessly,вАЭ he remonstrated. вАЬI donвАЩt think she recognized us.вАЭ
вАЬI pray that she did not.вАЭ
He put on a more vigorous mood.
вАЬNow, we will go and get some breakfast.вАЭ
вАЬNo, no!вАЭ she begged. вАЬI cannot eat. I must get back to Endelstow.вАЭ
Elfride was as if she had grown years older than Stephen now.
вАЬBut you have had nothing since last night but that cup of tea at Bristol.вАЭ
вАЬI canвАЩt eat, Stephen.вАЭ
вАЬWine and biscuit?вАЭ
вАЬNo.вАЭ
вАЬNor tea, nor coffee?вАЭ
вАЬNo.вАЭ
вАЬA glass of water?вАЭ
вАЬNo. I want something that makes people strong and energetic for the present, that borrows the strength of tomorrow for use todayвБ†вАФleaving tomorrow without any at all for that matter; or even that would take all life away tomorrow, so long as it enabled me to get home again now. Brandy, thatвАЩs what I want. That womanвАЩs eyes have eaten my heart away!вАЭ
вАЬYou are wild; and you grieve me, darling. Must it be brandy?вАЭ
вАЬYes, if you please.вАЭ
вАЬHow much?вАЭ
вАЬI donвАЩt know. I have never drunk more than a teaspoonful at once. All I know is that I want it. DonвАЩt get it at the Falcon.вАЭ
He left her in the fields, and went to the nearest inn in that direction. Presently he returned with a small flask nearly full, and some slices of bread-and-butter, thin as wafers, in a paper-bag. Elfride took a sip or two.
вАЬIt goes into my eyes,вАЭ she said wearily. вАЬI canвАЩt take any more. Yes, I will; I will close my eyes. Ah, it goes to them by an inside route. I donвАЩt want it; throw it away.вАЭ
However, she could eat, and did eat. Her chief attention was concentrated upon how to get the horse from the Falcon stables without suspicion. Stephen was not allowed to accompany her into the town. She acted now upon conclusions reached without any aid from him: his power over her seemed to have departed.
вАЬYou had better not be seen with me, even here where I am so little known. We have begun stealthily as thieves, and we must end stealthily as thieves, at all hazards. Until papa has been told by me myself, a discovery would be terrible.вАЭ
Walking and gloomily talking thus they waited till nearly nine oвАЩclock, at which time Elfride thought she might call at the Falcon without creating much surprise. Behind the railway-station was the river, spanned by an old Tudor bridge, whence the road diverged in two directions, one skirting the suburbs of the town, and winding round again into the high road to Endelstow. Beside this road Stephen sat, and awaited her return from the Falcon.
He sat as one sitting for a portrait, motionless, watching the chequered lights and shades on the tree-trunks, the children playing opposite the school previous to entering for the morning lesson, the reapers in a field afar off. The certainty of possession had not come, and there was nothing to mitigate the youthвАЩs gloom, that increased with the thought of the parting now so near.
At length she came trotting round to him, in appearance much as on the romantic morning of their visit to the cliff, but shorn of the radiance which glistened about her then. However, her comparative immunity from further risk and trouble had considerably composed her. ElfrideвАЩs capacity for being wounded was only surpassed by her capacity for healing, which rightly or wrongly is by some considered an index of transientness of feeling in general.
вАЬElfride, what did they say at the Falcon?вАЭ
вАЬNothing. Nobody seemed curious about me. They knew I went to Plymouth, and I have stayed there a night now and then with Miss Bicknell. I rather calculated upon that.вАЭ
And now parting arose like a death to these children, for it was imperative that she should start at once. Stephen walked beside her for nearly a mile. During the walk he said sadly:
вАЬElfride, four-and-twenty hours have passed, and the thing is not done.вАЭ
вАЬBut you have insured that it shall be done.вАЭ
вАЬHow have I?вАЭ
вАЬO Stephen, you ask how! Do you think I could marry another man on earth after having gone thus far with you? Have I not shown beyond possibility of doubt that I can be nobody elseвАЩs? Have I not irretrievably committed myself?вБ†вАФpride has stood for nothing in the face of my great love. You misunderstood my turning back, and I cannot explain it. It was wrong to go with you at all; and though it would have been worse to go further, it would have been better policy, perhaps. Be assured of this, that whenever you have a home for meвБ†вАФhowever poor and humbleвБ†вАФand come and claim me, I am ready.вАЭ She added bitterly, вАЬWhen my father knows of this dayвАЩs work, he may be only too glad to let me go.вАЭ
вАЬPerhaps he may, then, insist upon our marriage at once!вАЭ Stephen answered, seeing a ray of hope in the very focus of her remorse. вАЬI hope he may, even if we had still to part till I am ready for you, as we intended.вАЭ
Elfride did not reply.
вАЬYou donвАЩt seem the same woman, Elfie, that you were yesterday.вАЭ
вАЬNor am I. But goodbye. Go back now.вАЭ And she reined the horse for parting. вАЬO Stephen,вАЭ she cried, вАЬI feel so weak! I donвАЩt know how to meet him. Cannot you, after all, come back with me?вАЭ
вАЬShall I come?вАЭ
Elfride paused to think.
вАЬNo; it will not do. It is my utter foolishness that makes me say such words. But he will send for you.вАЭ
вАЬSay to him,вАЭ continued Stephen, вАЬthat we did this in the absolute despair of our minds. Tell him we donвАЩt wish him to favour usвБ†вАФonly to deal justly with us. If he says, marry now, so much the better. If not, say that all may be put right by his promise to allow me to have you when I am good enough for youвБ†вАФwhich may be soon. Say I have nothing to offer him in exchange for his treasureвБ†вАФthe more sorry I; but all the love, and all the life, and all the labour of an honest man shall be yours. As to when this had better be told, I leave you to judge.вАЭ
His words made her cheerful enough to toy with her position.
вАЬAnd if ill report should come, Stephen,вАЭ she said smiling, вАЬwhy, the orange-tree must save me, as it saved virgins in St.¬†GeorgeвАЩs time from the poisonous breath of the dragon. There, forgive me for forwardness: I am going.вАЭ
Then the boy and girl beguiled themselves with words of half-parting only.
вАЬOwn wifie, God bless you till we meet again!вАЭ
вАЬTill we meet again, goodbye!вАЭ
And the pony went on, and she spoke to him no more. He saw her figure diminish and her blue veil grow grayвБ†вАФsaw it with the agonizing sensations of a slow death.
After thus parting from a man than whom she had known none greater as yet, Elfride rode rapidly onwards, a tear being occasionally shaken from her eyes into the road. What yesterday had seemed so desirable, so promising, even trifling, had now acquired the complexion of a tragedy.
She saw the rocks and sea in the neighbourhood of Endelstow, and heaved a sigh of relief.
When she passed a field behind the vicarage she heard the voices of Unity and William Worm. They were hanging a carpet upon a line. Unity was uttering a sentence that concluded with вАЬwhen Miss Elfride comes.вАЭ
вАЬWhen dвАЩye expect her?вАЭ
вАЬNot till evening now. SheвАЩs safe enough at Miss BicknellвАЩs, bless ye.вАЭ
Elfride went round to the door. She did not knock or ring; and seeing nobody to take the horse, Elfride led her round to the yard, slipped off the bridle and saddle, drove her towards the paddock, and turned her in. Then Elfride crept indoors, and looked into all the ground-floor rooms. Her father was not there.
On the mantelpiece of the drawing-room stood a letter addressed to her in his handwriting. She took it and read it as she went upstairs to change her habit.
Dear ElfrideвБ†вАФOn second thoughts I will not return today, but only come as far as Wadcombe. I shall be at home by tomorrow afternoon, and bring a friend with me.вБ†вАФYours, in haste,
After making a quick toilet she felt more revived, though still suffering from a headache. On going out of the door she met Unity at the top of the stair.
вАЬO Miss Elfride! I said to myself вАЩtis her sperrit! We didnвАЩt dream oвАЩ you not coming home last night. You didnвАЩt say anything about staying.вАЭ
вАЬI intended to come home the same evening, but altered my plan. I wished I hadnвАЩt afterwards. Papa will be angry, I suppose?вАЭ
вАЬBetter not tell him, miss,вАЭ said Unity.
вАЬI do fear to,вАЭ she murmured. вАЬUnity, would you just begin telling him when he comes home?вАЭ
вАЬWhat! and get you into trouble?вАЭ
вАЬI deserve it.вАЭ
вАЬNo, indeed, I wonвАЩt,вАЭ said Unity. вАЬIt is not such a mighty matter, Miss Elfride. I says to myself, masterвАЩs taking a hollerday, and because heвАЩs not been kind lately to Miss Elfride, sheвБ†вАФвАЭ
вАЬIs imitating him. Well, do as you like. And will you now bring me some luncheon?вАЭ
After satisfying an appetite which the fresh marine air had given her in its victory over an agitated mind, she put on her hat and went to the garden and summerhouse. She sat down, and leant with her head in a corner. Here she fell asleep.
Half-awake, she hurriedly looked at the time. She had been there three hours. At the same moment she heard the outer gate swing together, and wheels sweep round the entrance; some prior noise from the same source having probably been the cause of her awaking. Next her fatherвАЩs voice was heard calling to Worm.
Elfride passed along a walk towards the house behind a belt of shrubs. She heard a tongue holding converse with her father, which was not that of either of the servants. Her father and the stranger were laughing together. Then there was a rustling of silk, and Mr. Swancourt and his companion, or companions, to all seeming entered the door of the house, for nothing more of them was audible. Elfride had turned back to meditate on what friends these could be, when she heard footsteps, and her father exclaiming behind her:
вАЬO Elfride, here you are! I hope you got on well?вАЭ
ElfrideвАЩs heart smote her, and she did not speak.
вАЬCome back to the summerhouse a minute,вАЭ continued Mr.¬†Swancourt; вАЬI have to tell you of that I promised to.вАЭ
They entered the summerhouse, and stood leaning over the knotty woodwork of the balustrade.
вАЬNow,вАЭ said her father radiantly, вАЬguess what I have to say.вАЭ He seemed to be regarding his own existence so intently, that he took no interest in nor even saw the complexion of hers.
вАЬI cannot, papa,вАЭ she said sadly.
вАЬTry, dear.вАЭ
вАЬI would rather not, indeed.вАЭ
вАЬYou are tired. You look worn. The ride was too much for you. Well, this is what I went away for. I went to be married!вАЭ
вАЬMarried!вАЭ she faltered, and could hardly check an involuntary вАЬSo did I.вАЭ A moment after and her resolve to confess perished like a bubble.
вАЬYes; to whom do you think? Mrs.¬†Troyton, the new owner of the estate over the hedge, and of the old manor-house. It was only finally settled between us when I went to Stratleigh a few days ago.вАЭ He lowered his voice to a sly tone of merriment. вАЬNow, as to your stepmother, youвАЩll find she is not much to look at, though a good deal to listen to. She is twenty years older than myself, for one thing.вАЭ
вАЬYou forget that I know her. She called here once, after we had been, and found her away from home.вАЭ
вАЬOf course, of course. Well, whatever her looks are, sheвАЩs as excellent a woman as ever breathed. She has had lately left her as absolute property three thousand five hundred a year, besides the devise of this estateвБ†вАФand, by the way, a large legacy came to her in satisfaction of dower, as it is called.вАЭ
вАЬThree thousand five hundred a year!вАЭ
вАЬAnd a largeвБ†вАФwell, a fair-sizedвБ†вАФmansion in town, and a pedigree as long as my walking-stick; though that bears evidence of being rather a raked-up affairвБ†вАФdone since the family got richвБ†вАФpeople do those things now as they build ruins on maiden estates and cast antiques at Birmingham.вАЭ
Elfride merely listened and said nothing.
He continued more quietly and impressively. вАЬYes, Elfride, she is wealthy in comparison with us, though with few connections. However, she will introduce you to the world a little. We are going to exchange her house in Baker Street for one at Kensington, for your sake. Everybody is going there now, she says. At Easters we shall fly to town for the usual three monthsвБ†вАФI shall have a curate of course by that time. Elfride, I am past love, you know, and I honestly confess that I married her for your sake. Why a woman of her standing should have thrown herself away upon me, God knows. But I suppose her age and plainness were too pronounced for a town man. With your good looks, if you now play your cards well, you may marry anybody. Of course, a little contrivance will be necessary; but thereвАЩs nothing to stand between you and a husband with a title, that I can see. Lady Luxellian was only a squireвАЩs daughter. Now, donвАЩt you see how foolish the old fancy was? But come, she is indoors waiting to see you. It is as good as a play, too,вАЭ continued the vicar, as they walked towards the house. вАЬI courted her through the privet hedge yonder: not entirely, you know, but we used to walk there of an eveningвБ†вАФnearly every evening at last. But I neednвАЩt tell you details now; everything was terribly matter-of-fact, I assure you. At last, that day I saw her at Stratleigh, we determined to settle it offhand.вАЭ
вАЬAnd you never said a word to me,вАЭ replied Elfride, not reproachfully either in tone or thought. Indeed, her feeling was the very reverse of reproachful. She felt relieved and even thankful. Where confidence had not been given, how could confidence be expected?
Her father mistook her dispassionateness for a veil of politeness over a sense of ill-usage. вАЬI am not altogether to blame,вАЭ he said. вАЬThere were two or three reasons for secrecy. One was the recent death of her relative the testator, though that did not apply to you. But remember, Elfride,вАЭ he continued in a stiffer tone, вАЬyou had mixed yourself up so foolishly with those low people, the SmithsвБ†вАФand it was just, too, when Mrs.¬†Troyton and myself were beginning to understand each otherвБ†вАФthat I resolved to say nothing even to you. How did I know how far you had gone with them and their son? You might have made a point of taking tea with them every day, for all that I knew.вАЭ
Elfride swallowed her feelings as she best could, and languidly though flatly asked a question.
вАЬDid you kiss Mrs.¬†Troyton on the lawn about three weeks ago? That evening I came into the study and found you had just had candles in?вАЭ
Mr. Swancourt looked rather red and abashed, as middle-aged lovers are apt to do when caught in the tricks of younger ones.
вАЬWell, yes; I think I did,вАЭ he stammered; вАЬjust to please her, you know.вАЭ And then recovering himself he laughed heartily.
вАЬAnd was this what your Horatian quotation referred to?вАЭ
вАЬIt was, Elfride.вАЭ
They stepped into the drawing-room from the verandah. At that moment Mrs. Swancourt came downstairs, and entered the same room by the door.
вАЬHere, Charlotte, is my little Elfride,вАЭ said Mr.¬†Swancourt, with the increased affection of tone often adopted towards relations when newly produced.
Poor Elfride, not knowing what to do, did nothing at all; but stood receptive of all that came to her by sight, hearing, and touch.
Mrs.¬†Swancourt moved forward, took her stepdaughterвАЩs hand, then kissed her.
вАЬAh, darling!вАЭ she exclaimed good-humouredly, вАЬyou didnвАЩt think when you showed a strange old woman over the conservatory a month or two ago, and explained the flowers to her so prettily, that she would so soon be here in new colours. Nor did she, I am sure.вАЭ
The new mother had been truthfully enough described by Mr.¬†Swancourt. She was not physically attractive. She was darkвБ†вАФvery darkвБ†вАФin complexion, portly in figure, and with a plentiful residuum of hair in the proportion of half a dozen white ones to half a dozen black ones, though the latter were black indeed. No further observed, she was not a woman to like. But there was more to see. To the most superficial critic it was apparent that she made no attempt to disguise her age. She looked sixty at the first glance, and close acquaintanceship never proved her older.
Another and still more winning trait was one attaching to the corners of her mouth. Before she made a remark these often twitched gently: not backwards and forwards, the index of nervousness; not down upon the jaw, the sign of determination; but palpably upwards, in precisely the curve adopted to represent mirth in the broad caricatures of schoolboys. Only this element in her face was expressive of anything within the woman, but it was unmistakable. It expressed humour subjective as well as objectiveвБ†вАФwhich could survey the peculiarities of self in as whimsical a light as those of other people.
This is not all of Mrs.¬†Swancourt. She had held out to Elfride hands whose fingers were literally stiff with rings, signis auroque rigentes, like HelenвАЩs robe. These rows of rings were not worn in vanity apparently. They were mostly antique and dull, though a few were the reverse.
1st. Plainly set oval onyx, representing a devilвАЩs head. 2nd. Green jasper intaglio, with red veins. 3rd. Entirely gold, bearing figure of a hideous griffin. 4th. A sea-green monster diamond, with small diamonds round it. 5th. Antique cornelian intaglio of dancing figure of a satyr. 6th. An angular band chased with dragonsвАЩ heads. 7th. A facetted carbuncle accompanied by ten little twinkling emeralds; etc. etc.
1st. A reddish-yellow toadstone. 2nd. A heavy ring enamelled in colours, and bearing a jacinth. 3rd. An amethystine sapphire. 4th. A polished ruby, surrounded by diamonds. 5th. The engraved ring of an abbess. 6th. A gloomy intaglio; etc. etc.
Beyond this rather quaint array of stone and metal Mrs. Swancourt wore no ornament whatever.
Elfride had been favourably impressed with Mrs. Troyton at their meeting about two months earlier; but to be pleased with a woman as a momentary acquaintance was different from being taken with her as a stepmother. However, the suspension of feeling was but for a moment. Elfride decided to like her still.
Mrs. Swancourt was a woman of the world as to knowledge, the reverse as to action, as her marriage suggested. Elfride and the lady were soon inextricably involved in conversation, and Mr. Swancourt left them to themselves.
вАЬAnd what do you find to do with yourself here?вАЭ Mrs.¬†Swancourt said, after a few remarks about the wedding. вАЬYou ride, I know.вАЭ
вАЬYes, I ride. But not much, because papa doesnвАЩt like my going alone.вАЭ
вАЬYou must have somebody to look after you.вАЭ
вАЬAnd I read, and write a little.вАЭ
вАЬYou should write a novel. The regular resource of people who donвАЩt go enough into the world to live a novel is to write one.вАЭ
вАЬI have done it,вАЭ said Elfride, looking dubiously at Mrs.¬†Swancourt, as if in doubt whether she would meet with ridicule there.
вАЬThatвАЩs right. Now, then, what is it about, dear?вАЭ
вАЬAboutвБ†вАФwell, it is a romance of the Middle Ages.вАЭ
вАЬKnowing nothing of the present age, which everybody knows about, for safety you chose an age known neither to you nor other people. ThatвАЩs it, eh? No, no; I donвАЩt mean it, dear.вАЭ
вАЬWell, I have had some opportunities of studying medieval art and manners in the library and private museum at Endelstow House, and I thought I should like to try my hand upon a fiction. I know the time for these tales is past; but I was interested in it, very much interested.вАЭ
вАЬWhen is it to appear?вАЭ
вАЬOh, never, I suppose.вАЭ
вАЬNonsense, my dear girl. Publish it, by all means. All ladies do that sort of thing now; not for profit, you know, but as a guarantee of mental respectability to their future husbands.вАЭ
вАЬAn excellent idea of us ladies.вАЭ
вАЬThough I am afraid it rather resembles the melancholy ruse of throwing loaves over castle-walls at besiegers, and suggests desperation rather than plenty inside.вАЭ
вАЬDid you ever try it?вАЭ
вАЬNo; I was too far gone even for that.вАЭ
вАЬPapa says no publisher will take my book.вАЭ
вАЬThat remains to be proved. IвАЩll give my word, my dear, that by this time next year it shall be printed.вАЭ
вАЬWill you, indeed?вАЭ said Elfride, partially brightening with pleasure, though she was sad enough in her depths. вАЬI thought brains were the indispensable, even if the only, qualification for admission to the republic of letters. A mere commonplace creature like me will soon be turned out again.вАЭ
вАЬOh no; once you are there youвАЩll be like a drop of water in a piece of rock-crystalвБ†вАФyour medium will dignify your commonness.вАЭ
вАЬIt will be a great satisfaction,вАЭ Elfride murmured, and thought of Stephen, and wished she could make a great fortune by writing romances, and marry him and live happily.
вАЬAnd then weвАЩll go to London, and then to Paris,вАЭ said Mrs.¬†Swancourt. вАЬI have been talking to your father about it. But we have first to move into the manor-house, and we think of staying at Torquay whilst that is going on. Meanwhile, instead of going on a honeymoon scamper by ourselves, we have come home to fetch you, and go all together to Bath for two or three weeks.вАЭ
Elfride assented pleasantly, even gladly; but she saw that, by this marriage, her father and herself had ceased forever to be the close relations they had been up to a few weeks ago. It was impossible now to tell him the tale of her wild elopement with Stephen Smith.
He was still snugly housed in her heart. His absence had regained for him much of that aureola of saintship which had been nearly abstracted during her reproachful mood on that miserable journey from London. Rapture is often cooled by contact with its cause, especially if under awkward conditions. And that last experience with Stephen had done anything but make him shine in her eyes. His very kindness in letting her return was his offence. Elfride had her sexвАЩs love of sheer force in a man, however ill-directed; and at that critical juncture in London StephenвАЩs only chance of retaining the ascendancy over her that his face and not his parts had acquired for him, would have been by doing what, for one thing, he was too youthful to undertakeвБ†вАФthat was, dragging her by the wrist to the rails of some altar, and peremptorily marrying her. Decisive action is seen by appreciative minds to be frequently objectless, and sometimes fatal; but decision, however suicidal, has more charm for a woman than the most unequivocal Fabian success.
However, some of the unpleasant accessories of that occasion were now out of sight again, and Stephen had resumed not a few of his fancy colours.