Half an hour has passed. Two miserable men are wandering in the darkness up the miles of road from Camelton to Endelstow.
вАЬHas she broken her heart?вАЭ said Henry Knight. вАЬCan it be that I have killed her? I was bitter with her, Stephen, and she has died! And may God have no mercy upon me!вАЭ
вАЬHow can you have killed her more than I?вАЭ
вАЬWhy, I went away from herвБ†вАФstole away almostвБ†вАФand didnвАЩt tell her I should not come again; and at that last meeting I did not kiss her once, but let her miserably go. I have been a foolвБ†вАФa fool! I wish the most abject confession of it before crowds of my countrymen could in any way make amends to my darling for the intense cruelty I have shown her!вАЭ
вАЬYour darling!вАЭ said Stephen, with a sort of laugh. вАЬAny man can say that, I suppose; any man can. I know this, she was my darling before she was yours; and after too. If anybody has a right to call her his own, it is I.вАЭ
вАЬYou talk like a man in the dark; which is what you are. Did she ever do anything for you? Risk her name, for instance, for you?вАЭ
вАЬYes, she did,вАЭ said Stephen emphatically.
вАЬNot entirely. Did she ever live for youвБ†вАФprove she could not live without youвБ†вАФlaugh and weep for you?вАЭ
вАЬYes.вАЭ
вАЬNever! Did she ever risk her life for youвБ†вАФno! My darling did for me.вАЭ
вАЬThen it was in kindness only. When did she risk her life for you?вАЭ
вАЬTo save mine on the cliff yonder. The poor child was with me looking at the approach of the Puffin steamboat, and I slipped down. We both had a narrow escape. I wish we had died there!вАЭ
вАЬAh, but wait,вАЭ Stephen pleaded with wet eyes. вАЬShe went on that cliff to see me arrive home: she had promised it. She told me she would months before. And would she have gone there if she had not cared for me at all?вАЭ
вАЬYou have an idea that Elfride died for you, no doubt,вАЭ said Knight, with a mournful sarcasm too nerveless to support itself.
вАЬNever mind. If we find thatвБ†вАФthat she died yours, IвАЩll say no more ever.вАЭ
вАЬAnd if we find she died yours, IвАЩll say no more.вАЭ
вАЬVery wellвБ†вАФso it shall be.вАЭ
The dark clouds into which the sun had sunk had begun to drop rain in an increasing volume.
вАЬCan we wait somewhere here till this shower is over?вАЭ said Stephen desultorily.
вАЬAs you will. But it is not worth while. WeвАЩll hear the particulars, and return. DonвАЩt let people know who we are. I am not much now.вАЭ
They had reached a point at which the road branched into twoвБ†вАФjust outside the west village, one fork of the diverging routes passing into the latter place, the other stretching on to East Endelstow. Having come some of the distance by the footpath, they now found that the hearse was only a little in advance of them.
вАЬI fancy it has turned off to East Endelstow. Can you see?вАЭ
вАЬI cannot. You must be mistaken.вАЭ
Knight and Stephen entered the village. A bar of fiery light lay across the road, proceeding from the half-open door of a smithy, in which bellows were heard blowing and a hammer ringing. The rain had increased, and they mechanically turned for shelter towards the warm and cosy scene.
Close at their heels came another man, without overcoat or umbrella, and with a parcel under his arm.
вАЬA wet evening,вАЭ he said to the two friends, and passed by them. They stood in the outer penthouse, but the man went in to the fire.
The smith ceased his blowing, and began talking to the man who had entered.
вАЬI have walked all the way from Camelton,вАЭ said the latter. вАЬWas obliged to come tonight, you know.вАЭ
He held the parcel, which was a flat one, towards the firelight, to learn if the rain had penetrated it. Resting it edgewise on the forge, he supported it perpendicularly with one hand, wiping his face with the handkerchief he held in the other.
вАЬI suppose you know what IвАЩve got here?вАЭ he observed to the smith.
вАЬNo, I donвАЩt,вАЭ said the smith, pausing again on his bellows.
вАЬAs the rainвАЩs not over, IвАЩll show you,вАЭ said the bearer.
He laid the thin and broad package, which had acute angles in different directions, flat upon the anvil, and the smith blew up the fire to give him more light. First, after untying the package, a sheet of brown paper was removed: this was laid flat. Then he unfolded a piece of baize: this also he spread flat on the paper. The third covering was a wrapper of tissue paper, which was spread out in its turn. The enclosure was revealed, and he held it up for the smithвАЩs inspection.
вАЬOhвБ†вАФI see!вАЭ said the smith, kindling with a chastened interest, and drawing close. вАЬPoor young ladyвБ†вАФah, terrible melancholy thingвБ†вАФso soon too!вАЭ
Knight and Stephen turned their heads and looked.
вАЬAnd whatвАЩs that?вАЭ continued the smith.
вАЬThatвАЩs the coronetвБ†вАФbeautifully finished, isnвАЩt it? Ah, that cost some money!вАЭ
вАЬвАКвАЩTis as fine a bit of metal work as ever I seeвБ†вАФthat вАЩtis.вАЭ
вАЬIt came from the same people as the coffin, you know, but was not ready soon enough to be sent round to the house in London yesterday. IвАЩve got to fix it on this very night.вАЭ
The carefully-packed articles were a coffin-plate and coronet.
Knight and Stephen came forward. The undertakerвАЩs man, on seeing them look for the inscription, civilly turned it round towards them, and each read, almost at one moment, by the ruddy light of the coals:
Elfride,
Wife of Spenser Hugo Luxellian,
Fifteenth Baron Luxellian:
Died February 10, 18вБ†вАФ.
They read it, and read it, and read it againвБ†вАФStephen and KnightвБ†вАФas if animated by one soul. Then Stephen put his hand upon KnightвАЩs arm, and they retired from the yellow glow, further, further, till the chill darkness enclosed them round, and the quiet sky asserted its presence overhead as a dim grey sheet of blank monotony.
вАЬWhere shall we go?вАЭ said Stephen.
вАЬI donвАЩt know.вАЭ
A long silence ensued.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ вАЬElfride married!вАЭ said Stephen then in a thin whisper, as if he feared to let the assertion loose on the world.
вАЬFalse,вАЭ whispered Knight.
вАЬAnd dead. Denied us both. I hate вАШfalseвАЩвБ†вАФI hate it!вАЭ
Knight made no answer.
Nothing was heard by them now save the slow measurement of time by their beating pulses, the soft touch of the dribbling rain upon their clothes, and the low purr of the blacksmithвАЩs bellows hard by.
вАЬShall we follow Elfie any further?вАЭ Stephen said.
вАЬNo: let us leave her alone. She is beyond our love, and let her be beyond our reproach. Since we donвАЩt know half the reasons that made her do as she did, Stephen, how can we say, even now, that she was not pure and true in heart?вАЭ KnightвАЩs voice had now become mild and gentle as a childвАЩs. He went on: вАЬCan we call her ambitious? No. Circumstance has, as usual, overpowered her purposesвБ†вАФfragile and delicate as sheвБ†вАФliable to be overthrown in a moment by the coarse elements of accident. I know thatвАЩs itвБ†вАФdonвАЩt you?вАЭ
вАЬIt may beвБ†вАФit must be. Let us go on.вАЭ
They began to bend their steps towards Castle Boterel, whither they had sent their bags from Camelton. They wandered on in silence for many minutes. Stephen then paused, and lightly put his hand within KnightвАЩs arm.
вАЬI wonder how she came to die,вАЭ he said in a broken whisper. вАЬShall we return and learn a little more?вАЭ
They turned back again, and entering Endelstow a second time, came to a door which was standing open. It was that of an inn called the Welcome Home, and the house appeared to have been recently repaired and entirely modernized. The name too was not that of the same landlord as formerly, but Martin CannisterвАЩs.
Knight and Smith entered. The inn was quite silent, and they followed the passage till they reached the kitchen, where a huge fire was burning, which roared up the chimney, and sent over the floor, ceiling, and newly-whitened walls a glare so intense as to make the candle quite a secondary light. A woman in a white apron and black gown was standing there alone behind a cleanly-scrubbed deal table. Stephen first, and Knight afterwards, recognized her as Unity, who had been parlourmaid at the vicarage and young ladyвАЩs-maid at the Crags.
вАЬUnity,вАЭ said Stephen softly, вАЬdonвАЩt you know me?вАЭ
She looked inquiringly a moment, and her face cleared up.
вАЬMr.¬†SmithвБ†вАФay, that it is!вАЭ she said. вАЬAnd thatвАЩs Mr.¬†Knight. I beg you to sit down. Perhaps you know that since I saw you last I have married Martin Cannister.вАЭ
вАЬHow long have you been married?вАЭ
вАЬAbout five months. We were married the same day that my dear Miss Elfie became Lady Luxellian.вАЭ Tears appeared in UnityвАЩs eyes, and filled them, and fell down her cheek, in spite of efforts to the contrary.
The pain of the two men in resolutely controlling themselves when thus exampled to admit relief of the same kind was distressing. They both turned their backs and walked a few steps away.
Then Unity said, вАЬWill you go into the parlour, gentlemen?вАЭ
вАЬLet us stay here with her,вАЭ Knight whispered, and turning said, вАЬNo; we will sit here. We want to rest and dry ourselves here for a time, if you please.вАЭ
That evening the sorrowing friends sat with their hostess beside the large fire, Knight in the recess formed by the chimney breast, where he was in shade. And by showing a little confidence they won hers, and she told them what they had stayed to hearвБ†вАФthe latter history of poor Elfride.
вАЬOne dayвБ†вАФafter you, Mr.¬†Knight, left us for the last timeвБ†вАФshe was missed from the Crags, and her father went after her, and brought her home ill. Where she went to, I never knewвБ†вАФbut she was very unwell for weeks afterwards. And she said to me that she didnвАЩt care what became of her, and she wished she could die. When she was better, I said she would live to be married yet, and she said then, вАШYes; IвАЩll do anything for the benefit of my family, so as to turn my useless life to some practical account.вАЩ Well, it began like this about Lord Luxellian courting her. The first Lady Luxellian had died, and he was in great trouble because the little girls were left motherless. After a while they used to come and see her in their little black frocks, for they liked her as well or better than their own motherвБ†вАФthatвАЩs true. They used to call her вАШlittle mamma.вАЩ These children made her a shade livelier, but she was not the girl she had beenвБ†вАФI could see thatвБ†вАФand she grew thinner a good deal. Well, my lord got to ask the Swancourts oftener and oftener to dinnerвБ†вАФnobody else of his acquaintanceвБ†вАФand at last the vicarвАЩs family were backwards and forwards at all hours of the day. Well, people say that the little girls asked their father to let Miss Elfride come and live with them, and that he said perhaps he would if they were good children. However, the time went on, and one day I said, вАШMiss Elfride, you donвАЩt look so well as you used to; and though nobody else seems to notice it I do.вАЩ She laughed a little, and said, вАШI shall live to be married yet, as you told me.вАЩ
вАЬвАКвАШShall you, miss? I am glad to hear that,вАЩ I said.
вАЬвАКвАШWhom do you think I am going to be married to?вАЩ she said again.
вАЬвАКвАШMr.¬†Knight, I suppose,вАЩ said I.
вАЬвАКвАШOh!вАЩ she cried, and turned off so white, and afore I could get to her she had sunk down like a heap of clothes, and fainted away. Well, then, she came to herself after a time, and said, вАШUnity, now weвАЩll go on with our conversation.вАЩ
вАЬвАКвАШBetter not today, miss,вАЩ I said.
вАЬвАКвАШYes, we will,вАЩ she said. вАШWhom do you think I am going to be married to?вАЩ
вАЬвАКвАШI donвАЩt know,вАЩ I said this time.
вАЬвАКвАШGuess,вАЩ she said.
вАЬвАКвАШвАКвАЩTisnвАЩt my lord, is it?вАЩ says I.
вАЬвАКвАШYes, вАЩtis,вАЩ says she, in a sick wild way.
вАЬвАКвАШBut he donвАЩt come courting much,вАЩ I said.
вАЬвАКвАШAh! you donвАЩt know,вАЩ she said, and told me вАЩtwas going to be in October. After that she freshened up a bitвБ†вАФwhether вАЩtwas with the thought of getting away from home or not, I donвАЩt know. For, perhaps, I may as well speak plainly, and tell you that her home was no home to her now. Her father was bitter to her and harsh upon her; and though Mrs.¬†Swancourt was well enough in her way, вАЩtwas a sort of cold politeness that was not worth much, and the little thing had a worrying time of it altogether. About a month before the wedding, she and my lord and the two children used to ride about together upon horseback, and a very pretty sight they were; and if youвАЩll believe me, I never saw him once with her unless the children were with her tooвБ†вАФwhich made the courting so strange-looking. Ay, and my lord is so handsome, you know, so that at last I think she rather liked him; and I have seen her smile and blush a bit at things he said. He wanted her the more because the children did, for everybody could see that she would be a most tender mother to them, and friend and playmate too. And my lord is not only handsome, but a splendid courter, and up to all the ways oвАЩt. So he made her the beautifullest presents; ah, one I can mindвБ†вАФa lovely bracelet, with diamonds and emeralds. Oh, how red her face came when she saw it! The old roses came back to her cheeks for a minute or two then. I helped dress her the day we both were marriedвБ†вАФit was the last service I did her, poor child! When she was ready, I ran upstairs and slipped on my own wedding gown, and away they went, and away went Martin and I; and no sooner had my lord and my lady been married than the parson married us. It was a very quiet pair of weddingsвБ†вАФhardly anybody knew it. Well, hope will hold its own in a young heart, if so be it can; and my lady freshened up a bit, for my lord was so handsome and kind.вАЭ
вАЬHow came she to dieвБ†вАФand away from home?вАЭ murmured Knight.
вАЬDonвАЩt you see, sir, she fell off again afore theyвАЩd been married long, and my lord took her abroad for change of scene. They were coming home, and had got as far as London, when she was taken very ill and couldnвАЩt be moved, and there she died.вАЭ
вАЬWas he very fond of her?вАЭ
вАЬWhat, my lord? Oh, he was!вАЭ
вАЬVery fond of her?вАЭ
вАЬVery, beyond everything. Not suddenly, but by slow degrees. вАЩTwas her nature to win people more when they knew her well. HeвАЩd have died for her, I believe. Poor my lord, heвАЩs heartbroken now!вАЭ
вАЬThe funeral is tomorrow?вАЭ
вАЬYes; my husband is now at the vault with the masons, opening the steps and cleaning down the walls.вАЭ
The next day two men walked up the familiar valley from Castle Boterel to East Endelstow Church. And when the funeral was over, and everyone had left the lawn-like churchyard, the pair went softly down the steps of the Luxellian vault, and under the low-groined arches they had beheld once before, lit up then as now. In the new niche of the crypt lay a rather new coffin, which had lost some of its lustre, and a newer coffin still, bright and untarnished in the slightest degree.
Beside the latter was the dark form of a man, kneeling on the damp floor, his body flung across the coffin, his hands clasped, and his whole frame seemingly given up in utter abandonment to grief. He was still youngвБ†вАФyounger, perhaps, than KnightвБ†вАФand even now showed how graceful was his figure and symmetrical his build. He murmured a prayer half aloud, and was quite unconscious that two others were standing within a few yards of him.
Knight and Stephen had advanced to where they once stood beside Elfride on the day all three had met there, before she had herself gone down into silence like her ancestors, and shut her bright blue eyes forever. Not until then did they see the kneeling figure in the dim light. Knight instantly recognized the mourner as Lord Luxellian, the bereaved husband of Elfride.
They felt themselves to be intruders. Knight pressed Stephen back, and they silently withdrew as they had entered.
вАЬCome away,вАЭ he said, in a broken voice. вАЬWe have no right to be there. Another stands before usвБ†вАФnearer to her than we!вАЭ
And side by side they both retraced their steps down the grey still valley to Castle Boterel.