Just say, then; is the matter you keep back of the gravest importance, or is it not?"
"I don"t understand all your meaning. If I have hidden anything from you, it has been because I loved you so, and I feared--feared--to lose you."
"Since you are not given to confidence, I want to ask you some plain questions. Have I your permission?"
"Yes," she said, and there came over her face a weary resignation. "Say the harshest words you can; I will bear them!"
"There is a scandal in the air concerning you, Elfride; and I cannot even combat it without knowing definitely what it is. It may not refer to you entirely, or even at all." Knight trifled in the very bitterness of his feeling. "In the time of the French Revolution, Pariseau, a ballet-master, was beheaded by mistake for Parisot, a captain of the King"s Guard. I wish there was another "E. Swancourt" in the neighbourhood. Look at this."
He handed her the letter she had written and left on the table at Mrs.
Jethway"s. She looked over it vacantly.
"It is not so much as it seems!" she pleaded. "It seems wickedly deceptive to look at now, but it had a much more natural origin than you think. My sole wish was not to endanger our love. O Harry! that was all my idea. It was not much harm."
"Yes, yes; but independently of the poor miserable creature"s remarks, it seems to imply--something wrong."
"What remarks?"
"Those she wrote me--now torn to pieces. Elfride, DID you run away with a man you loved?--that was the d.a.m.nable statement. Has such an accusation life in it--really, truly, Elfride?"
"Yes," she whispered.
Knight"s countenance sank. "To be married to him?" came huskily from his lips.
"Yes. Oh, forgive me! I had never seen you, Harry."
"To London?"
"Yes; but I----"
"Answer my questions; say nothing else, Elfride Did you ever deliberately try to marry him in secret?"
"No; not deliberately."
"But did you do it?"
A feeble red pa.s.sed over her face.
"Yes," she said.
"And after that--did you--write to him as your husband; and did he address you as his wife?"
"Listen, listen! It was----"
"Do answer me; only answer me!"
"Then, yes, we did." Her lips shook; but it was with some little dignity that she continued: "I would gladly have told you; for I knew and know I had done wrong. But I dared not; I loved you too well. Oh, so well! You have been everything in the world to me--and you are now. Will you not forgive me?"
It is a melancholy thought, that men who at first will not allow the verdict of perfection they p.r.o.nounce upon their sweethearts or wives to be disturbed by G.o.d"s own testimony to the contrary, will, once suspecting their purity, morally hang them upon evidence they would be ashamed to admit in judging a dog.
The reluctance to tell, which arose from Elfride"s simplicity in thinking herself so much more culpable than she really was, had been doing fatal work in Knight"s mind. The man of many ideas, now that his first dream of impossible things was over, vibrated too far in the contrary direction; and her every movement of feature--every tremor--every confused word--was taken as so much proof of her unworthiness.
"Elfride, we must bid good-bye to compliment," said Knight: "we must do without politeness now. Look in my face, and as you believe in G.o.d above, tell me truly one thing more. Were you away alone with him?"
"Yes."
"Did you return home the same day on which you left it?"
"No."
The word fell like a bolt, and the very land and sky seemed to suffer.
Knight turned aside. Meantime Elfride"s countenance wore a look indicating utter despair of being able to explain matters so that they would seem no more than they really were,--a despair which not only relinquishes the hope of direct explanation, but wearily gives up all collateral chances of extenuation.
The scene was engraved for years on the retina of Knight"s eye: the dead and brown stubble, the weeds among it, the distant belt of beeches shutting out the view of the house, the leaves of which were now red and sick to death.
"You must forget me," he said. "We shall not marry, Elfride."
How much anguish pa.s.sed into her soul at those words from him was told by the look of supreme torture she wore.
"What meaning have you, Harry? You only say so, do you?"
She looked doubtingly up at him, and tried to laugh, as if the unreality of his words must be unquestionable.
"You are not in earnest, I know--I hope you are not? Surely I belong to you, and you are going to keep me for yours?"
"Elfride, I have been speaking too roughly to you; I have said what I ought only to have thought. I like you; and let me give you a word of advice. Marry your man as soon as you can. However weary of each other you may feel, you belong to each other, and I am not going to step between you. Do you think I would--do you think I could for a moment? If you cannot marry him now, and another makes you his wife, do not reveal this secret to him after marriage, if you do not before. Honesty would be d.a.m.nation then."
Bewildered by his expressions, she exclaimed--
"No, no; I will not be a wife unless I am yours; and I must be yours!"
"If we had married----"
"But you don"t MEAN--that--that--you will go away and leave me, and not be anything more to me--oh, you don"t!"
Convulsive sobs took all nerve out of her utterance. She checked them, and continued to look in his face for the ray of hope that was not to be found there.
"I am going indoors," said Knight. "You will not follow me, Elfride; I wish you not to."
"Oh no; indeed, I will not."
"And then I am going to Castle Boterel. Good-bye."
He spoke the farewell as if it were but for the day--lightly, as he had spoken such temporary farewells many times before--and she seemed to understand it as such. Knight had not the power to tell her plainly that he was going for ever; he hardly knew for certain that he was: whether he should rush back again upon the current of an irresistible emotion, or whether he could sufficiently conquer himself, and her in him, to establish that parting as a supreme farewell, and present himself to the world again as no woman"s.
Ten minutes later he had left the house, leaving directions that if he did not return in the evening his luggage was to be sent to his chambers in London, whence he intended to write to Mr. Swancourt as to the reasons of his sudden departure. He descended the valley, and could not forbear turning his head. He saw the stubble-field, and a slight girlish figure in the midst of it--up against the sky. Elfride, docile as ever, had hardly moved a step, for he had said, Remain. He looked and saw her again--he saw her for weeks and months. He withdrew his eyes from the scene, swept his hand across them, as if to brush away the sight, breathed a low groan, and went on.