Half an hour has pa.s.sed. Two miserable men are wandering in the darkness up the miles of road from Camelton to Endelstow.
"Has she broken her heart?" said Henry Knight. "Can it be that I have killed her? I was bitter with her, Stephen, and she has died! And may G.o.d have NO mercy upon me!"
"How can you have killed her more than I?"
"Why, I went away from her--stole away almost--and didn"t 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 fool--a 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!"
"YOUR darling!" said Stephen, with a sort of laugh. "Any 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."
"You 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?"
Yes, she did," said Stephen emphatically.
"Not entirely. Did she ever live for you--prove she could not live without you--laugh and weep for you?"
"Yes."
"Never! Did she ever risk her life for you--no! My darling did for me."
"Then it was in kindness only. When did she risk her life for you?"
"To 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!"
"Ah, but wait," Stephen pleaded with wet eyes. "She 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?"
"You have an idea that Elfride died for you, no doubt," said Knight, with a mournful sarcasm too nerveless to support itself.
"Never mind. If we find that--that she died yours, I"ll say no more ever."
"And if we find she died yours, I"ll say no more."
"Very well--so it shall be."
The dark clouds into which the sun had sunk had begun to drop rain in an increasing volume.
"Can we wait somewhere here till this shower is over?" said Stephen desultorily.
"As you will. But it is not worth while. We"ll hear the particulars, and return. Don"t let people know who we are. I am not much now."
They had reached a point at which the road branched into two--just outside the west village, one fork of the diverging routes pa.s.sing 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 hea.r.s.e was only a little in advance of them.
"I fancy it has turned off to East Endelstow. Can you see?"
"I cannot. You must be mistaken."
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 over-coat or umbrella, and with a parcel under his arm.
"A wet evening," he said to the two friends, and pa.s.sed 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.
"I have walked all the way from Camelton," said the latter. "Was obliged to come to-night, you know."
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.
"I suppose you know what I"ve got here?" he observed to the smith.
"No, I don"t," said the smith, pausing again on his bellows.
"As the rain"s not over, I"ll show you," 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 smith"s inspection.
"Oh--I see!" said the smith, kindling with a chastened interest, and drawing close. "Poor young lady--ah, terrible melancholy thing--so soon too!"
Knight and Stephen turned their heads and looked.
"And what"s that?" continued the smith.
"That"s the coronet--beautifully finished, isn"t it? Ah, that cost some money!"
""Tis as fine a bit of metal work as ever I see--that "tis."
"It 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. I"ve got to fix it on this very night."
The carefully-packed articles were a coffin-plate and coronet.
Knight and Stephen came forward. The undertaker"s 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:
E L F R I D E, Wife of Spenser Hugo Luxellian, Fifteenth Baron Luxellian: Died February 10, 18--.
They read it, and read it, and read it again--Stephen and Knight--as if animated by one soul. Then Stephen put his hand upon Knight"s arm, and they retired from the yellow glow, further, further, till the chill darkness enclosed them round, and the quiet sky a.s.serted its presence overhead as a dim grey sheet of blank monotony.
"Where shall we go?" said Stephen.
"I don"t know."
A long silence ensued...."Elfride married!" said Stephen then in a thin whisper, as if he feared to let the a.s.sertion loose on the world.
"False," whispered Knight.
"And dead. Denied us both. I hate "false"--I hate it!"