LITMIR.BIZ

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papa object? An architect in London is an architect in London. Who inquires there? Nobody. We shall live there, shall we not? Why need we be so alarmed?’

      ‘And Elfie,’ said Stephen, his hopes kindling with hers, ‘Knight thinks nothing of my being only a cottager’s son; he says I am as worthy of his friendship as if I were a lord’s; and if I am worthy of his friendship, I am worthy of you, am I not, Elfride?’

      ‘I not only have never loved anybody but you,’ she said, instead of giving an answer, ‘but I have not even formed a strong friendship, such as you have for Knight. I wish you hadn’t. It diminishes me.’

      ‘Now, Elfride, you know better,’ he said wooingly. ‘And had you really never any sweetheart at all?’

      ‘None that was ever recognized by me as such.’

      ‘But did nobody ever love you?’

      ‘Yes—a man did once; very much, he said.’

      ‘How long ago?’

      ‘Oh, a long time.’

      ‘How long, dearest?

      ‘A twelvemonth.’

      ‘That’s not VERY long’ (rather disappointedly).

      ‘I said long, not very long.’

      ‘And did he want to marry you?’

      ‘I believe he did. But I didn’t see anything in him. He was not good enough, even if I had loved him.’

      ‘May I ask what he was?’

      ‘A farmer.’

      ‘A farmer not good enough—how much better than my family!’ Stephen murmured.

      ‘Where is he now?’ he continued to Elfride.

      ‘HERE.’

      ‘Here! what do you mean by that?’

      ‘I mean that he is here.’

      ‘Where here?’

      ‘Under us. He is under this tomb. He is dead, and we are sitting on his grave.’

      ‘Elfie,’ said the young man, standing up and looking at the tomb, ‘how odd and sad that revelation seems! It quite depresses me for the moment.’

      ‘Stephen! I didn’t wish to sit here; but you would do so.’

      ‘You never encouraged him?’

      ‘Never by look, word, or sign,’ she said solemnly. ‘He died of consumption, and was buried the day you first came.’

      ‘Let us go away. I don’t like standing by HIM, even if you never loved him. He was BEFORE me.’

      ‘Worries make you unreasonable,’ she half pouted, following Stephen at the distance of a few steps. ‘Perhaps I ought to have told you before we sat down. Yes; let us go.’

Chapter IX

       Table of Contents

      ‘Her father did fume’

      Oppressed, in spite of themselves, by a foresight of impending complications, Elfride and Stephen returned down the hill hand in hand. At the door they paused wistfully, like children late at school.

      Women accept their destiny more readily than men. Elfride had now resigned herself to the overwhelming idea of her lover’s sorry antecedents; Stephen had not forgotten the trifling grievance that Elfride had known earlier admiration than his own.

      ‘What was that young man’s name?’ he inquired.

      ‘Felix Jethway; a widow’s only son.’

      ‘I remember the family.’

      ‘She hates me now. She says I killed him.’

      Stephen mused, and they entered the porch.

      ‘Stephen, I love only you,’ she tremulously whispered. He pressed her fingers, and the trifling shadow passed away, to admit again the mutual and more tangible trouble.

      The study appeared to be the only room lighted up. They entered, each with a demeanour intended to conceal the inconcealable fact that reciprocal love was their dominant chord. Elfride perceived a man, sitting with his back towards herself, talking to her father. She would have retired, but Mr. Swancourt had seen her.

      ‘Come in,’ he said; ‘it is only Martin Cannister, come for a copy of the register for poor Mrs. Jethway.’

      Martin Cannister, the sexton, was rather a favourite with Elfride. He used to absorb her attention by telling her of his strange experiences in digging up after long years the bodies of persons he had known, and recognizing them by some little sign (though in reality he had never recognized any). He had shrewd small eyes and a great wealth of double chin, which compensated in some measure for considerable poverty of nose.

      The appearance of a slip of paper in Cannister’s hand, and a few shillings lying on the table in front of him, denoted that the business had been transacted, and the tenor of their conversation went to show that a summary of village news was now engaging the attention of parishioner and parson.

      Mr. Cannister stood up and touched his forehead over his eye with his finger, in respectful salutation of Elfride, gave half as much salute to Stephen (whom he, in common with other villagers, had never for a moment recognized), then sat down again and resumed his discourse.

      ‘Where had I got on to, sir?’

      ‘To driving the pile,’ said Mr. Swancourt.

      ‘The pile ’twas. So, as I was saying, Nat was driving the pile in this manner, as I might say.’ Here Mr. Cannister held his walking-stick scrupulously vertical with his left hand, and struck a blow with great force on the knob of the stick with his right. ‘John was steadying the pile so, as I might say.’ Here he gave the stick a slight shake, and looked firmly in the various eyes around to see that before proceeding further his listeners well grasped the subject at that stage. ‘Well, when Nat had struck some half-dozen blows more upon the pile, ‘a stopped for a second or two. John, thinking he had done striking, put his hand upon the top o’ the pile to gie en a pull, and see if ‘a were firm in the ground.’ Mr. Cannister spread his hand over the top of the stick, completely covering it with his palm. ‘Well, so to speak, Nat hadn’t maned to stop striking, and when John had put his hand upon the pile, the beetle——’

      ‘Oh dreadful!’ said Elfride.

      ‘The beetle was already coming down, you see, sir. Nat just caught sight of his hand, but couldn’t stop the blow in time. Down came the beetle upon poor John Smith’s hand, and squashed en to a pummy.’

      ‘Dear me, dear me! poor fellow!’ said the vicar, with an intonation like the groans of the wounded in a pianoforte performance of the ‘Battle of Prague.’

      ‘John Smith, the master-mason?’ cried Stephen hurriedly.

      ‘Ay, no other; and a better-hearted man God A’mighty never made.’

      ‘Is he so much hurt?’

      ‘I have heard,’ said Mr. Swancourt, not noticing Stephen, ‘that he has a son in London, a very promising young fellow.’

      ‘Oh, how he must be hurt!’ repeated Stephen.

      ‘A beetle couldn’t hurt very little. Well, sir, good-night t’ye; and ye, sir; and you, miss, I’m sure.’

      Mr. Cannister had been making unnoticeable motions of withdrawal, and by the time this farewell remark came from his lips he was just outside the door of the room. He tramped along the hall,

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