A pair of blue eyes
more prominent than the dignity of man and woman. Then Pansy became
restless. Elfride recovered her position and remembered herself.
“You make me behave in not a nice way at all!” she exclaimed, in a tone
neither of pleasure nor anger, but partaking of both. “I ought not to
have allowed such a romp! We are too old now for that sort of thing.”
“I hope you don’t think me too—too much of a creeping-round sort of
man,” said he in a penitent tone, conscious that he too had lost a
little dignity by the proceeding.
“You are too familiar; and I can’t have it! Considering the shortness
of the time we have known each other, Mr. Smith, you take too much upon
you. You think I am a country girl, and it doesn’t matter how you
behave to me!”
“I assure you, Miss Swancourt, that I had no idea of freak in my mind.
I wanted to imprint a sweet—serious kiss upon your hand; and that’s
all.”
“Now, that’s creeping round again! And you mustn’t look into my eyes
so,” she said, shaking her head at him, and trotting on a few paces in
advance. Thus she led the way out of the lane and across some fields in
the direction of the cliffs. At the boundary of the fields nearest the
sea she expressed a wish to dismount. The horse was tied to a post, and
they both followed an irregular path, which ultimately terminated upon
a flat ledge passing round the face of the huge blue-black rock at a
height about midway between the sea and the topmost verge. There, far
beneath and before them, lay the everlasting stretch of ocean; there,
upon detached rocks, were the white screaming gulls, seeming ever
intending to settle, and yet always passing on. Right and left ranked
the toothed and zigzag line of storm-torn heights, forming the series
which culminated in the one beneath their feet.
Behind the youth and maiden was a tempting alcove and seat, formed
naturally in the beetling mass, and wide enough to admit two or three
persons. Elfride sat down, and Stephen sat beside her.
“I am afraid it is hardly proper of us to be here, either,” she said
half inquiringly. “We have not known each other long enough for this
kind of thing, have we!”
“Oh yes,” he replied judicially; “quite long enough.”
“How do you know?”
“It is not length of time, but the manner in which our minutes beat,
that makes enough or not enough in our acquaintanceship.”
“Yes, I see that. But I wish papa suspected or knew what a VERY NEW
THING I am doing. He does not think of it at all.”
“Darling Elfie, I wish we could be married! It is wrong for me to say
it—I know it is—before you know more; but I wish we might be, all the
same. Do you love me deeply, deeply?”
“No!” she said in a fluster.
At this point-blank denial, Stephen turned his face away decisively,
and preserved an ominous silence; the only objects of interest on earth
for him being apparently the three or four-score sea-birds circling in
the air afar off.
“I didn’t mean to stop you quite,” she faltered with some alarm; and
seeing that he still remained silent, she added more anxiously, “If you
say that again, perhaps, I will not be quite—quite so obstinate—if—if
you don’t like me to be.”
“Oh, my Elfride!” he exclaimed, and kissed her.
It was Elfride’s first kiss. And so awkward and unused was she; full of
striving—no relenting. There was none of those apparent struggles to
get out of the trap which only results in getting further in: no final
attitude of receptivity: no easy close of shoulder to shoulder, hand
upon hand, face upon face, and, in spite of coyness, the lips in the
right place at the supreme moment. That graceful though apparently
accidental falling into position, which many have noticed as
precipitating the end and making sweethearts the sweeter, was not here.
Why? Because experience was absent. A woman must have had many kisses
before she kisses well.
In fact, the art of tendering the lips for these amatory salutes
follows the principles laid down in treatises on legerdemain for
performing the trick called Forcing a Card. The card is to be shifted
nimbly, withdrawn, edged under, and withal not to be offered till the
moment the unsuspecting person’s hand reaches the pack; this forcing to
be done so modestly and yet so coaxingly, that the person trifled with
imagines he is really choosing what is in fact thrust into his hand.
Well, there were no such facilities now; and Stephen was conscious of
it—first with a momentary regret that his kiss should be spoilt by her
confused receipt of it, and then with the pleasant perception that her
awkwardness was her charm.
“And you do care for me and love me?” said he.
“Yes.”
“Very much?”
“Yes.”
“And I mustn’t ask you if you’ll wait for me, and be my wife some day?”
“Why not?” she said naively.
“There is a reason why, my Elfride.”
“Not any one that I know of.”
“Suppose there is something connected with me which makes it almost
impossible for you to agree to be my wife, or for your father to
countenance such an idea?”
“Nothing shall make me cease to love you: no blemish can be found upon
your personal nature. That is pure and generous, I know; and having
that, how can I be cold to you?”
“And shall nothing else affect us—shall nothing beyond my nature be a
part of my quality in your eyes, Elfie?”
“Nothing whatever,” she said with a breath of relief. “Is that all?
Some outside circumstance? What do I care?”
“You can hardly judge, dear, till you know what has to be judged. For
that, we will stop till we get home. I believe in you, but I cannot
feel bright.”
“Love is new, and fresh to us as the dew; and we are together. As the
lover’s world goes, this is a great deal. Stephen, I fancy I see the
difference between me and you—between men and women generally, perhaps.
I am content to build happiness on any accidental basis that may lie
near at hand; you are for making a world to suit your happiness.”
“Elfride, you sometimes say things which make you seem suddenly to
become five years older than you are, or than I am; and that remark is
one. I couldn’t think so OLD as that, try how I might....And no lover
has ever kissed you before?”
“Never.”
“I knew that; you were so unused. You ride well, but you don’t kiss
nicely at all; and I was told once, by my friend Knight, that that is
an excellent fault in woman.”
“Now, come; I must mount again, or we shall not be home by
dinner-time.” And they returned to where Pansy stood tethered. “Instead
of entrusting my weight to a young man’s unstable palm,” she continued
gaily, “I prefer a surer ‘upping-stock’ (as the villagers call it), in
the form of a gate. There—now I am myself again.”
They proceeded homeward at the same walking pace.
Her blitheness won Stephen out of his thoughtfulness, and each forgot
everything but the tone of the moment.
“What did you love me for?” she said, after a long musing look at a
flying bird.
“I don’t know,” he replied idly.
“Oh yes, you do,” insisted Elfride.
“Perhaps, for your eyes.”
“What of them?—now, don’t vex me by a light answer. What of my eyes?”
“Oh, nothing to be mentioned. They are indifferently good.”
“Come, Stephen, I won’t have that. What did you love me for?”
“It might have been for your mouth?”
“Well, what about my mouth?”
“I thought it was a passable mouth enough——”
“That’s not very comforting.”
“With a pretty pout and sweet lips; but actually, nothing more than
what everybody has.”
“Don’t make up things out of your head as you go on, there’s a dear
Stephen. Now—what—did—you—love—me—for?”
“Perhaps, ’twas for your neck and hair; though I am not sure: or for
your idle blood, that did nothing but wander away from your cheeks and
back again; but I am not sure. Or your hands and arms, that they
eclipsed all other hands and arms; or your feet, that they played about
under your dress like little mice; or your tongue, that it was of a
dear delicate tone. But I am not altogether sure.”
“Ah, that’s pretty to say; but I don’t care for your love, if it made a
mere flat picture of me in that way, and not being sure, and such cold
reasoning; but what you FELT I was, you know, Stephen” (at this a
stealthy laugh and frisky look into his face), “when you said to
yourself, ‘I’ll certainly love that young lady.’”
“I never said it.”
“When you said to yourself, then, ‘I never will love that young lady.’”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
“Then was it, ‘I suppose I must love that young lady?’”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“’Twas much more fluctuating—not so definite.”
“Tell me; do, do.”
“It was that I ought not to think about you if I loved you truly.”
“Ah, that I don’t understand. There’s no getting it out of you. And
I’ll not ask you ever any more—never more—to say out of the deep
reality of your heart what you loved me for.”
“Sweet tantalizer, what’s the use? It comes to this sole simple thing:
That at one time I had never seen you, and I didn’t love you; that then
I saw you, and I did love you. Is that enough?”
“Yes; I will make it do....I know, I think, what I love you for. You
are nice-looking, of course; but I didn’t mean for that. It is because
you are so docile and gentle.”
“Those are not quite the correct qualities for a man to be loved for,”
said Stephen, in rather a dissatisfied tone of self-criticism. “Well,
never mind. I must ask your father to allow us to be engaged directly
we get indoors. It will be for a long time.”
“I like it the better....Stephen, don’t mention it till to-morrow.”
“Why?”
“Because, if he should object—I don’t think he will; but if he
should—we shall have a day longer of happiness from our
ignorance....Well, what are you thinking of so deeply?”
“I was thinking how my dear friend Knight would enjoy this scene. I
wish he could come here.”
“You seem very much engrossed with him,” she answered, with a jealous
little toss. “He must be an interesting man to take up so much of your
attention.”
“Interesting!” said Stephen, his face glowing with his fervour; “noble,
you ought to say.”
“Oh yes, yes; I forgot,” she said half satirically. “The noblest man in
England, as you told us last night.”
“He is a fine fellow, laugh as you will, Miss Elfie.”
“I know he is your hero. But what does he do? anything?”
“He writes.”
“What does he write? I have never heard of his name.”
“Because his personality, and that of several others like him, is
absorbed into a huge WE, namely, the impalpable entity called the
PRESENT—a social and literary Review.”
“Is he only a reviewer?”
“ONLY, Elfie! Why, I can tell you it is a fine thing to be on the staff
of the PRESENT. Finer than being a novelist considerably.”
“That’s a hit at me, and my poor COURT OF KELLYON CASTLE.”
“No, Elfride,” he whispered; “I didn’t mean that. I mean that he is
really a literary man of some eminence, and not altogether a reviewer.
He writes things of a higher class than reviews, though he reviews a
book occasionally. His ordinary productions are social and ethical
essays—all that the PRESENT contains which is not literary reviewing.”
“I admit he must be talented if he writes for the PRESENT. We have it
sent to us irregularly. I want papa to be a subscriber, but he’s so
conservative. Now the next point in this Mr. Knight—I suppose he is a
very good man.”
“An excellent man. I shall try to be his intimate friend some day.”
“But aren’t you now?”
“No; not so much as that,” replied Stephen, as if such a supposition
were extravagant. “You see, it was in this way—he came originally from
the same place as I, and taught me things; but I am not intimate with
him. Shan’t I be glad when I get richer and better known, and hob and
nob with him!” Stephen’s eyes sparkled.
A pout began to shape itself upon Elfride’s soft lips. “You think