A pair of blue eyes
Knight afterwards, recognized her as Unity, who had been parlour-maid
at the vicarage and young lady’s-maid at the Crags.
“Unity,” said Stephen softly, “don’t you know me?”
She looked inquiringly a moment, and her face cleared up.
“Mr. Smith—ay, that it is!” she said. “And that’s Mr. Knight. I beg you
to sit down. Perhaps you know that since I saw you last I have married
Martin Cannister.”
“How long have you been married?”
“About five months. We were married the same day that my dear Miss
Elfie became Lady Luxellian.” Tears appeared in Unity’s 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, “Will you go into the parlour, gentlemen?”
“Let us stay here with her,” Knight whispered, and turning said, “No;
we will sit here. We want to rest and dry ourselves here for a time, if
you please.”
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 hear—the latter history of poor
Elfride.
“One day—after you, Mr. Knight, left us for the last time—she was
missed from the Crags, and her father went after her, and brought her
home ill. Where she went to, I never knew—but she was very unwell for
weeks afterwards. And she said to me that she didn’t 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, ‘Yes; I’ll do anything
for the benefit of my family, so as to turn my useless life to some
practical account.’ 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 mother—-that’s true. They
used to call her ‘little mamma.’ These children made her a shade
livelier, but she was not the girl she had been—I could see that—and
she grew thinner a good deal. Well, my lord got to ask the Swancourts
oftener and oftener to dinner—nobody else of his acquaintance—and at
last the vicar’s 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, ‘Miss Elfride, you don’t look so well as you used to; and though
nobody else seems to notice it I do.’ She laughed a little, and said,
‘I shall live to be married yet, as you told me.’
“‘Shall you, miss? I am glad to hear that,’ I said.
“‘Whom do you think I am going to be married to?’ she said again.
“‘Mr. Knight, I suppose,’ said I.
“‘Oh!’ 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, ‘Unity, now we’ll go on
with our conversation.’
“‘Better not to-day, miss,’ I said.
“‘Yes, we will,’ she said. ‘Whom do you think I am going to be married
to?’
“‘I don’t know,’ I said this time.
“‘Guess,’ she said.
“‘’Tisn’t my lord, is it?’ says I.
“‘Yes, ’tis,’ says she, in a sick wild way.
“‘But he don’t come courting much,’ I said.
‘“Ah! you don’t know,’ she said, and told me ’twas going to be in
October. After that she freshened up a bit—whether ’twas with the
thought of getting away from home or not, I don’t 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, ’twas 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 you’ll believe me, I never
saw him once with her unless the children were with her too—which 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 o’t. So
he made her the beautifullest presents; ah, one I can mind—a 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 married—it 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 weddings—hardly
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.”
“How came she to die—and away from home?” murmured Knight.
“Don’t you see, sir, she fell off again afore they’d 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 couldn’t
be moved, and there she died.”
“Was he very fond of her?”
“What, my lord? Oh, he was!”
“VERY fond of her?”
“VERY, beyond everything. Not suddenly, but by slow degrees. ’Twas her
nature to win people more when they knew her well. He’d have died for
her, I believe. Poor my lord, he’s heart-broken now!”
“The funeral is to-morrow?”
“Yes; my husband is now at the vault with the masons, opening the steps
and cleaning down the walls.”
The next day two men walked up the familiar valley from Castle Boterel
to East Endelstow Church. And when the funeral was over, and every one
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 young—younger, perhaps, than Knight—and 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 for
ever. 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.
“Come away,” he said, in a broken voice. “We have no right to be there.
Another stands before us—nearer to her than we!”
And side by side they both retraced their steps down the grey still
valley to Castle Boterel.