“What did she do that for?” Edred asked.
“To see if her sweetheart’s ship wasn’t a-coming home. For she’d got a sweetheart right enough, she had, unbeknown to all. It was her cousin Dick—a ne’er-do-weel, if ever there was one—and it turned out afterwards she’d broken the sixpence with him and swore to be ever true, and he’d gone overseas to find a fortune. And so she watched the sea every day regular, and every day regular he didn’t come. But every day another young chap used to come a-riding—a fine young gentleman and well-to-do, but he was the same kidney as Master Dick, only he’d got a fine fortune, so his wild oats never got a chance to grow strong like Dick’s.”
“Poor Dick!” said Elfrida.
“Not so fast, missy,” said the old man. “Well, her father and mother, they said, ‘Have him that’s here and loves you, dear,’ as the saying is—a Frewin he was, and his christened name Arnold. And she says ‘No.’ But they keeps on saying ‘Yes,’ and he keeps on saying ‘Do!’ So they wears her down, telling her Dick was drowned dead for sure, and I don’t know what all. And at last she says, ‘Very well, then, I’ll marry you—if you can stand to marry a girl that’s got all her heart in the sea along of a dead young chap as she was promised to.’ And the wedding was set for Christmas. Miss Elfrida, she slep’ in the room in the East House that looks out towards Arden Knoll, and the servants in the attics, and the old people in the other part of the house.
“And that night, when all was asleep, I think she heard a tap, tap at her window, and at first she’d think it was the ivy—but no. So presently she’d take heart to go to the window, and there was a face outside that had climbed up by the ivy, and it was her own true love that they’d told her was drowned.”
“How splendid!” said Edred.
“How dreadful for Mr. Frewin,” said Elfrida.
“That’s what she thought, miss, and she couldn’t face it. So she puts on her riding-coat and she gets out of window and down the ivy with him, and off to London. And in the morning, when the bells began to ring for her wedding, and the bridegroom came, there wasn’t no bride for him. She left a letter to say she was very sorry, but it had to be. So then they shut up the East House.”
“So that’s the story,” said Elfrida.
“Half of it, miss,” said old Beale, and he took out a black clay pipe and a screw of tobacco, and very slowly and carefully filled the pipe and lighted it, before he went on, “They shut up the East House, where she’d been used to sleep; but it was kep’ swep’ and dusted, and the old folks was broken-hearted, for never a word come from Miss Elfrida. An’ if I know anything of the feelings of a parent, they kept on saying to each other, ‘She might ha’ trusted us. She might ’a’ known we’d never ’a’ denied her nothing.’ And then one night there was a knock at the door, and there was Miss Elfrida that was—Mrs. Dick now—with her baby in her arms. Mr. Dick was dead, sudden in a accident, and she’d come home to her father and mother. They couldn’t make enough of the poor young thing and her baby. She had her old rooms and there she lived, and she was getting a bit happier and worshipping of her baby and the old people worshipping it and her too. And then one night some one comes up the ivy, same as Master Dick did, and takes away—not her—but the baby.”