“Elfride, four-and-twenty hours have passed, and the thing is not done.”
“But you have insured that it shall be done.”
“How have I?”
“O Stephen, you ask how! Do you think I could marry another man on earth after having gone thus far with you? Have I not shown beyond possibility of doubt that I can be nobody else’s? Have I not irretrievably committed myself?—pride has stood for nothing in the face of my great love. You misunderstood my turning back, and I cannot explain it. It was wrong to go with you at all; and though it would have been worse to go further, it would have been better policy, perhaps. Be assured of this, that whenever you have a home for me—however poor and humble—and come and claim me, I am ready.” She added bitterly, “When my father knows of this day’s work, he may be only too glad to let me go.”
“Perhaps he may, then, insist upon our marriage at once!” Stephen answered, seeing a ray of hope in the very focus of her remorse. “I hope he may, even if we had still to part till I am ready for you, as we intended.”
Elfride did not reply.
“You don’t seem the same woman, Elfie, that you were yesterday.”
“Nor am I. But good-bye. Go back now.” And she reined the horse for parting. “O Stephen,” she cried, “I feel so weak! I don’t know how to meet him. Cannot you, after all, come back with me?”
“Shall I come?”
Elfride paused to think.