“No; it will not do. It is my utter foolishness that makes me say such words. But he will send for you.”
“Say to him,” continued Stephen, “that we did this in the absolute despair of our minds. Tell him we don’t wish him to favour us—only to deal justly with us. If he says, marry now, so much the better. If not, say that all may be put right by his promise to allow me to have you when I am good enough for you—which may be soon. Say I have nothing to offer him in exchange for his treasure—the more sorry I; but all the love, and all the life, and all the labour of an honest man shall be yours. As to when this had better be told, I leave you to judge.”
His words made her cheerful enough to toy with her position.
“And if ill report should come, Stephen,” she said smiling, “why, the orange-tree must save me, as it saved virgins in St. George’s time from the poisonous breath of the dragon. There, forgive me for forwardness: I am going.”
Then the boy and girl beguiled themselves with words of half-parting only.
“Own wifie, God bless you till we meet again!”
“Till we meet again, good-bye!”
And the pony went on, and she spoke to him no more. He saw her figure diminish and her blue veil grow gray—saw it with the agonizing sensations of a slow death.
After thus parting from a man than whom she had known none greater as yet, Elfride rode rapidly onwards, a tear being occasionally shaken from her eyes into the road. What yesterday had seemed so desirable, so promising, even trifling, had now acquired the complexion of a tragedy.
She saw the rocks and sea in the neighbourhood of Endelstow, and heaved a sigh of relief.