“Good heavens, Elfride,” Knight exclaimed, “how pale you are! I suppose I ought not to have taken you into that vault. What is the matter?”
“Nothing,” said Elfride faintly. “I shall be myself in a moment. All was so strange and unexpected down there, that it made me unwell.”
“I thought you said very little. Shall I get some water?”
“No, no.”
“Do you think it is safe for you to mount?”
“Quite—indeed it is,” she said, with a look of appeal.
“Now then—up she goes!” whispered Knight, and lifted her tenderly into the saddle.
Her old lover still looked on at the performance as he leant over the gate a dozen yards off. Once in the saddle, and having a firm grip of the reins, she turned her head as if by a resistless fascination, and for the first time since that memorable parting on the moor outside St. Launce’s after the passionate attempt at marriage with him, Elfride looked in the face of the young man she first had loved. He was the youth who had called her his inseparable wife many a time, and whom she had even addressed as her husband. Their eyes met. Measurement of life should be proportioned rather to the intensity of the experience than to its actual length. Their glance, but a moment chronologically, was a season in their history. To Elfride the intense agony of reproach in Stephen’s eye was a nail piercing her heart with a deadliness no words can describe. With a spasmodic effort she withdrew her eyes, urged on the horse, and in the chaos of perturbed memories was oblivious of any presence beside her. The deed of deception was complete.
Gaining a knoll on which the park transformed itself into wood and copse, Knight came still closer to her side, and said, “Are you better now, dearest?”
“Oh yes.” She pressed a hand to her eyes, as if to blot out the image of Stephen. A vivid scarlet spot now shone with preternatural brightness in the centre of each cheek, leaving the remainder of her face lily-white as before.