When did she risk her life for you

'YOUR darling!' said Stephen, with a sort of laugh. 'Any man can say that, I suppose; any man can. I know this, she was MY darling before she was yours; and after too. If anybody has a right to call her his own, it is I.' 'You talk like a man in the dark; which is what you are. Did she ever do anything for you? Risk her name, for instance, for you?' Yes, she did,' said Stephen emphatically. 'Not entirely. Did she ever live for you--prove she could not live without you--laugh and weep for you?' 'Yes.' 'Never! Did she ever risk her life for you--no! My darling did for me.' 'Then it was in kindness only. When did she risk her life for you?' 'To save mine on the cliff yonder. The poor child was with me looking at the approach of the Puffin steamboat, and I slipped down. We both had a narrow escape. I wish we had died there!' 'Ah, but wait,' Stephen pleaded with wet eyes. 'She went on that cliff to see me arrive home: she had promised it. She told me she would months before. And would she have gone there if she had not cared for me at all?' 'You have an idea that Elfride died for you, no doubt,' said Knight, with a mournful sarcasm too nerveless to support itself. 'Never mind. If we find that--that she died yours, I'll say no more ever.' 'And if we find she died yours, I'll say no more.' 'Very well--so it shall be.' The dark clouds into which the sun had sunk had begun to drop rain in an increasing volume. 'Can we wait somewhere here till this shower is over?' said Stephen desultorily. 'As you will. But it is not worth while. We'll hear the particulars, and return. Don't let people know who we are. I am not much now.' They had reached a point at which the road branched into two--just outside the west village, one fork of the diverging routes passing into the latter place, the other stretching on to East Endelstow. Having come some of the distance by the footpath, they now found that the hearse was only a little in advance of them.

in a voice so hollow that the man

Presently they began to come out, two and two; and under the rays of the lamp they were seen to bear between them a light-coloured coffin of satin-wood, brightly polished, and without a nail. The eight men took the burden upon their shoulders, and slowly crossed with it over to the gate. Knight and Stephen went outside, and came close to the procession as it moved off. A carriage belonging to the cortege turned round close to a lamp. The rays shone in upon the face of the vicar of Endelstow, Mr. Swancourt--looking many years older than when they had last seen him. Knight and Stephen involuntarily drew back. Knight spoke to a bystander. 'What has Mr. Swancourt to do with that funeral?' 'He is the lady's father,' said the bystander. 'What lady's father?' said Knight, in a voice so hollow that the man stared at him. 'The father of the lady in the coffin. She died in London, you know, and has been brought here by this train. She is to be taken home to-night, and buried to-morrow.' Knight stood staring blindly at where the hearse had been; as if he saw it, or some one, there. Then he turned, and beheld the lithe form of Stephen bowed down like that of an old man. He took his young friend's arm, and led him away from the light. Chapter 40 'Welcome, proud lady.' Half an hour has passed. Two miserable men are wandering in the darkness up the miles of road from Camelton to Endelstow. 'Has she broken her heart?' said Henry Knight. 'Can it be that I have killed her? I was bitter with her, Stephen, and she has died! And may God have NO mercy upon me!' 'How can you have killed her more than I?' 'Why, I went away from her--stole away almost--and didn't tell her I should not come again; and at that last meeting I did not kiss her once, but let her miserably go. I have been a fool--a fool! I wish the most abject confession of it before crowds of my countrymen could in any way make amends to my darling for the intense cruelty I have shown her!'

the house as an old friend any more than you can

He turned and said to her, "I thought you were in the vault below us; but that could have only been a dream of mine. Come on." Then she came on. And in brushing between us she chilled me so with cold that I exclaimed, "The life is gone out of me!" and, in the way of dreams, I awoke. But here we are at Camelton.' They were slowly entering the station. 'What are you going to do?' said Knight. 'Do you really intend to call on the Swancourts?' 'By no means. I am going to make inquiries first. I shall stay at the Luxellian Arms to-night. You will go right on to Endelstow, I suppose, at once?' 'I can hardly do that at this time of the day. Perhaps you are not aware that the family--her father, at any rate--is at variance with me as much as with you. 'I didn't know it.' 'And that I cannot rush into the house as an old friend any more than you can. Certainly I have the privileges of a distant relationship, whatever they may be.' Knight let down the window, and looked ahead. 'There are a great many people at the station,' he said. 'They seem all to be on the look-out for us.' When the train stopped, the half-estranged friends could perceive by the lamplight that the assemblage of idlers enclosed as a kernel a group of men in black cloaks. A side gate in the platform railing was open, and outside this stood a dark vehicle, which they could not at first characterize. Then Knight saw on its upper part forms against the sky like cedars by night, and knew the vehicle to be a hearse. Few people were at the carriage doors to meet the passengers --the majority had congregated at this upper end. Knight and Stephen alighted, and turned for a moment in the same direction. The sombre van, which had accompanied them all day from London, now began to reveal that their destination was also its own. It had been drawn up exactly opposite the open gate. The bystanders all fell back, forming a clear lane from the gateway to the van, and the men in cloaks entered the latter conveyance. 'They are labourers, I fancy,' said Stephen. 'Ah, it is strange; but I recognize three of them as Endelstow men. Rather remarkable this.'

all nature wearing the cloak that

Stephen's naturally gentle nature was touched, and it was in a troubled voice that he said, 'Yes, yes. I am unjust in that--I own it.' 'This is St. Launce's Station, I think. Are you going to get out?' Knight's manner of returning to the matter in hand drew Stephen again into himself. 'No; I told you I was going to Endelstow,' he resolutely replied. Knight's features became impassive, and he said no more. The train continued rattling on, and Stephen leant back in his corner and closed his eyes. The yellows of evening had turned to browns, the dusky shades thickened, and a flying cloud of dust occasionally stroked the window--borne upon a chilling breeze which blew from the north-east. The previously gilded but now dreary hills began to lose their daylight aspects of rotundity, and to become black discs vandyked against the sky, all nature wearing the cloak that six o'clock casts over the landscape at this time of the year. Stephen started up in bewilderment after a long stillness, and it was some time before he recollected himself. 'Well, how real, how real!' he exclaimed, brushing his hand across his eyes. 'What is?' said Knight. 'That dream. I fell asleep for a few minutes, and have had a dream--the most vivid I ever remember.' He wearily looked out into the gloom. They were now drawing near to Camelton. The lighting of the lamps was perceptible through the veil of evening--each flame starting into existence at intervals, and blinking weakly against the gusts of wind. 'What did you dream?' said Knight moodily. 'Oh, nothing to be told. 'Twas a sort of incubus. There is never anything in dreams.' 'I hardly supposed there was.' 'I know that. However, what I so vividly dreamt was this, since you would like to hear. It was the brightest of bright mornings at East Endelstow Church, and you and I stood by the font. Far away in the chancel Lord Luxellian was standing alone, cold and impassive, and utterly unlike his usual self: but I knew it was he. Inside the altar rail stood a strange clergyman with his book open. He looked up and said to Lord Luxellian, "Where's the bride?" Lord Luxellian said, "There's no bride." At that moment somebody came in at the door, and I knew her to be Lady Luxellian who died.

together for the remaining distance

Smith then perceived that to their train was attached that same carriage of grand and dark aspect which had haunted them all the way from London. 'You are going on, I suppose?' said Knight, turning to Stephen, after idly looking at the same object. 'Yes.' 'We may as well travel together for the remaining distance, may we not?' 'Certainly we will;' and they both entered the same door. Evening drew on apace. It chanced to be the eve of St. Valentine's--that bishop of blessed memory to youthful lovers--and the sun shone low under the rim of a thick hard cloud, decorating the eminences of the landscape with crowns of orange fire. As the train changed its direction on a curve, the same rays stretched in through the window, and coaxed open Knight's half-closed eyes. 'You will get out at St. Launce's, I suppose?' he murmured. 'No,' said Stephen, 'I am not expected till to-morrow.' Knight was silent. 'And you--are you going to Endelstow?' said the younger man pointedly. 'Since you ask, I can do no less than say I am, Stephen,' continued Knight slowly, and with more resolution of manner than he had shown all the day. 'I am going to Endelstow to see if Elfride Swancourt is still free; and if so, to ask her to be my wife.' 'So am I,' said Stephen Smith. 'I think you'll lose your labour,' Knight returned with decision. 'Naturally you do.' There was a strong accent of bitterness in Stephen's voice. 'You might have said HOPE instead of THINK,' he added. 'I might have done no such thing. I gave you my opinion. Elfride Swancourt may have loved you once, no doubt, but it was when she was so young that she hardly knew her own mind.'

Rose darted down the steps before astonished

   "I'm not afraid. Girls are not good for much generally, but you never used to mind a little wet and played cricket like a good one. Can't you ever do that sort of thing now?" asked the boy, with a pitying look at these hapless creatures debarred from the joys and perils of manly sports.    "I can run still and I'll get to the gate before you, see if I don't." And, yielding to the impulse of the moment, Rose darted down the steps before astonished Jamie could mount and follow.    He was off in a moment, but Rose had the start, and though old Sheltie did his best, she reached the goal just ahead, and stood there laughing and panting, all rosy with fresh October air, a pretty picture for several gentlemen who were driving by.    "Good for you, Rose!" said Archie, jumping out to shake hands while Will and Geordie saluted and Uncle Mac laughed at Jamie, who looked as if girls had risen slightly in his opinion.      "I'm glad it is you, because you won't be shocked. But I'm so happy to be back I forgot I was not little Rose still," said Atalanta, smoothing down her flying hair.    "You look very like her, with the curls on your shoulders in the old way. I missed them last night and wondered what it was. How are Uncle and Phebe?" asked Archie, whose eyes had been looking over Rose's head while he spoke toward the piazza, where a female figure was visible among the reddening woodbines.    "All well, thanks. Won't you come up and see for yourselves?"    "Can't, my dear, can't possibly. Business, you know, business. This fellow is my right-hand man, and I can't spare him a minute. Come, Arch, we must be off, or these boys will miss their train," answered Uncle Mac, pulling out his watch.    With a last look from the light-haired figure at the gate to the dark-haired one among the vines, Archie drove away and Jamie cantered after, consoling himself for his defeat with apple number two.

There was only one boy now

   "Yes, indeed, and speaking of angels, one is apt to hear the rustling of their wings," added Rose, as a shrill whistle came up the avenue accompanied by the clatter of hoofs.    "It is the circus!" cried Phebe gaily as they both recalled the red cart and the charge of the Clan.      There was only one boy now, alas, but he made noise enough for half a dozen, and before Rose could run to the door, Jamie came bouncing in with a "shining morning face," a bat over his shoulder, a red and white jockey cap on his head, one pocket bulging with a big ball, the other overflowing with cookies, and his mouth full of the apple he was just finishing off in hot haste.    "Morning! I just looked in to make sure you'd really come and see that you were all right," he observed, saluting with bat and doffing the gay cap with one effective twitch.    "Good morning, dear. Yes, we really are here, and getting to rights as fast as possible. But it seems to me you are rather gorgeous, Jamie. What do you belong to a fire company or a jockey club?" asked Rose, turning up the once chubby face, which now was getting brown and square about the chin.    "No, ma'am! Why, don't you know? I'm captain of the Base Ball Star Club. Look at that, will you?" And, as if the fact were one of national importance, Jamie flung open his jacket to display upon his proudly swelling chest an heart-shaped red flannel shield decorated with a white cotton star the size of a tea plate.    "Superb! I've been away so long I forgot there was such a game. And you the captain?" cried Rose, deeply impressed by the high honor to which her kinsman had arrived.      "I just am, and it's no joke you'd better believe, for we knock our teeth out, black our eyes, and split our fingers almost as well as the big fellows. You come down to the Common between one and two and see us play a match, then you'll understand what hard work it is. I'll teach you to bat now if you'll come out on the lawn," added Jamie, fired with a wish to exhibit his prowess.    "No, thank you, captain. The grass is wet, and you'll be late at school if you stay for us."