A Pair of Blue Eyes | Page 8

faithfully, WALTER HEWBY.'
Chapter III
'Melodious birds sing madrigals'
That first repast in Endelstow Vicarage was a very agreeable one to
young Stephen Smith. The table was spread, as Elfride had suggested
to her father, with the materials for the heterogeneous meal called high

tea--a class of refection welcome to all when away from men and towns,
and particularly attractive to youthful palates. The table was prettily
decked with winter flowers and leaves, amid which the eye was greeted
by chops, chicken, pie, &c., and two huge pasties overhanging the sides
of the dish with a cheerful aspect of abundance.
At the end, towards the fireplace, appeared the tea-service, of
old-fashioned Worcester porcelain, and behind this arose the slight
form of Elfride, attempting to add matronly dignity to the movement of
pouring out tea, and to have a weighty and concerned look in matters of
marmalade, honey, and clotted cream. Having made her own meal
before he arrived, she found to her embarrassment that there was
nothing left for her to do but talk when not assisting him. She asked
him if he would excuse her finishing a letter she had been writing at a
side-table, and, after sitting down to it, tingled with a sense of being
grossly rude. However, seeing that he noticed nothing personally
wrong in her, and that he too was embarrassed when she attentively
watched his cup to refill it, Elfride became better at ease; and when
furthermore he accidentally kicked the leg of the table, and then nearly
upset his tea-cup, just as schoolboys did, she felt herself mistress of the
situation, and could talk very well. In a few minutes ingenuousness and
a common term of years obliterated all recollection that they were
strangers just met. Stephen began to wax eloquent on extremely slight
experiences connected with his professional pursuits; and she, having
no experiences to fall back upon, recounted with much animation
stories that had been related to her by her father, which would have
astonished him had he heard with what fidelity of action and tone they
were rendered. Upon the whole, a very interesting picture of
Sweet-and-Twenty was on view that evening in Mr. Swancourt's house.
Ultimately Stephen had to go upstairs and talk loud to the vicar,
receiving from him between his puffs a great many apologies for
calling him so unceremoniously to a stranger's bedroom. 'But,'
continued Mr. Swancourt, 'I felt that I wanted to say a few words to you
before the morning, on the business of your visit. One's patience gets
exhausted by staying a prisoner in bed all day through a sudden freak of
one's enemy--new to me, though--for I have known very little of gout

as yet. However, he's gone to my other toe in a very mild manner, and I
expect he'll slink off altogether by the morning. I hope you have been
well attended to downstairs?'
'Perfectly. And though it is unfortunate, and I am sorry to see you laid
up, I beg you will not take the slightest notice of my being in the house
the while.'
'I will not. But I shall be down to-morrow. My daughter is an excellent
doctor. A dose or two of her mild mixtures will fetch me round quicker
than all the drug stuff in the world. Well, now about the church
business. Take a seat, do. We can't afford to stand upon ceremony in
these parts as you see, and for this reason, that a civilized human being
seldom stays long with us; and so we cannot waste time in approaching
him, or he will be gone before we have had the pleasure of close
acquaintance. This tower of ours is, as you will notice, entirely gone
beyond the possibility of restoration; but the church itself is well
enough. You should see some of the churches in this county. Floors
rotten: ivy lining the walls.'
'Dear me!'
'Oh, that's nothing. The congregation of a neighbour of mine, whenever
a storm of rain comes on during service, open their umbrellas and hold
them up till the dripping ceases from the roof. Now, if you will kindly
bring me those papers and letters you see lying on the table, I will show
you how far we have got.'
Stephen crossed the room to fetch them, and the vicar seemed to notice
more particularly the slim figure of his visitor.
'I suppose you are quite competent?' he said.
'Quite,' said the young man, colouring slightly.
'You are very young, I fancy--I should say you are not more than
nineteen?'

I am nearly twenty-one.'
'Exactly half my age; I am forty-two.'
'By the way,' said Mr. Swancourt, after some conversation, 'you said
your whole name was Stephen Fitzmaurice, and that your grandfather
came originally from Caxbury. Since I have been speaking,