upport her on the
return journey. Therefore, being now more than half way, she preferred
St. Launce's.

But Elfride did not remember this now. All she cared to recognize was a
dreamy fancy that to-day's rash action was not her own. She was disabled
by her moods, and it seemed indispensable to adhere to the programme.
So strangely involved are motives that, more than by her promise to
Stephen, more even than by her love, she was forced on by a sense of the
necessity of keeping faith with herself, as promised in the inane vow of
ten minutes ago.

She hesitated no longer. Pansy went, like the steed of Adonis, as if
she told the steps. Presently the quaint gables and jumbled roofs of St.
Launce's were spread beneath her, and going down the hill she entered
the courtyard of the Falcon. Mrs. Buckle, the landlady, came to the door
to meet her.

The Swancourts were well known here. The transition from equestrian
to the ordinary guise of railway travellers had been more than once
performed by father and daughter in this establishment.

In less than a quarter of an hour Elfride emerged from the door in her
walking dress, and went to the railway. She had not told Mrs. Buckle
anything as to her intentions, and was supposed to have gone out
shopping.

An hour and forty minutes later, and she was in Stephen's arms at the
Plymouth station. Not upon the platform--in the secret retreat of a
deserted waiting-room.

Stephen's face boded ill. He was pale and despondent.

'What is the matter?' she asked.

'We cannot be married here to-day, my Elfie! I ought to have known it
and stayed here. In my ignorance I did not. I have the licence, but it
can only be used in my parish in London. I only came down last night, as
you know.'

'What shall we do?' she said blankly.

'There's only one thing we can do, darling.'

'What's that?'

'Go on to London by a train just starting, and be married there
to-morrow.'

'Passengers for the 11.5 up-train take their seats!' said a guard's
voice on the platform.

'Will you go, Elfride?'

'I will.'

In three minutes the train had moved off, bearing away with it Stephen
and Elfride.

Chapter XII

'Adieu! she cries, and waved her lily hand.'

The few tattered clouds of the morning enlarged and united, the sun
withdrew behind them to emerge no more that day, and the evening drew to
a close in drifts of rain. The water-drops beat like duck shot against
the window of the railw