No more of me you knew,my love!
Stephen Smith revisited Endelstow Vicarage,agreeably to his promise.He had a genuine artistic reason for coming,though no such reason seemed to be required.Six-and-thirty old seat ends,of exquisite fifteenth-century workmanship,were rapidly decaying in an aisle of the church;and it became politic to make drawings of their worm-eaten contours ere they were battered past recognition in the turmoil of the so-called restoration.
He entered the house at sunset,and the world was pleasant again to the two fair-haired ones.A momentary pang of disappointment had,nevertheless,passed through Elfride when she casually discovered that he had not come that minute post-haste from London,but had reached the neighbourhood the previous evening.
Surprise would have accompanied the feeling,had she not remembered that several tourists were haunting the coast at this season,and that Stephen might have chosen to do likewise.
They did little besides chat that evening,Mr.Swancourt beginning to question his visitor,closely yet paternally,and in good part,on his hopes and prospects from the profession he had embraced.
Stephen gave vague answers.The next day it rained.In the evening,when twenty-four hours of Elfride had completely rekindled her admirers ardour,a game of chess was proposed between them.
The game had its value in helping on the developments of their future.
Elfride soon perceived that her opponent was but a learner.She next noticed that he had a very odd way of handling the pieces when castling or taking a man.Antecedently she would have supposed that the same performance must be gone through by all players in the same manner;she was taught by his differing action that all ordinary players,who learn the game by sight,unconsciously touch the men in a stereotyped way.This impression of indescribable oddness in Stephens touch culminated in speech when she saw him,at the taking of one of her bishops,push it aside with the taking man instead of lifting it as a preliminary to the move.
How strangely you handle the men,Mr.Smith!
Do I?I am sorry for that.
Oh no--dont be sorry;it is not a matter great enough for sorrow.But who taught you to play?
Nobody,Miss Swancourt,he said.I learnt from a book lent me by my friend Mr.Knight,the noblest man in the world.
But you have seen people play?
I have never seen the playing of a single game.This is the first time I ever had the opportunity of playing with a living opponent.I have worked out many games from books,and studied the reasons of the different moves,but that is all.
This was a full explanation of his mannerism;but the fact that a man with the desire for chess should have grown up without being able to see or engage in a game astonished her not a little.She pondered on the circumstance for some time,looking into vacancy and hindering the play.
Mr.Swancourt was sitting with his eyes fixed on the board,but apparently thinking of other things.Half to himself he said,pending the move of Elfride:
"Quae finis aut quod me manet stipendium?"
Stephen replied instantly:
"Effare:jussas cum fide poenas luam."
Excellent--prompt--gratifying!said Mr.Swancourt with feeling,bringing down his hand upon the table,and ****** three pawns and a knight dance over their borders by the shaking.I was musing on those words as applicable to a strange course I am steering--but enough of that.I am delighted with you,Mr.Smith,for it is so seldom in this desert that I meet with a man who is gentleman and scholar enough to continue a quotation,however trite it may be.
I also apply the words to myself,said Stephen quietly.
You?The last man in the world to do that,I should have thought.
Come,murmured Elfride poutingly,and insinuating herself between them,tell me all about it.Come,construe,construe!
Stephen looked steadfastly into her face,and said slowly,and in a voice full of a far-off meaning that seemed quaintly premature in one so young:
Quae finis WHAT WILL BE THE END,aut OR,quod stipendium WHAT
FINE,manet me AWAITS ME?Effare SPEAK OUT;luam I WILL PAY,cum fide WITH FAITH,jussas poenas THE PENALTY REQUIRED.
The vicar,who had listened with a critical compression of the lips to this school-boy recitation,and by reason of his imperfect hearing had missed the marked realism of Stephens tone in the English words,now said hesitatingly:By the bye,Mr.Smith (I
know youll excuse my curiosity),though your translation was unexceptionably correct and close,you have a way of pronouncing your Latin which to me seems most peculiar.Not that the pronunciation of a dead language is of much importance;yet your accents and quantities have a grotesque sound to my ears.I
thought first that you had acquired your way of breathing the vowels from some of the northern colleges;but it cannot be so with the quantities.What I was going to ask was,if your instructor in the classics could possibly have been an Oxford or Cambridge man?
Yes;he was an Oxford man--Fellow of St.Cyprians.
Really?
Oh yes;theres no doubt about it.
The oddest thing ever I heard of!said Mr.Swancourt,starting with astonishment.That the pupil of such a man----
The best and cleverest man in England!cried Stephen enthusiastically.
That the pupil of such a man should pronounce Latin in the way you pronounce it beats all I ever heard.How long did he instruct you?
Four years.
Four years!
It is not so strange when I explain,Stephen hastened to say.
It was done in this way--by letter.I sent him exercises and construing twice a week,and twice a week he sent them back to me corrected,with marginal notes of instruction.That is how I
learnt my Latin and Greek,such as it is.He is not responsible for my scanning.He has never heard me scan a line.
A novel case,and a singular instance of patience!cried the vicar.
On his part,not on mine.Ah,Henry Knight is one in a thousand!
