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The Marriage of Elinor

by Mrs. Oliphant · English · Gutenberg #28637 · 921,843 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Marriage of Elinor

Author: Mrs. Oliphant


        
Release date: April 29, 2009 [eBook #28637]
                Most recently updated: August 19, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MARRIAGE OF ELINOR ***




THE MARRIAGE OF ELINOR


BY

MRS. OLIPHANT


CHICAGO
W. B. CONKEY COMPANY




COPYRIGHT, 1891,
BY
UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY

[_All rights reserved._]




THE MARRIAGE OF ELINOR.




CHAPTER I.


John Tatham, barrister-at-law, received one summer morning as he sat at
breakfast the following letter. It was written in what was once known
distinctively as a lady's hand, in pointed characters, very fine and
delicate, and was to this effect:--


"DEAR JOHN, Have you heard from Elinor of her new prospects and
intentions? I suppose she must have written to you on the subject. Do
you know anything of the man?... You know how hard it is to convince her
against her will of anything, and also how poorly gifted I am with the
power of convincing any one. And I don't know him, therefore can speak
with no authority. If you can do anything to clear things up, come and
do so. I am very anxious and more than doubtful; but her heart seems set
upon it.

"Your affect.
"M. S. D."


Mr. Tatham was a well-built and vigorous man of five-and-thirty, with
health, good behaviour, and well-being in every line of his cheerful
countenance and every close curl of his brown hair. His hair was very
curly, and helped to give him the cheerful look which was one of his
chief characteristics. Nevertheless, when these innocent seeming words,
"Do you know the man?" which was more certainly demonstrative of
certain facts than had those facts been stated in the fullest detail,
met his eye, Mr. Tatham paused and laid down the letter with a start.
His ruddy colour paled for the moment, and he felt something which was
like the push or poke of a blunt but heavy weapon somewhere in the
regions of the heart. For the moment he felt that he could not read any
more. "Do you know the man?" He did not even ask what man in the
momentary sickness of his heart. Then he said to himself, almost
angrily, "Well!" and took up the letter again and read to the end.

Well! of course it was a thing that he knew might happen any day, and
which he had expected to happen for the last four or five years. It was
nothing to him one way or another. Nothing could be more absurd than
that a hearty and strong young man in the full tide of his life and with
a good breakfast before him should receive a shock from that innocent
little letter as if he had been a sentimental woman. But the fact is
that he pushed his plate away with an exclamation of disgust and a
feeling that everything was bad and uneatable. He drank his tea, though
that also became suddenly bad too, full of tannin, like tea that has
stood too long, a thing about which John was very particular. He had
been half an hour later than usual this morning consequent on having
been an hour or two later than usual last night. These things have their
reward, and that very speedily; but as for the letter, what could that
have to do with the bad toasting of the bacon and the tannin in the tea?
"Do you know the man?" There was a sort of covert insult, too, in the
phraseology, as if no explanation was needed, as if he must know by
instinct what she meant--he who knew nothing about it, who did not know
there was a man at all!

After a while he began to smile rather cynically to himself. He had got
up from the breakfast table, where everything was so bad, and had gone
to look out of one of the windows of his pleasant sitting-room. It was
in one of the wider ways of the Temple, and looked out upon various
houses with a pleasant misty light upon the redness of their old
brickwork, and a stretch of green grass and trees, which were scanty in
foliage, yet suited very well with the bright morning sun, which was not
particularly warm, but looked as if it were a good deal for effect and
not so very much for use. That thought floated across his mind with
others, and was of the same cynical complexion. It was very well for the
sun to shine, making the glistening poplars and plane-trees glow, and
warming all the mellow redness of the old houses, but what did he mean
by it? No warmth to speak of, only a fictitious gleam--a thing got up
for effect. And so was the affectionateness of woman--meaning nothing,
only an effect of warmth and geniality, nothing beyond that. As a matter
of fact, he reminded himself after a while that he had never wanted
anything beyond, neither asked for it, nor wished it. He had no desire
to change the conditions of his life: women never rested till they had
done so, manufacturing a new event, whatever it might be, pleased even
when they were not pleased, to have a novelty to announce. That, no
doubt, was the state of mind in which the lady who called herself his
aunt was: pleased to have something to tell him, to fire off her big
guns in his face, even though she was not at all pleased with the event
itself. But John Tatham, on the other hand, had desired nothing to
happen; things were very well as they were. He liked to have a place
where he could run down from Saturday to Monday whenever he pleased, and
where his visit was always a cheerful event for the womankind. He had
liked to take them all the news, to carry the picture-papers, quite a
load; to take down a new book for Elinor; to taste doubtfully his aunt's
wine, and tell her she had better let him choose it for her. It was a
very pleasant state of affairs: he wanted no change; not, certainly,
above everything, the intrusion of a stranger whose very existence had
been unknown to him until he was thus asked cynically, almost brutally,
"Do you know the man?"

The hour came when John had to assume the costume of that order of
workers whom a persistent popular joke nicknames the "Devil's Own:"--that
is, he had to put on gown and wig and go off to the courts, where he was
envied of all the briefless as a man who for his age had a great deal to
do. He "devilled" for Mr. Asstewt, the great Chancery man, which was the
most excellent beginning: and he was getting into a little practice of
his own which was not to be sneezed at. But he did not find himself in a
satisfactory frame of mind to-day. He found himself asking the judge,
"Do you know anything of the man?" when it was his special business so
to bewilder that potentate with elaborate arguments that he should not
have time to consider whether he had ever heard of the particular man
before him. Thus it was evident that Mr. Tatham was completely _hors de
son assiette_, as the French say; upset and "out of it," according to
the equally vivid imagination of the English manufacturer of slang. John
Tatham was a very capable young lawyer on ordinary occasions, and it was
all the more remarkable that he should have been so confused in his mind
to-day.

When he went back to his chambers in the evening, which was not until it
was time to dress for dinner, he saw a bulky letter lying on his table,
but avoided it as if it had been an overdue bill. He was engaged to
dine out, and had not much time: yet all the way, as he drove along the
streets, just as sunset was over and a subduing shade came over the
light, and that half-holiday look that comes with evening--he kept
thinking of the fat letter upon his table. Do you know anything of
the man? That would no longer be the refrain of his correspondent,
but some absurd strain of devotion and admiration of the man whom John
knew nothing of, not even his name. He wondered as he went along in his
hansom, and even between the courses at dinner, while he listened with
a smile, but without hearing a word, to what the lady next him was
saying--what she would tell him about this man? That he was everything
that was delightful, no doubt; handsome, of course; probably clever; and
that she was fond of him, confound the fellow! Elinor! to think that she
should come to that--a girl like her--to tell him, as if she was saying
that she had caught a cold or received a present, that she was in love
with a man! Good heavens! when one had thought her so much above
anything of that kind--a woman, above all women that ever were.

"Not so much as that," John said to himself as he walked home. He always
preferred to walk home in the evening, and he was not going to change
his habit now out of any curiosity about Elinor's letter. Oh, not so
much as that! not above all women, or better than the rest, perhaps--but
different. He could not quite explain to himself how, except that he
had always known her to be Elinor and not another, which was a quite
sufficient explanation. And now it appeared that she was not different,
although she would still profess to be Elinor--a curious puzzle, which
his brain in its excited state was scarcely able to tackle. His thoughts
got somewhat confused and broken as he approached his chambers. He was
so near the letter now--a few minutes and he would no longer need to
wonder or speculate about it, but would know exactly what she said. He
turned and stood for a minute or so at the Temple gates, looking out
upon the busy Strand. It was still as lovely as a summer night could be
overhead, but down here it was--well, it was London, which is another
thing. The usual crowd was streaming by, coming into bright light as it
streamed past a brilliant shop window, then in the shade for another
moment, and emerging again. The faces that were suddenly lit up as they
passed--some handsome faces, pale in the light; some with heads hung
down, either in bad health or bad humour; some full of cares and troubles,
others airy and gay--caught his attention. Did any of them all know
anything of this man, he wondered--knowing how absurd a question it was.
Had any of them written to-day a letter full of explanations, of a
matter that could not be explained? There were faces with far more
tragic meaning in them than could be so easily explained as that--the
faces of men, alas! and women too, who were going to destruction as fast
as their hurrying feet could carry them; or else were languidly drifting
no one knew where--out of life altogether, out of all that was good in
life. John Tatham knew this very well too, and had it in him to do
anything a man could to stop the wanderers in their downward career. But
to-night he was thinking of none of these things. He was only wondering
how she would explain it, how she could explain it, what she would say;
and lingering to prolong his suspense, not to know too soon what it was.

At last, however, as there is no delay but must come to an end one time
or another, he found himself at last in his room, in his smoking-coat
and slippers, divested of his stiff collar--at his ease, the windows
open upon the quiet of the Temple Gardens, a little fresh air breathing
in. He had taken all this trouble to secure ease for himself, to put
off a little the reading of the letter. Now the moment had come when
it would be absurd to delay any longer. It was so natural to see her
familiar handwriting--not a lady's hand, angular and pointed, like her
mother's, but the handwriting of her generation, which looks as if it
were full of character, until one perceives that it _is_ the writing of
the generation, and all the girls and boys write much the same. He took
time for this reflection still as he tore open the envelope. There were
two sheets very well filled, and written in at the corners, so that no
available spot was lost. "My dear old John," were the first words he
saw. He put down the letter and thought over the address. Well, she had
always called him so. He was old John when he was fourteen, to little
Elinor. They had always known each other like that--like brother and
sister. But not particularly like brother and sister--like cousins twice
removed, which is a more interesting tie in some particulars. And now
for the letter.


"MY DEAR OLD JOHN: I want to tell you myself of a great thing that has
happened to me--the very greatest thing that could happen in one's
life. Oh, John, dear old John, I feel as if I had nobody else I could
open my heart to; for mamma--well, mamma is mamma, a dear mother and a
good one; but you know she has her own ways of thinking----"


He put down the letter again with a rueful little laugh. "And have not I
my own ways of thinking, too?" he said to himself.


"Jack dear," continued the letter, "you must give me your sympathy, all
your sympathy. You never were in love, I suppose (oh, what an odious
way that is of putting it! but it spares one's feelings a little, for
even in writing it is too tremendous a thing to say quite gravely and
seriously, as one feels it). Dear John, I know you never were in love,
or you would have told me; but still----"


"Oh," he said to himself, with the merest suspicion of a little quiver
in his lip, which might, of course, have been a laugh, but, on the other
hand, might have been something else, "I never was--or I would have told
her--That's the way she looks at it." Then he took up the letter again.


"Because--I see nothing but persecution before me. It was only a week
ago that it happened, and we wanted to keep it quiet for a time; but
things get out in spite of all one can do--things of that sort, at
least. And, oh, dear Jack, fancy! I have got three letters already, all
warning me against him; raking up trifling things that have occurred
long ago, long before he met me, and holding them up before me like
scarecrows--telling me he is not worthy of me, and that I will be
wretched if I marry him, and other dreadful lies like that, which
show me quite plainly that they neither know him nor me, and that they
haven't eyes to see what he really is, nor minds to understand. But
though I see the folly of it and the wickedness of it, mamma does not.
She is ready to take other people's words; indeed, there is this to be
said for her, that she does not know him yet, and therefore cannot be
expected to be ready to take his own word before all. Dear Jack, my
heart is so full, and I have so much to tell you, and such perfect
confidence in your sympathy, and also in your insight and capacity to
see through all the lies and wicked stories which I foresee are going to
be poured upon us like a flood that--I don't know how to begin, I have
so many things to say. I know it is the heart of the season, and that
you are asked out every night in the week, and are so popular everywhere;
but if you could but come down from Saturday to Monday, and let me tell
you everything and show you his picture, and read you parts of his
letters, I know you would see how false and wrong it all is, and help me
to face it out with all those horrid people, and to bring round mamma.
You know her dreadful way of never giving an opinion, but just saying a
great deal worse, and leaving you to your own responsibility, which
nearly drives me mad even in little things--so you may suppose what it
does in this. Of course, she must see him, which is all I want, for I
know after she has had a half-hour's conversation with him that she will
be like me and will not believe a word--not one word. Therefore, Jack
dear, come, oh, come! I have always turned to you in my difficulties,
since ever I have known what it was to have a difficulty, and you have
done everything for me. I never remember any trouble I ever had but you
found some means of clearing it away. Therefore my whole hope is in you.
I know it is hard to give up all your parties and things; but it would
only be two nights, after all--Saturday and Sunday. Oh, do come, do
come, if you ever cared the least little bit for your poor cousin! Come,
oh, come, dear old John!

"Your affect.
"E------."


"Is that all?" he said to himself; but it was not all, for there
followed a postscript all about the gifts and graces of the unknown
lover, and how he was the victim of circumstances, and how, while other
men might steal the horse, he dared not look over the wall, and other
convincing pleadings such as these, till John's head began to go round.
When he had got through this postscript John Tatham folded the letter
and put it away. He had a smile on his face, but he had the air of a man
who had been beaten about the head and was confused with the hurry and
storm of the blows. She had always turned to him in all her difficulties,
that was true: and he had always stood by her, and often, in the
freemasonry of youth, had thought her right and vindicated her capacity
to judge for herself. He had been called often on this errand, and he
had never refused to obey. For Elinor was very wilful, she had always
been wilful--"a rosebud set about with wilful thorns, But sweet as
English air could make her, she." He had come to her aid many a time.
But he had never thought to be called upon by her in such a way as this.
He folded the letter up carefully and put it in a drawer. Usually
when he had a letter from Elinor he put it into his pocket, for the
satisfaction of reading it over again: for she had a fantastic way of
writing, adding little postscripts which escaped the eye at first, and
which it was pleasant to find out afterwards. But with this letter he
did not do so. He put it in a drawer of his writing-table, so that he
might find it again when necessary, but he did not put it in his breast
pocket. And then he sat for some time doing nothing, looking before him,
with his legs stretched out and his hand beating a little tattoo upon
the table. "Well: well? well!" That was about what he said to himself,
but it meant a great deal: it meant a vague but great disappointment, a
sort of blank and vacuum expressed by the first of these words--and then
it meant a question of great importance and many divisions. How could it
ever have come to anything? Am I a man to marry? What could I have done,
just getting into practice, just getting a few pounds to spend for
myself? And then came the conclusion. Since I can't do anything else
for her; since she's done it for herself--shall I be a beast and not
help her, because it puts my own nose out of joint? Not a bit of it!
The reader must remember that in venturing to reflect a young man's
sentiments a dignified style is scarcely possible; they express
themselves sometimes with much force in their private moments, but not
as Dr. Johnson would have approved, or with any sense of elegance; and
one must try to be truthful to nature. He knew very well that Elinor was
not responsible for his disappointment, and even he was aware that if
she had been so foolish as to fix her hopes upon him, it would probably
have been she who would have been disappointed, and left in the lurch.
But still----

John had gone through an interminable amount of thinking, and a good
deal of soda-water (with or without, how should I know, some other
moderate ingredient), and a cigar or two--not to speak of certain hours
when he ought to have been in bed to keep his head clear for the cases
of to-morrow: when it suddenly flashed upon him all at once that he was
not a step further on than when he had received Mrs. Dennistoun's letter
in the morning, for Elinor, though she had said so much about him, had
given no indication who her lover was. Who was the man?




CHAPTER II.


It was a blustering afternoon when John, with his bag in his hand, set
out from the station at Hurrymere for Mrs. Dennistoun's cottage. Why
that station should have had "mere" in its name I have never been able
to divine, for there is no water to be seen for miles, scarcely so much
as a duckpond: but, perhaps, there are two meanings to the words. It was
a steep walk up a succession of slopes, and the name of the one upon
which the cottage stood was Windyhill not an encouraging title on such
a day, but true enough to the character of the place. The cottage lay,
however, at the head of a combe or shelving irregular valley, just
sheltered from the winds on a little platform of its own, and commanding
a view which was delightful in its long sweeping distance, and varied
enough to be called picturesque, especially by those who were familiar
with nothing higher than the swelling slopes of the Surrey hills. It was
wild, little cultivated, save in the emerald green of the bottom, a
few fields which lay where a stream ought to have been. Nowadays there
are red-roofed houses peeping out at every corner, but at that period
fashion had not even heard of Hurrymere, and, save for a farm-house or
two, a village alehouse and posting-house at a corner of the high-road,
and one or two great houses within the circuit of six or seven miles,
retired within their trees and parks, there were few habitations. Mrs.
Dennistoun's cottage was red-roofed like the rest, but much subdued by
lichens, and its walls were covered by climbing plants, so that it
struck no bold note upon the wild landscape, yet was visible afar off in
glimpses, from the much-winding road, for a mile or two before it could
be come at. There was, indeed, a nearer way, necessitating a sharp
scramble, but when John came just in sight of the house his heart failed
him a little, and, notwithstanding that his bag had come to feel very
heavy by this time, he deliberately chose the longer round to gain a
little time--as we all do sometimes, when we are most anxious to be
at our journey's end, and hear what has to be told us. It looked very
peaceful seated in that fold of the hill, no tossing of trees about it,
though a little higher up the slim oaks and beeches of the copse were
flinging themselves about against the grey sky in a kind of agonised
appeal. John liked the sound of the wind sweeping over the hills, rending
the trees, and filling the horizon as with a crowd of shadows in pain,
twisting and bending with every fresh sweep of the breeze. Sometimes
such sounds and sights give a relief to the mind. He liked it better
than if all had been undisturbed, lying in afternoon quiet as might have
been expected at the crown of the year--but the winds had always to be
taken into account at Windyhill.

When he came in sight of the gate, John was aware of some one waiting
for him, walking up and down the sandy road into which it opened. Her
face was turned the other way, and she evidently looked for him by way
of the combe, the scrambling steep road which he had avoided in despite:
for why should he scramble and make himself hot in order to hear ten
minutes sooner what he did not wish to hear at all? She turned round
suddenly as he knocked his foot against a stone upon the rough, but
otherwise noiseless road, presenting a countenance flushed with sudden
relief and pleasure to John's remorseful eye. "Oh, there you are!" she
said; "I am so glad. I thought you could not be coming. You might have
been here a quarter of an hour ago by the short road."

"I did not think there was any hurry," said John, ungraciously. "The
wind is enough to carry one off one's feet; though, to be sure, it's
quiet enough here."

"It's always quiet here," she said, reading his face with her eyes after
the manner of women, and wondering what the harassed look meant that was
so unusual in John's cheerful face. She jumped at the idea that he was
tired, that his bag was heavy, that he had been beaten about by the wind
till he had lost his temper, always a possible thing to happen to a man.
Elinor flung herself upon the bag and tried to take possession of it.
"Why didn't you get a boy at the station to carry it? Let me carry it,"
she said.

"That is so likely," said John, with a hard laugh, shifting it to his
other hand.

Elinor caught his arm with both her hands, and looked up with wistful
eyes into his face. "Oh, John, you are angry," she said.

"Nonsense. I am tired, buffeting about with this wind." Here the
gardener and man-of-all-work about the cottage came up and took the bag,
which John parted with with angry reluctance, as if it had been a sort
of weapon of offence. After it was gone there was nothing for it but to
walk quietly to the house through the flowers with that girl hanging on
his arm, begging a hundred pardons with her eyes. The folly of it! as
if she had not a right to do as she pleased, or he would try to prevent
her; but finally, the soft, silent apology of that clinging, and the
look full of petitions touched his surly heart. "Well--Nelly," he said,
with involuntary softening.

"Oh, if you call me that I am not afraid!" she cried, with an instant
upleaping of pleasure and confidence in her changeable face, which (John
tried to say to himself) was not really pretty at all, only so full of
expression, changing with every breath of feeling. The eyes, which had
only been brown a moment before, leaped up into globes of light, yet
not too dazzling, with some liquid medium to soften their shining. Even
though you know that a girl is in love with another man, that she thinks
of you no more than of the old gardener who has just hobbled round the
corner, it is pleasant to be able to change the whole aspect of affairs
to her and make her light up like that, solely by a little unwilling
softening of your gruff and surly tone.

"You know, John," she said, holding his arm tight with her two hands,
"that nobody ever calls me Nelly--except you."

"Possibly I shall call you Nelly no longer. Why? Why, because that
fellow will object."

"That fellow! Oh, _he_!" Elinor's face grew very red all over, from the
chin, which almost touched John's arm, to the forehead, bent back a
little over those eyes suffused with light which were intent upon all
the changes of John's face. This one was, like the landscape, swept by
all the vicissitudes of sun and shade. It was radiant now with the
unexpected splendour of the sudden gleam.

"Oh, John, John, I have so much to say to you! He will object to
nothing. He knows very well you are like my brother--almost more than my
brother--for you could help it, John. You almost chose me for your
friend, which a brother would not. He says, 'Get him to be our friend
and all will be well!'"

_He_ had not said this, but Elinor had said it to him, and he had
assented, which was almost the same--in the way of reckoning of a girl,
at least.

"He is very kind, I am sure," said John, gulping down something which
had almost made him throw off Elinor's arm, and fling away from her in
indignation. Her brother----!! But there was no use making any row, he
said to himself. If anything were to be done for her he must put up with
all that. There had suddenly come upon John, he knew not how, as he
scanned her anxious face, a conviction that the man was a scamp, from
whom at all hazards she should be free.

Said Elinor, unsuspecting, "That is just what he is, John! I knew you
would divine his character at once. You can't think how kind he is--kind
to everybody. He never judges anyone, or throws a stone, or makes an
insinuation." ("Probably because he knows he cannot bear investigation
himself," John said, in his heart.) "That was the thing that took my
heart first. Everybody is so censorious--always something to say against
their neighbours; he, never a word."

"That's a very good quality," said John, reluctantly, "if it doesn't
mean confounding good with bad, and thinking nothing matters."

Elinor gave him a grieved, reproachful look, and loosened the clasping
of her hands. "It is not like you to imagine that, John!"

"Well, what is a man to say? Don't you see, if you do nothing but blow
his trumpet, the only thing left for me to do is to insinuate something
against him? I don't know the man from Adam. He may be an angel, for
anything I can say."

"No; I do not pretend he is that," said Elinor, with impartiality. "He
has his faults, like others, but they are _nice_ faults. He doesn't know
how to take care of his money (but he hasn't got very much, which makes
it the less matter), and he is sometimes taken in about his friends.
Anybody almost that appeals to his kindness is treated like a friend,
which makes precise people think----but, of course, I don't share that
opinion in the very least."

("A very wasteful beggar, with a disreputable set," was John's practical
comment within himself upon this speech.)

"And he doesn't know how to curry favour with people who can help him
on; so that though he has been for years promised something, it never
turns up. Oh, I know his faults very well indeed," said Elinor; "but a
woman can do so much to make up for faults like that. We're naturally
saving, you know, and we always keep those unnecessary friends that were
made before our time at a distance; and it's part of our nature to coax
a patron--that is what Mariamne says."

"Mariamne?" said John.

"His sister, who first introduced him to me; and I am very fond of
her, so you need not say anything against her, John. I know she
is--fashionable, but that's no harm."

"Mariamne," he repeated; "it is a very uncommon name. You don't mean
Lady Mariamne Prestwich, do you? and not--not----Elinor! not Phil
Compton, for goodness' sake? Don't tell me he's the man?"

Elinor's hands dropped from his arm. She drew herself up until she
seemed to tower over him. "And why should I say it is not Mr. Compton,"
she asked, with a scarlet flush of anger, so different from that rosy
red of love and happiness, covering her face.

"Phil Compton! the _dis_-Honourable Phil! Why, Elinor! you cannot mean
it! you must not mean it!" he cried.

Elinor said not a word. She turned from him with a look of pathetic
reproach but with the air of a queen, and walked into the house, he
following in a ferment of wrath and trouble, yet humbled and miserable
more than words could say. Oh, the flowery, peaceful house! jasmine and
rose overleaping each other upon the porch, honeysuckle scenting the
air, all manner of feminine contrivances to continue the greenness and
the sweetness into the little bright hall, into the open drawing-room,
where flowers stood on every table amid the hundred pretty trifles of a
woman's house. There was no one in this room where she led him, and then
turned round confronting him, taller than he had ever seen her before,
pale, with her nostrils dilating and her lips trembling. "I never
thought it possible that you of all people in the world, you, John--my
stand-by since ever I was a baby--my---- Oh! what a horrid thing it is
to be a woman," cried Elinor, stamping her foot, "to be ready to cry for
everything!--you, John! that I always put my trust in--that you should
turn against me--and at the very first word!"

"Elinor," he said, "my dear girl! not against you, not against you, for
all the world!"

"And what is _me_?" she said, with that sudden turning of the tables and
high scorn of her previous argument which is common with women; "do I
care what you do to _me_? Oh, nothing, nothing! I am of no account, you
can trample me down under your feet if you like. But what I will not
bear," she said, clenching her hands, "is injustice to him: that I will
not bear, neither from you, Cousin John, who are only my distant cousin,
after all, and have no right to thrust your advice upon me--or from any
one in the world."

"What you say is quite true, Elinor, I am only a distant cousin--after
all: but----"

"Oh, no, no," she cried, flying to him, seizing once more his arm with
her clinging hands, "I did not mean that--you know I did not mean that,
my more than brother, my good, good John, whom I have trusted all my
life!"

And then the poor girl broke out into passionate weeping with her head
upon his shoulder, as she might have leant upon the handy trunk of a
tree, or on the nearest door or window, as John Tatham said in his
heart. He soothed her as best he could, and put her in a chair and stood
with his hand upon the back of it, looking down upon her as the fit of
crying wore itself out. Poor little girl! he had seen her cry often
enough before. A girl cries for anything, for a thorn in her finger,
for a twist of her foot. He had seen her cry and laugh, and dash the
tears out of her eyes on such occasions, oh! often and often: there was
that time when he rushed out of the bushes unexpectedly and frightened
her pony, and she fell among the grass and vowed, sobbing and laughing,
it was her fault! and once when she was a little tot, not old enough for
boy's play, when she fell upon her little nose and cut it and disfigured
herself, and held up that wounded little knob of a feature to have it
kissed and made well. Oh, why did he think of that now! the little thing
all trust and simple confidence! There was that time too when she jumped
up to get a gun and shoot the tramps who had hurt somebody, if John
would but give her his hand! These things came rushing into his mind as
he stood watching Elinor cry, with his hand upon the back of her chair.

She wanted John's hand now when she was going forth to far greater
dangers. Oh, poor little Nelly! poor little thing! but he could not put
her on his shoulder and carry her out to face the foe now.

She jumped up suddenly while he was thinking, with the tears still wet
upon her cheeks, but the paroxysm mastered, and the light of her eyes
coming out doubly bright like the sun from the clouds. "We poor women,"
she said with a laugh, "are so badly off, we are so handicapped, as you
call it! We can't help crying like fools! We can't help caring for what
other people think, trying to conciliate and bring them round to approve
us--when we ought to stand by our own conscience and judgment, and sense
of what is right, like independent beings."

"If that means taking your own way, Elinor, whatever any one may say to
you, I think women do it at least as much as men."

"No, it does not mean taking our own way," she cried, "and if you do not
understand any better than that, why should I---- But you do understand
better, John," she said, her countenance again softening: "you know I
want, above everything in the world, that you should approve of me and
see that I am right. That is what I want! I will do what I think right;
but, oh, if I could only have you with me in doing it, and know that you
saw with me that it was the best, the only thing to do! Happiness lies
in that, not in having one's own way."

"My dear Elinor," he said, "isn't that asking a great deal? To prevent
you from doing what you think right is in nobody's power. You are of
age, and I am sure my aunt will force nothing; but how can we change our
opinions, our convictions, our entire points of view? There is nobody in
the world I would do so much for as you, Elinor: but I cannot do that,
even for you."

The hot tears were dried from her cheeks, the passion was over. She
looked at him, her efforts to gain him at an end, on the equal footing
of an independent individual agreeing to differ, and as strong in her
own view as he could be.

"There is one thing you can do for me," she said. "Mamma knows nothing
about--fashionable gossip. She is not acquainted with the wicked things
that are said. If she disapproves it is only because---- Oh, I suppose
because one's mother always disapproves a thing that is done without
her, that she has no hand in, what she calls pledging one's self to a
stranger, and not knowing his antecedents, his circumstances, and so
forth! But she hasn't any definite ground for it as you--think you have,
judging in the uncharitable way of the world--not remembering that if we
love one another the more there is against him the more need he has of
me! But all I have to ask of you, John, is not to prejudice my mother. I
know you can do it if you please--a hint would be enough, an uncertain
word, even hesitating when you answer a question--that would be quite
enough! John, if you put things into her head----"

"You ask most extraordinary things of me," said John, turning to bay.
"To tell her lies about a man whom everybody knows--to pretend I think
one thing when I think quite another. Not to say that my duty is to
inform her exactly what things are said, so that she may judge for
herself, not let her go forth in ignorance--that is my plain duty,
Elinor."

"But you won't do it; oh, you won't do it!" she said. "Oh, John, for
the sake of all the time that you have been so good to Nelly--your own
little Nelly, nobody else's! Remember that I and everybody who loves
him know these stories to be lies--and don't, don't put things into my
mother's head! Let her judge for herself--don't, don't prejudice her,
John. It can be no one's duty to repeat malicious stories when there is
no possibility of proving or disproving them. Don't make her think----
Oh, mamma! we couldn't think where you had gone to. Yes, here is John."

"So I perceive," said Mrs. Dennistoun. It was getting towards evening,
and the room was not very light. She could not distinguish their looks
or the agitation that scarcely could have been hidden but for the dusk.
"You seem to have been having a very animated conversation. I heard your
voices all along the garden walk. Let me have the benefit of it, if
there is anything to tell."

"You know well enough, mamma, what we must have been talking about,"
said Elinor, turning half angrily away.

"To be sure," said the mother, "I ought to have known. There is nothing
so interesting as that sort of thing. I thought, however, you would
probably have put it off a little, Elinor."

"Put it off a little--when it is the thing that concerns us more than
anything else in the world!"

"That is true," said Mrs. Dennistoun, with a sigh. "Did you walk all the
way, John? I meant to have sent the pony-cart for you, but the man was
too late. It is a nice evening though, and coming out of town it is a
good thing for you to have a good walk."

"Yes, I like it more than anything," said John, "but the evening is not
so very fine. The wind is high, and I shouldn't wonder if we had rain."

"The wind is always high here," said Mrs. Dennistoun. "We don't have our
view for nothing; but the sky is quite clear in the west, and all the
clouds blowing away. I don't think we shall have more than a shower."

Elinor stood listening to this talk with restrained impatience, as if
waiting for the moment when they should come to something worth talking
about. Then she gave herself a sort of shake--half weary, half
indignant--and left the room. There was a moment's silence, until her
quick step was heard going to the other end of the house and up-stairs,
and the shutting of a door.

"Oh, John, I am very uneasy, very uneasy," said Mrs. Dennistoun. "I
scarcely thought she would have begun to you about it at once; but then
I am doing the very same. We can't think of anything else. I am not
going to worry you before dinner, for you must be tired with your walk,
and want to refresh yourself before we enter upon that weary, weary
business. But my heart misgives me dreadfully about it all. If I only
had gone with her! It was not for want of an invitation, but just my
laziness. I could not be troubled to leave my own house."

"I don't see what difference it would have made had you been with her,
aunt."

"Oh, I should have seen the man: and been able to judge what he was and
his motive, John."

"Elinor is not rich. He could scarcely have had an interested motive."

"There is some comfort in that. I have said that to myself again and
again. He could not have an interested motive. But, oh! I am uneasy!
There is the dressing-bell. I will not keep you any longer, John; but
in the evening, or to-morrow, when we can get a quiet moment----"

The dusk, was now pervading all the house--that summer dusk which
there is a natural prejudice everywhere against cutting short by
lights. He could not see her face, nor she his, as they went out of the
drawing-room together and along the long passage, which led by several
arched doorways to the stairs. John had a room on the ground floor which
was kept for gentlemen visitors, and in which the candles were twinkling
on the dressing-table. He was more than ever thankful as he caught a
glimpse of himself in the vague reflected world of the mirror, with its
lights standing up reflected too, like inquisitors spying upon him, that
there had not been light enough to show how he was looking: for though
he was both a lawyer and a man of the world, John Tatham had not been
able to keep the trouble which his interview with Elinor had caused him
out of his face.




CHAPTER III.


The drawing-room of the cottage was large and low, and had that _faux
air_ of being old-fashioned which is dear to the hearts of superior
people generally. Mrs. Dennistoun and her daughter scarcely belonged to
that class, yet they were, as ladies of leisure with a little taste for
the arts are bound to be, touched by all the fancies of their time,
which was just beginning to adore Queen Anne. There was still, however,
a mixture of luxury with the square settees and spindle-legged cabinets
which were "the fashion:" and partly because that was also "the fashion,"
and partly because on Windyhill even a July evening was sometimes a
little chill, or looked so by reason of the great darkness of the
silent, little-inhabited country outside--there was a log burning on the
fire-dogs (the newest thing in furnishing in those days though now so
common) on the hearth. The log burned as little as possible, being,
perhaps, not quite so thoroughly dry and serviceable as it would have
been in its proper period, and made a faint hissing sound in the silence
as it burned, and diffused its pungent odour through the house. The bow
window was open behind its white curtains, and it was there that the
little party gathered out of reach of the unnecessary heat and the
smoke. There was a low sofa on either side of this recess, and in the
centre the French window opened into the garden, where all the scents
were balmy in the stillness which had fallen upon the night.

Mrs. Dennistoun was tall and slim, a woman with a presence, and sat with
a sort of dignity on her side of the window, with a little table beside
her covered with her little requirements, the properties, so to speak,
without which she was never known to be--a book for moments when there
was nothing else to interest her, a case for work should there arise
any necessity for putting in a stitch in time, a bottle of salts should
she or any one else become suddenly faint, a paper cutter in cases of
emergency, and finally, for mere ornament, two roses, a red and a white,
in one of those tall old-fashioned glasses which are so pretty for
flowers. I do wrong to dismiss the roses with such vulgar qualifications
as white and red--the one was a _Souvenir de Malmaison_, the other a
_General_ ---- something or other. If you spoke to Mrs. Dennistoun
about her flowers she said, "Oh, the Malmaison," or "Oh, the General
So-and-so." Rose was only the family name, but happily, as we all know,
under the other appellation they smelt just as sweet. Mrs. Dennistoun
kept up all this little state because she had been used to do so;
because it was part of a lady's accoutrements, so to speak. She had also
a cushion, which was necessary, if not for comfort, yet for her sense of
being fully equipped, placed behind her back when she sat down. But with
all this she was not a formal or prim person. She was a woman who had
not produced a great deal of effect in life; one of those who are not
accustomed to have their advice taken, or to find that their opinion has
much weight upon others. Perhaps it was because Elinor resembled her
father that this peculiarity which had affected all Mrs. Dennistoun's
married life should have continued into a sphere where she ought to have
been paramount. But she was with her daughter as she had been with her
husband, a person of an ineffective character, taking refuge from the
sensation of being unable to influence those about her whose wills were
stronger than her own, by relinquishing authority, and in her most
decided moments offering an opinion only, no more. This was not because
she was really undecided, for on the contrary she knew her own mind well
enough; but it had become a matter of habit with her to insist upon no
opinion, knowing, as she did, how little chance she had of imposing her
opinion upon the stronger wills about her. She had two other children
older than Elinor: one, the eldest of all, married in India, a woman
with many children of her own, practically altogether severed from
the maternal nest; the other an adventurous son, who was generally
understood to be at the ends of the earth, but seldom or never had any
more definite address. This lady had naturally gone through many pangs
and anxieties on behalf of these children, who had dropped away from her
side into the unknown; but it belonged to her character to have said
very little about this, so that she was generally supposed to take
things very easily, and other mothers were apt to admire the composure
of Mrs. Dennistoun, whose son might be being murdered by savages at any
moment, for anything she knew--or minded, apparently. "Now it would have
driven _me_ out of my senses!" the other ladies said. Mrs. Dennistoun
perhaps did not feel the back so well fitted to the burden as
appeared--but she kept her own sentiments on this subject entirely to
herself.

(I may say too--but this, the young reader may skip without
disadvantage--by way of explanation of a peculiarity which has lately
been much remarked as characteristic of those records of human history
contemptuously called fiction, _i.e._, the unimportance, or ill-report,
or unjust disapproval of the mother in records of this description--that
it is almost impossible to maintain her due rank and character in a
piece of history, which has to be kept within certain limits--and where
her daughter the heroine must have the first place. To lessen _her_
pre-eminence by dwelling at length upon the mother, unless that mother
is a fool, or a termagant, or something thoroughly contrasting with the
beauty and virtues of the daughter--would in most cases be a mistake in
art. For one thing the necessary incidents are wanting, for I strongly
object, and so I think do most people, to mothers who fall in love, or
think of marriage, or any such vanity in their own person, and unless
she is to interfere mischievously with the young lady's prospects, or
take more or less the part of the villain, how is she to be permitted
any importance at all? For there cannot be two suns in one sphere, or
two centres to one world. Thus the mother has to be sacrificed to the
daughter: which is a parable; or else it is the other way, which is
against all the principles and prepossessions of life.)

Elinor did not sit up like her mother. She had flung herself upon the
opposite sofa, with her arms flung behind her head, supporting it with
her fingers half buried in the twists of her hair. She was not tall
like Mrs. Dennistoun, and there was far more vivid colour than had ever
been the mother's in her brown eyes and bright complexion, which was
milk-white and rose-red after an old-fashioned rule of colour, too crude
perhaps for modern artistic taste. Sometimes these delightful tints go
with a placid soul which never varies, but in Elinor's case there was a
demon in the hazel of the eyes, not dark enough for placidity, all fire
at the best of times, and ready in a moment to burst into flame. She
it was who had to be in the forefront of the interest, and not her
mother, though for metaphysical, or what I suppose should now be
called psychological interests, the elder lady was probably the most
interesting of the two. Elinor beat her foot upon the carpet, out of
sheer impatience, while John lingered alone in the dining-room. What did
he stay there for? When there are several men together, and they drink
wine, the thing is comprehensible; but one man alone who takes his
claret with his dinner, and cares for nothing more, why should he stay
behind when there was so much to say to him, and not one minute too
much time till Monday morning, should the house be given up to talk not
only by day but by night? But it was no use beating one's foot, for John
did not come.

"You spoke to your cousin, Elinor, before dinner?" her mother said.

"Oh, yes, I spoke to him before dinner. What did he come here for but
that? I sent for him on purpose, you know, mamma, to hear what he would
say."

"And what did he say?"

This most natural question produced a small convulsion once more on
Elinor's side. She loosed the hands that had been supporting her head
and flung them out in front of her. "Oh, mamma, how can you be so
exasperating! What did he say? What was he likely to say? If the beggar
maid that married King Cophetua had a family it would have been exactly
the same thing--though in that case surely the advantage was all on the
gentleman's side."

"We know none of the particulars in that case," said Mrs. Dennistoun,
calmly. "I have always thought it quite possible that the beggar maid
was a princess of an old dynasty and King Cophetua a _parvenu_. But in
your case, Elinor----"

"You know just as little," said the girl, impetuously.

"That is what I say. I don't know the man who has possessed himself of
my child's fancy and heart. I want to know more about him. I want----"

"For goodness' sake, whatever you want, don't be sentimental, mamma!"

"Was I sentimental? I didn't mean it. He has got your heart, my dear,
whatever words may be used."

"Yes--and for ever!" said the girl, turning round upon herself. "I know
you think I don't know my own mind; but there will never be any change
in me. Oh, what does John mean, sitting all by himself in that stuffy
room? He has had time to smoke a hundred cigarettes!"

"Elinor, you must not forget it is rather hard upon John to be brought
down to settle your difficulties for you. What do you want with him?
Only that he should advise you to do what you have settled upon doing.
If he took the other side, how much attention would you give him? You
must be reasonable, my dear."

"I would give him every attention," said Elinor, "if he said what was
reasonable. You don't think mere blind opposition is reasonable, I hope,
mamma. To say Don't, merely, without saying why, what reason is there in
that?"

"My dear, when you argue I am lost. I am not clever at making out my
ground. Mine is not mere blind opposition, or indeed opposition at all.
You have been always trained to use your own faculties, and I have never
made any stand against you."

"Why not? why not?" said the girl, springing to her feet. "That is just
the dreadful, dreadful part of it! Why don't you say straight out what
I am to do and keep to it, and not tell me I must make use of my own
faculties? When I do, you put on a face and object. Either don't object,
or tell me point-blank what I am to do."

"Do you think for one moment if I did, you would obey me, Elinor?"

"Oh, I don't know what I might do in that case, for it will never
happen. You will never take that responsibility. For my part, if you
locked me up in my room and kept me on bread and water I should think
_that_ reasonable; but not this kind of letting I dare not wait upon I
would, saying I am to exercise my own faculties, and then hesitating and
finding fault."

"I daresay, my dear," said Mrs. Dennistoun, with great tolerance, "that
this may be provoking to your impatient mind: but you must put yourself
in my place a little, as I try to put myself in yours. I have never seen
Mr. Compton. It is probable, or at least quite possible, that if I knew
him I might look upon him with your eyes----"

"Probable! Possible! What words to use! when all my happiness, all my
life, everything I care for is in it: and my own mother thinks it just
possible that she might be able to tolerate the man that--the man
who----"

She flung herself down on her seat again, panting and excited. "Did you
wear out Adelaide like that," she cried, "before she married, papa and
you----"

"Adelaide was very different, Elinor. She married _salon les règles_ a
man whom we all knew. There was no trouble about it. Your father was
the one who was impatient then. He thought it too well arranged, too
commonplace and satisfactory. You may believe he did not object to that
in words, but he laughed at them and it worried him. It has done very
well on the whole," said Mrs. Dennistoun, with a faint sigh.

"You say that--and then you sigh. There is always a little reserve. You
are never wholly satisfied."

"One seldom is in this world," said Mrs. Dennistoun, this time with a
soft laugh. "This world is not very satisfactory. One makes the best one
can of it."

"And that is just what I hate to hear," said Elinor, "what I have always
heard. Oh, yes, when you don't say it you mean it, mamma. One can read
it in the turn of your head. You put up with things. You think perhaps
they might have been worse. In every way that's your philosophy. And
it's killing, killing to all life! I would rather far you said out,
'Adelaide's husband is a prig and I hate him.'"

"There is only one drawback, that it would not be true. I don't in the
least hate him. I am glad I was not called upon to marry him myself, I
don't think I should have liked it. But he makes Adelaide a very good
husband, and she is quite happy with him--as far as I know."

"The same thing again--never more. I wonder, I wonder after I have been
married a dozen years what you will say of me?"

"I wonder, too: if we could but know that it would solve the question,"
the mother said. Elinor looked at her with a provoked and impatient air,
which softened off after a moment--partly because she heard the door of
the dining-room open--into a smile.

"I try you in every way," she said, half laughing. "I do everything to
beguile you into a pleasanter speech. I thought you must at least have
said then that you hoped you would have nothing to say but happiness.
No! you are not to be caught, however one tries, mamma."

John came in at this moment, not without a whiff about him of the
cigarette over which he had lingered so. It relieved him to see the
two ladies seated opposite each other in the bow window, and to hear
something like a laugh in the air. Perhaps they were discussing other
things, and not this momentous marriage question, in which certainly no
laughter was.

"You have your usual fire," he said, "but the wind has quite gone down,
and I am sure it is not wanted to-night."

"It looks cheerful always, John."

"Which is the reason, I suppose, why you carefully place yourself out of
sight of it--one of the prejudices of English life."

And then he came forward into the recess of the window, which was partly
separated from the room by a table with flowers on it, and a great bush
in a pot, of delicate maiden-hair fern. It was perhaps significant,
though he did not mean it for any demonstration of partisanship, that
he sat down on Elinor's side. Both the ladies felt it so instinctively,
although, on the contrary, had the truth been known, all John's real
agreement was with the mother; but in such a conjuncture it is not truth
but personal sympathy that carries the day. "You are almost in the dark
here," he said.

"Neither of us is doing anything. One is lazy on a summer night."

"There is a great deal more in it than that," said Elinor, in a voice
which faltered a little. "You talk about summer nights, and the weather,
and all manner of indifferent things, but you know all the time there
is but one real subject to talk of, and that we are all thinking of
that."

"That is my line, aunt," said John. "Elinor is right. We might sit
and make conversation, but of course this is the only subject we are
thinking of. It's very kind of you to take me into the consultation. Of
course I am in a kind of way the nearest in relation, and the only man
in the family--except my father--and I know a little about law, and all
that. Now let me hear formally, as if I knew nothing about it (and, in
fact, I know very little), what the question is. Elinor has met someone
who--who has proposed to her--not to put too fine a point upon it," said
John, with a smile that was somewhat ghastly--"and she has accepted him.
Congratulations are understood, but here there arises a hitch."

"There arises no hitch. Mamma is dissatisfied (which mamma generally is)
chiefly because she does not know Mr. Compton; and some wretched old
woman, who doesn't know him either, has written to her--to her and also
to me--telling us a pack of lies," said Elinor, indignantly, "to which I
do not give the least credence for a moment--not for a moment!"

"That's all very well for you," said John, "it's quite simple; but for
us, Elinor--that is, for your mother and me, as you are good enough to
allow me to have a say in the matter--it's not so simple. We feel, you
know, that, like Cæsar's wife, our Elinor's--husband"--he could not help
making a grimace as he said that word, but no one saw or suspected
it--"should be above suspicion."

"That is exactly what I feel, John."

"Well, we must do something about it, don't you see? Probably it will be
as easy as possible for him to clear himself." (The dis-Honourable Phil!
Good heavens! to think it was a man branded with such a name that was to
marry Elinor! For a moment he was silenced by the thought, as if some
one had given him a blow.)

"To clear himself!" said Elinor. "And do you think I will permit him to
be asked to clear himself? Do you think I will allow him to believe for
a moment that _I_ believed anything against him? Do you think I will
take the word of a spiteful old woman?"

"Old women are not always spiteful, and they are sometimes right."
John put out his hand to prevent Mrs. Dennistoun from speaking, which,
indeed, she had no intention of doing. "I don't mean so, of course, in
Mr. Compton's case--and I don't know what has been said."

"Things that are very uncomfortable--very inconsistent with a happy life
and a comfortable establishment," said Mrs. Dennistoun.

"Oh, if you could only hear yourself, mamma! You are not generally a
Philistine, I must say that for you; but if you only heard the tone
in which you said 'comfortable establishment!' the most conventional
match-making in existence could not have done it better; and as for
what has been said, there has nothing been said but what is said about
everybody--what, probably, would be said of you yourself, John, for you
play whist sometimes, I hear, and often billiards, at the club."

A half-audible "God forbid!" had come from John's lips when she said,
"What would probably be said of yourself"--audible that is to Elinor,
not to the mother. She sprang up as this murmur came to her ear: "Oh, if
you are going to prejudge the case, there is nothing for me to say!"

"I should be very sorry to prejudge the case, or to judge it all," said
John. "I am too closely interested to be judicial. Let somebody who
knows nothing about it be your judge. Let the accusations be submitted--to
your Rector, say; he's a sensible man enough, and knows the world. He
won't be scared by a rubber at the club, or that sort of thing. Let him
inquire, and then your mind will be at rest."

"There is only one difficulty, John," said Mrs. Dennistoun. "Mr. Hudson
would be the best man in the world, only for one thing--that it is from
his sister and his wife that the warning came."

"Oh!" said John. This fact seemed to take him aback in the most
ludicrous way. He sat and gazed at them, and had not another word to
say. Perhaps the fact that he himself who suggested the inquiry was
still better informed of the true state of the case, and of the truth of
the accusation, than were those to whom he might have submitted it, gave
him a sense of the hopelessness and also absurdity of the attempt more
than anything else could have done.

"And that proves, if there was nothing else," said Elinor, "how false
it is: for how could Mrs. Hudson and Mary Dale know? They are not
fashionable people, they are not in society. How could they or any one
like them know anything of Phil"--she stopped quickly, drew herself up,
and added--"of Mr. Compton, I mean?"

"They might not know, but they might state their authority," Mrs.
Dennistoun said; "and if the Rector cannot be used to help us, surely,
John, you are a man of the world, you are not like a woman, unacquainted
with evidence. Why should not you do it, though you are, as you kindly
say, an interested party?"

"He shall not do it. I forbid him to do it. If he takes in hand anything
of the kind he must say good-by to me."

"You hear?" said John; "but I could not do it in any case, my dear
Elinor. I am too near. I never could see this thing all round. Why not
your lawyer, old Lynch, a decent old fellow----"

"I will tell him the same," cried Elinor; "I will never speak to him
again."

"My dear," said her mother, "you will give everybody the idea that you
don't want to know the truth."

"I know the truth already," said Elinor, rising with great dignity. "Do
you think that any slander would for a moment shake my faith in you--or
you? You don't deserve it, John, for you turn against me--you that I
thought were going to take my part; but do you think if all the people
in London set up one story that I would believe it against you? And how
should I against _him_?" she added, with an emphasis upon the word, as
expressing something immeasurably more to be loved and trusted than
either mother or cousin, by which, after having raised John up to a sort
of heaven of gratified affection, she let him down again to the ground
like a stone. Oh, yes! trusted in with perfect faith, nothing believed
against him, whom she had known all her life--but yet not to be mentioned
in the same breath with the ineffable trust she reposed in the man she
loved--whom she did not know at all. The first made John's countenance
beam with emotion and pleasure, the second brought a cold shade over his
face. For a moment he could scarcely speak.

"She bribes us," he said at last, forcing a smile. "She flatters us, but
only to let us drop again, Mrs. Dennistoun; it is as good as saying,
'What are we to _him_?'"

"They all do so," said the elder lady, calmly; "I am used to it."

"But, perhaps, I am not quite--used to it," said John, with something in
his voice which made them both look at him--Elinor only for a moment,
carelessly, before she swept away--Mrs. Dennistoun with a more warmly
awakened sensation, as if she had made some discovery. "Ah!" she said,
with a tone of pain. But Elinor did not wait for any further disclosures.
She waved her hand, and went off with her head high, carrying, as she
felt, the honours of war. They might plot, indeed, behind her back, and
try to invent some tribunal before which her future husband might be
arraigned; but John, at least, would say nothing to make things worse.
John would be true to her--he would not injure Phil Compton. Elinor,
perhaps, guessed a little of what John was thinking, and felt, though
she could scarcely have told how, that it would be a point of honour
with him not to betray her love.

He sat with Mrs. Dennistoun in partial silence for some time after
this. He felt as if he had been partially discovered--partially, and yet
more would be discovered than there was to discover; for if either of
them believed that he was in love with Elinor, they were mistaken, he
said to himself. He had been annoyed by her engagement, but he had never
come to the point of asking her that question in his own person. No, nor
would not, he said to himself--certainly would not--not even to save her
from the clutches of this gambler and adventurer. No; they might think
what they liked, but this was the case. He never should have done
it--never would have exposed himself to refusal--never besought this
high-tempered girl to have the control of his life. Poor Nelly all the
same! poor little thing! To think she had so little judgment as to
ignore what might have been a great deal better, and to pin her faith to
the dis-Honourable Phil.




CHAPTER IV.


In the morning John accompanied Elinor to church. Mrs. Dennistoun had
found an excuse for not going, which I am sorry to say was a way she
had. She expressed (and felt) much sorrow for it herself, saying, which
was quite true, that not to go was a great distress to her, and put the
household out, and was a custom she did not approve of. But somehow
it had grown upon her. She regretted this, but did it, saying that
everybody was illogical, and that when Elinor had some one to go with
she thought herself justified at her age in this little indulgence.
Neither Elinor nor John objected to the arrangement. There are things
that can be said in a walk while both parties are in motion, and when it
is not necessary to face each other and to be subjected each to the
other's examination of feature and expression. It is easier in this way
to say many things, to ask questions which might be embarrassing, to
receive the fire of an examination which it might be otherwise difficult
to meet. Thus the two had not walked above half the way to church,
which was on the other edge of the combe, and stood, a lovely old
place--but not the trim and restored and well-decorated edifice it is
nowadays--tinkling its little bells into the sweet moorland air, amid
such a hum of innumerable bees as seemed to make the very sunshine a
vehicle for sound--before John began to perceive that he was being
ingeniously driven to revelations which he had never intended, by a
process for which he was not at all prepared. She who had been so
indignant last night and determined not to allow a word to be said
against the immaculate honour of the man she loved, was now--was it
possible?--straining all her faculties to obtain from him, whom she
would not permit to be Phil Compton's judge, such unguarded admissions
as would enlighten her as to what Phil Compton was accused of. It was
some time before John perceived her aim; he did not even grasp the idea
at first that this girl whose whole heart was set upon marrying Phil
Compton, and defying for his sake every prophecy of evil and all the
teachings of prudence, did not indeed at all know what it was which Phil
had been supposed to have done. Had she been a girl in society she could
scarcely have avoided some glimmerings of knowledge. She would have
heard an unguarded word here and there, a broken phrase, an expression
of scorn or dislike, she might even have heard that most unforgettable
of nicknames, the dis-Honourable Phil. But Elinor, who was not in
society, heard none of these things. She had been warned in the first
fervour of her betrothal that he was not a man she ought to marry, but
why? nobody had told her; how was she to know?

"You don't like Lady Mariamne, John?"

"It matters very little whether I like her or not: we don't meet once in
a year."

"It will matter if you are to be in a kind of way connected. What has
she ever done that you shouldn't like her? She is very nice at home;
she has three nice little children. It's quite pretty to see her with
them."

"Ah, I daresay; it's pretty to see a tiger with her cubs, I don't
doubt."

"What do you mean, John? What has she ever done?"

"I cannot tell you, Elinor; nothing perhaps. She does not take my fancy:
that's all."

"That's not all; you could never be so unjust and so absurd. How
dreadful you good people are! Pretending to mean kindness," she cried,
"you put the mark of your dislike upon people, and then you won't say
why. What have _they_ done?"

It was this "they" that put John upon his guard. Hitherto she had only
been asking about the sister, who did not matter so very much. If a man
was to be judged by his sister! but "they" gave him a new light.

"Can't you understand, Elinor," he said, "that without doing anything
that can be built upon, a woman may set herself in a position of enmity
to the world, her hand against every one, and every one's hand against
her?"

"I know that well enough--generally because she does not comply with
every conventional rule, but does and thinks what commends itself to
her; I do that myself--so far as I can with mamma behind me."

"You! the question has nothing to do with you."

"Why not with me as much as with another of my family?" said Elinor,
throwing back her head.

He turned round upon her with something like a snort of indignation: she
to be compared--but Elinor met his eyes with scornful composure and
defiance, and John was obliged to calm himself. "There's no analogy,"
he said; "Lady Mariamne is an old campaigner. She's up to everything.
Besides, a sister-in-law--if it comes to that--is not a very near
relation. No one will judge you by her." He would not be led into any
discussion of the other, whose name, alas! Elinor intended to bear.

"If it comes to that. Perhaps you think," said Elinor, with a smile of
fine scorn, "that you will prevent it ever coming to that?"

"Oh, no," he said, "I'm very humble; I don't think much of my own powers
in that way: nothing that I can do will affect it, if Providence doesn't
take it in hand."

"You really think it's a big enough thing to invoke Providence about?"

"If Providence looks after the sparrows as we are told," said John, "it
certainly may be expected to step in to save a nice girl like you,
Nelly, from--from connections you'll soon get to hate--and--and a shady
man!"

She turned upon him with sparkling eyes in a sudden blaze of indignation.
"How dare you! how dare you!"

"I dare a great deal more than that to save you. You must hear me,
Nelly: they're all badly spoken of, not one, but all. They are a shady
lot--excuse a man's way of talking. I don't know what other words to
use--partly from misfortune, but more from---- Nelly, Nelly, how could
you, a high-minded, well-brought-up girl like you, tolerate that?"

She turned upon him again, breathing hard with restrained rage and
desperation; evidently she was at a loss for words to convey her
indignant wrath: and at last in sheer inability to express the vehemence
of her feelings she fastened on one word and repeated "well-brought-up!"
in accents of scorn.

"Yes," said John, "my aunt and you may not always understand each other,
but she's proved her case to every fair mind by yourself, Elinor. A girl
could not be better brought up than you've been: and you could not put
up with it, not unless you changed your nature as well as your name."

"With what?" she said, "with what?" They had gone up and down the
sloping sides of the combe, through the rustling copse, sometimes where
there was a path, sometimes where there was none, treading over the
big bushes of ling and the bell-heather, all bursting into bloom, past
groups of primeval firs and seedling beeches, self-sown, over little
hillocks and hollows formed of rocks or big old roots of trees covered
with the close glittering green foliage and dark blue clusters of the
dewberry, with the hum of bees filling the air, the twittering of the
birds, the sound of the church bells--nothing more like the heart of
summer, more peaceful, genial, happy than that brooding calm of nature
amid all the harmonious sounds, could be.

But as Elinor put this impatient question, her countenance all ablaze
with anger and vehemence and resolution, yet with a gleam of anxiety in
the puckers of her forehead and the eyes which shone from beneath them,
they stepped out upon the road by which other groups were passing, all
bound towards the centre of the church and its tinkling bells. Elinor
stopped, and drew a longer panting breath, and gave him a look of
fierce reproach, as if this too were his fault: and then she smoothed
her ruffled plumes, after the manner of women, and replied to the
Sunday-morning salutations, with the smiles and nods of use and wont.
She knew everybody, both the rich and the poor, or rather I should say
the well-off and the less-well-off, for there were neither rich nor
poor, formally speaking, on Windyhill. John did not find it so easy to
put his emotions in his pocket. He cast an admiring glance upon her as
with heightened colour and a little panting of the breath, but no other
sign of disturbance, she made her inquiries after this one's mother and
that one's child. It was wonderful to him to see how the storm was got
under in a moment. An occasional glance aside at himself from the corner
of her eye, a sort of dart of defiance as if to bid him remember that
she was not done with him, was shot at John from time to time over the
heads of the innocent country people in whom she pretended to be so much
interested. Pretended!--was it pretence, or was the one as real as the
other? He heard her promising to come to-morrow to see an invalid, to
send certain articles as soon as she got home, to look up certain books.
Would she do so? or was all this a mere veil to cover the other which
engaged all her soul?

And then there came the service--that soothing routine of familiar
prayers, which the lips of men and women absorbed in the violence and
urgency of life murmur over almost without knowing, with now and then an
awakening to something that touches their own aspirations, to something
that offers or that asks for help. "Because there is none other that
fighteth for us but only Thou, O God." That seems to the careless soul
such a _non sequitur_, as if peace was asked for, only because there
was none other to fight; but to the man heavily laden, what a cry out
of the depths! Because there is none other--all resources gone, all
possibilities: but one that fighteth for us, standing fast, always the
champion of the perplexed, the overborne, the weak. John was a little
careless in this respect, as so many young men are. He thought most of
the music when he joined the fashionable throng in the Temple Church.
But there was no music to speak of at Windyhill. There was more sound of
the bees outside, and the birds and the sighing bass of the fir-trees
than of anything more carefully concerted. The organ was played with a
curious drone in it, almost like that of the primitive bagpipe. But
there was that one phrase, a strong strain of human appeal, enough to
lift the world, nay, to let itself go straight to the blue heavens:
"Because there is none other that fighteth for us but only Thou, O God."

Mr. Hudson preached his little sermon like a discord in the midst. What
should he have preached it for, that little sermon, which was only
composed because he could not help himself, which was about nothing in
heaven or earth? John gave it a sort of partial attention because he
could not help it, partly in wonder to think how a sensible man like Mr.
Hudson could account to himself for such strange little interruption of
the natural sequence of high human emotion. What theory had he in his
mind? This was a question John was fond of putting to himself, with
perhaps an idea peculiar to a lawyer, that every man must be thinking
what he is about, and be able to produce a clear reason, and, as it
were, some theory of the meaning of his own actions--which everybody
must know is nonsense. For the Rector of course preached just because it
was in his day's work, and the people would have been much surprised,
though possibly much relieved, had he not done so--feeling that to
listen was in the day's work too, and to be gone through doggedly as a
duty. John thought how much better it would be to have some man who
could preach now and then when he had something to say, instead of
troubling the Rector, who, good man, had nothing. But it is not to be
supposed that he was thinking this consecutively while the morning
went on. It flitted through his mind from time to time among his many
thinkings about the Compton family and Elinor; poor Nelly, standing upon
the edge of that precipice and the helplessness of every one to save
her, and the great refrain like the peal of an organ going through
everything, "None other that fighteth for us but only Thou, O God."
Surely, surely to prevent this sacrifice He would interfere.

She turned to him the moment they were out of the church doors with
that same look of eager defiance yet demand, and as soon as they left
the road, the first step into the copse, putting out her hand to
call his attention: "You said I could not put up with it, a girl so
well-brought-up as I am. What is it a well-brought-up girl can't put
up with? A disorderly house, late hours, and so forth, hateful to the
well-brought-up? What is it, what is it, John?"

"Have you been thinking of that all through the morning prayers?" he
said.

"Yes, I have been thinking about it. What did you expect me to think
about? Is there anything else so important? Mr. Hudson's sermon,
perhaps, which I have heard before, which I suppose _you_ listened to,"
she said, with a troubled laugh.

"I did a little, wondering how a good man like that could go on doing
it; and there were other things----" John did not like to say what it
was which was still throbbing through the air to him, and through his
own being.

"Nothing that is of so much moment to me: come back, John, to the
well-brought-up girl."

"You think that's a poor sort of description, Elinor; so it is. You are
of course a great deal more than that. Still it's what one can turn to
most easily. You don't know what life is in a sort of fast house, where
there is nothing thought of but amusement or where it's a constant round
of race meetings, yachting, steeplechases--I don't know if men still
ride steeplechases--I mean that sort of thing: Monte Carlo in the winter:
betting all the year round--if not on one thing then on another;
expedients to raise money, for money's always wanted. You don't
know--how can you know?--what goes on in a fast life."

"Don't you see, John," she cried, eagerly, "that all that, if put in a
different way not to their prejudice, if put in the right way would
sound delightful? There is no harm in these things at all. Betting's not
a sin in the Bible any more than races are. Don't you see it's only the
abuse of them that's wrong? One might ruin one's health, I believe, with
tea, which is the most righteous thing! I should like above all things a
yacht, say in the Mediterranean, and to go to Monte Carlo, which is a
beautiful place, and where there is the best music in the world, besides
the gambling. I should like even to see the gambling once in a way,
for the fun of the thing. You don't frighten me at all. I have been a
fortnight at Lady Mariamne's, and the continual 'go' was delightful;
there was never a dull moment. As for expedients to raise money,
_there_----"

"To be sure--old Prestwich is as rich as Croesus--or was," said John,
with significance, "but you are not going to live with Lady Mariamne, I
suppose."

"Oh, John!" she cried, "oh, John!" suddenly seizing him by the arm,
clasping her hands on it in the pretty way of earnestness she had,
though one hand held her parasol, which was inconvenient. The soft face
was suffused with rosy colour, so different from the angry red, the
flush of love and tenderness--her eyes swam in liquid light, looking up
with mingled happiness and entreaty to John's face. "Fancy what he says,
that he will not object to come here for half the year to let me be with
my mother! Remember what he is, a man of fashion, and fond of the world,
and of going out and all that. He has consented to come, nay, he almost
offered to come for six months in the year to be with mamma."

"Good heavens," cried John to himself, "he must indeed be down on his
luck!" but what he said was, "Does your mother know of this, Elinor?"

"I have not told her yet. I have reserved it to hear first what you had
to say: and so far as I can make out you have nothing at all to say,
only general things, disapproval in the general. What should you say if
I told you that he disapproves too? He said himself that there had been
too much of all that--that he had backed something--isn't that what you
say?--backed it at odds, and stood to win what he calls a pot of money.
But after that was decided--for he said he could not be off bets that
were made--never any more. Now that I know you have nothing more to say
my heart is free, and I can tell you. He has never really liked that
sort of life, but was led into it when he was very young. And now as
soon as--we are together, you know"--she looked so bright, so sweet in
the happiness of her love, that John could have flung her from his arms,
and felt that she insulted him by that clinging hold--"he means to turn
entirely to serious things, and to go into politics, John."

"Oh, he is going into politics!"

"Of course, on the people's side--to do everything for them--Home Rule,
and all that is best: to see that they are heard in Parliament, and have
their wants attended to, instead of jobs and corruption everywhere. So
you will see, John, that if he has been fast, and gone a little too
far, and been very much mixed up in the Turf, and all that, it was only
in the exuberance of youth, liking the fun of it, as I feel I should
myself. But that now, now all that is to be changed when he steps into
settled, responsible life. I should not have told you if you had
repeated the lies that people say. But as you did not, but only found
fault with him for being fast----"

"Then you have heard--what people say?" He shifted his arm a little,
so that she instinctively perceived that the affectionate clasp of her
hands was no longer agreeable to him, and his face seemed suddenly to
have become a blank page, absolutely devoid of all expression. He kicked
vigorously at one of the hillocks he had stumbled against, as if he
thought he could dislodge it and get it out of his way.

"Mariamne told me there was a lot of lies--that people said--I am so
glad, John, oh! so thankful, that you have not repeated any of them;
for now I can feel you are my own good John, as you always were, not a
slanderer of any one, and we can go on being fond of each other like
brother and sister. I have told him you have been the best of brothers
to me."

"Oh," said John, without a sign of wonder or admiration in him, with a
dead blank in his face.

"And what do you think he said? 'Then I know he must be a capital
fellow, Ne----'"

"Not Nelly," said poor John, with a foolish pang that seemed to rend his
heart. Oh, if that scamp, that cheat, that low betting, card-playing
rascal were but here! he would capital-fellow him. To take not herself
only, but the dear pet name that she had said was only John's----

"He says Nell sometimes, John. Oh, not Nelly--Nelly is for you only. I
would never let him call me that. But they are all for short names,
one syllable--he is Phil, and Mariamne, well at home they call her
Jew--horrible, isn't it?--because she was called after some Jewess; but
somehow it seems queer when you see her, so fair and frizzy, like
anything but a Jew."

"So I have got one letter to myself," said John. "I don't know that I
think that worth very much, however. And so far as I can see, you seem
to think everything very fine--the bets, perhaps, and the rows and all."

"Well they are, you know," said Elinor, with a laugh, "to a little
country mouse like me that has never seen anything. There is always
something going on, and their slang way of speaking is certainly very
amusing if it is not at all dignified, and they have such droll ways of
looking at things. All so entirely different! Don't you know, John,
sometimes in one's life one longs for something to be quite different. A
complete change, anything new."

"If that is what you long for, no doubt you will get it, Elinor."

"Well!" she cried, "I have had the other for three-and-twenty years,
long enough to have exhausted it, don't you think? but I don't mean
to throw it over, oh, no! Coming back to mamma makes the arrangement
perfect. Probably in the end it is the old life, the life I was brought
up in that I shall like best in the long run. That is one thing of being
well brought up. Phil will laugh till he cries when I tell him of your
description of me as a well-brought-up girl."

John set his teeth as he walked or rather stumbled along by her side,
catching in the roots of the trees as he had never done before, and
swearing under his breath. Her flutter of talk running on, delighted,
full of laughter and softness, as if he had fully declared his
satisfaction and was interested in every detail, kept John in a state
of suppressed fury which made his countenance dark, and almost took the
sight from his eyes. He did not know how to escape from that false
position, nor did she give him time, she had so much to say. Mrs.
Dennistoun looked anxiously at the pair as they came up through the
copse to the level of the cottage. There were no enclosures in that
primitive place. From the copse you came straight into the garden with
its banks of flowers. She was seated near the cottage door in a corner
sheltered from the sun, with a number of books about her. But I don't
think she had read anything except some portions of the lessons in the
morning service. She had been sitting with her eyes vaguely fixed upon
the horizon and her hands clasped in her lap, and a heavy shadow like an
overhanging cloud upon her mind. But when she heard Elinor's voice
approaching so gay and tuneful her heart rose a little. John evidently
could have had nothing very bad to say. Elinor had been satisfied
with the morning. Mrs. Dennistoun had expected to see them come back
estranged and silent. The conclusion she drew was entirely satisfactory.
After all John must have been moved solely by general disapproval, which
is so very different from the dreadful hints and warnings that might
mean any criminality. Elinor was talking to him as freely as she had
done before this spectre rose. It must, Mrs. Dennistoun concluded, be
all right.

It was not till he was going away that she had an opportunity of talking
with him alone. Her satisfaction, it must be allowed, had been a little
subdued by John's demeanour during the afternoon and evening. But Mrs.
Dennistoun had said to herself that there might be other ways of
accounting for this. She had long had a fancy that John was more
interested in Elinor than he had confessed himself to be. It had been
her conviction that as soon as he felt it warrantable, as soon as he
was sufficiently well-established, and his practice secured, he would
probably declare himself, with, she feared, no particular issue so far
as Elinor was concerned. And perhaps he was disappointed, poor fellow,
which was a very natural explanation of his glum looks. But at breakfast
on Monday Elinor announced her intention of driving her cousin to the
station, and went out to see that the pony was harnessed, an operation
which took some time, for the pony was out in the field and had to be
caught, and the man of all work, who had a hundred affairs to look
after, had to be caught too to perform this duty; which sometimes,
however, Elinor performed herself, but always with some expenditure of
time. Mrs. Dennistoun seized the opportunity, plunging at once into the
all-important subject.

"You seemed to get on all right together yesterday, John, so I suppose
you found that after all there was not very much to say."

"I was not allowed to say----anything. You mean----"

"Oh, John, John, do you mean to tell me after all----"

"Aunt Ellen," he said, "stop it if you can; if there is any means in the
world by which you can stop it, do so. I can't bring accusations against
the man, for I couldn't prove them. I only know what everybody knows. He
is not a man fit for Elinor to marry. He is not fit to touch the tie of
her shoe."

"Oh, don't trouble me with your superlatives, John. Elinor is a good
girl and a clever girl, but not a lady of romance. Is there anything
really against him? Tell me, for goodness' sake! Even with these few
words you have made me very unhappy," Mrs. Dennistoun said, in a half
resentful tone.

"I can't help it," said the unfortunate man, "I can't bring accusations,
as I tell you. He is simply a scamp--that is all I know."

"A scamp!" said Mrs. Dennistoun, with a look of alarm. "But then that is
a word that has so many meanings. A scamp may be only a careless fellow,
nice in his way. That is not enough to break off a marriage for. And,
John, as you have said so much, you must say more."

"I have no more to say, that's all I know. Inquire what the Hudsons have
heard. Stop it if you can."

"Oh, dear, dear, here is Elinor back already," Mrs. Dennistoun said.




CHAPTER V.


The next time that John's presence was required at the cottage was for
the signing of the very simple settlements; which, as there was nothing
or next to nothing in the power of the man to settle upon his wife,
were easy enough. He met Mr. Lynch, who was Mrs. Dennistoun's "man of
business," and a sharp London solicitor, who was for the husband.
Elinor's fortune was five thousand pounds, no more, not counting her
expectations from him, which were left out of the question. It was a
very small matter altogether, and one which the smart solicitor who was
in Mr. Compton's interest spoke of with a certain contempt, as who
should say he was not in the habit of being disturbed and brought to the
country for any such trifle. It was now August--not a time when any man
was supposed to be available for matters like these. Mr. Lynch was just
about starting for his annual holiday, but came, at no small personal
inconvenience, to do his duty by the poor girl whom he had known all his
life. John and he travelled to the cottage together, and their aspect
was not cheerful. "Did you ever hear," said Mr. Lynch, "such a piece of
folly as this--a man with no character at all? This is what it is to
leave a girl in the sole care of her mother. What does a woman know
about such things?"

"I don't think it was her mother's fault," said John, anxious to do
justice all round. "Elinor is very head-strong, and when she has made up
her mind to a thing----"

"A bit of a girl!" said Mr. Lynch, contemptuously. He was an old bachelor
and knew nothing about the subject, as the reader will perceive. "Her
mother ought never to have permitted it for a moment. She should have
put down her foot: and then Miss Elinor would soon have come to reason.
What I wonder is the ruffian's own motives? for it can't be a little bit
of money like that. Five thousand's a mere mouthful to such a man as he
is. He'll get rid of it all in a week."

"It must be tied up as tight as possible," said John.

Here Mr. Lynch faltered a little. "She has got an idea into her head,
with the intention, I don't doubt, of defrauding herself if she can. He
has got some investment for it, it appears. He is on the board of some
company--a pretty board to take in such a fellow? But the Honourable is
always something, I suppose."

John did not say the _dis_-Honourable, though it trembled on the edge of
his tongue. "But you will not permit that?" he said.

"No, no; we will not permit it," said Mr. Lynch, with an emphasis on the
negative which sounded like failing resolution.

"That would be giving the lamb to the wolf with a vengeance."

"Exactly what I said; exactly what I said. I am very glad, Mr. Tatham,
that you take the same view."

"There is but one view to be taken," said John. "He must not have the
slightest power over her money. It must be tied up as tight as the law
can do it; not that I think it of the least consequence," he added. "Of
course, he will get it all from her one way or another. Law's but a poor
barrier against a determined man."

"I'm glad you see that too," said Mr. Lynch, "and you might say a
determined woman: for she has set her mind on this, and we'll have a
nice business with her, I can see."

"A bit of a girl!" said John, with a laugh, echoing the previous
sentiment.

"That's very true," said the old lawyer; "and still I think her
mother--but I don't put any great confidence in my own power to resist
Elinor. Poor little thing, I've known her since she was _that_ high;
indeed, I may say I knew her before she was born. And you are a
relation, Mr. Tatham?"

"Third or fourth cousin."

"But still, more intimate than a person unconnected with them, and able
to speak your mind more freely. I wonder now that you never said
anything. But in family matters sometimes one is very reluctant to
interfere."

"I said everything I could say, not to offend them mortally; but I could
only tell them the common talk of society. I told my aunt he was a
scamp: but after the first shock I am not sure that she thought that was
any such bad thing. It depended upon the sense you put upon the word,
she said."

"Oh, women, women!" said Mr. Lynch. "That's their way--a reformed rake
makes the best husband. It's an old-fashioned sentiment, but it's in the
background of their minds, a sort of tradition that they can't shake
off--or else the poor fellow has had so many disadvantages, and they
think they can make it all right. It's partly ignorance and partly
vanity. But they are all the same, and their ways in the matter of
marriage are not to be made out."

"You have a great deal of experience."

"Experience--oh, don't speak of it!" said the old gentleman. "A man has
a certain idea of the value of money, however great a fool he may be,
but the women----"

"And yet they are said to stick to money, and to be respectful of it
beyond anything but a miser. I have myself remarked----"

"In small matters," said Mr. Lynch, "in detail--sixpences to railway
porters and that sort of thing--so people say at least. But a sum of
money on paper has no effect on a woman, she will sign it away with a
wave of her hand. It doesn't touch their imagination. Five pounds in her
pocket is far more than five thousand on paper, to Elinor, for instance.
I wish," cried the old gentleman, with a little spitefulness, "that this
Married Women's Property Bill would push on and get itself made law. It
would save us a great deal of trouble, and perhaps convince the world at
the last how little able they are to be trusted with property. A nice
mess they will make of it, and plenty of employment for young
solicitors," he said, rubbing his hands.

For this was before that important bill was passed, which has not had
(like so many other bills) the disastrous consequences which Mr. Lynch
foresaw.

They were met at the station by the pony carriage, and at the door by
Elinor herself, who came flying out to meet them. She seized Mr. Lynch
by both arms, for he was a little old man, and she was bigger than he
was.

"Now you will remember what I said," she cried in his ear, yet not so
low but that John heard it too.

"You are a little witch; you mustn't insist upon anything so foolish.
Leave all that to me, my dear," said Mr. Lynch. "What do you know about
business? You must leave it to me and the other gentleman, who I suppose
is here, or coming."

"He is here, but I don't care for him. I care only for you. There are
such advantages: and I do know a great deal about business; and," she
said, with her mouth close to the old lawyer's ear, "it will please Phil
so much if I show my confidence in him, and in the things with which he
has to do."

"It will not please him so much if the thing bursts, and you are left
without a penny, my dear."

Elinor laughed. "I don't suppose he will mind a bit: he cares nothing
for money. But I do," she said. "You know you always say women love
acquisition. I want good interest, and of course with Phil on it, it
must be safe for me."

"Oh, that makes it like the Bank of England, you think! but I don't
share your confidence, my pretty Elinor. I'm an old fellow. No Phil in
the world has any charm for me. You must trust me to do what I feel is
best for you. And Mr. Tatham here is quite of my opinion."

"Oh, John! he is sure to be against me," said Elinor, with an angry
glimmer in her eyes. She had not as yet taken any notice of him while
she welcomed with such warmth his old companion. And John had stood by
offering no greeting, with his bag in his hand. But when she said this
the quick feeling girl was seized with compunction. She turned from Mr.
Lynch and held out both her hands to her cousin. "John, I didn't mean
that; it is only that I am excited and cross. And don't, oh, don't go
against me," she cried.

"I never did, and never will, Elinor," he said gravely. Then he asked,
after a moment, "Is Mr. Compton here?"

"No; how could he be here? Three gentlemen in the cottage is enough to
overwhelm us already. Mr. Sharp, fortunately, can't stay," she added,
lowering her voice; "he has to be driven back to the station to catch
the last express. And it is August," she said with a laugh; "you forget
the 15th. Now, could Phil be anywhere but where there is grouse? You
shall have some to dinner to-night that fell by his gun. That should
mollify you, for I am sure you never got grouse at the cottage before
in August. Mamma would as soon think of buying manna for you to eat."

"I think it would have been more respectful, Elinor, if he had been
here. What is grouse to you?"

"Then I don't think anything of the kind," cried Elinor. "He is much
better away. And I assure you, John, I never mean to put myself in
competition with the grouse."

The old lawyer had gone into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Dennistoun was
holding parley with Mr. Sharp. Elinor and John were standing alone in
the half light of the summer evening, the sun down, the depths of the
combe below falling into faint mist, but the sunset-tinted clouds still
floating like a vapour made of roses upon the clearness of the blue
above. "Come and take a turn through the copse," said John. "They don't
want either of us indoors."

She went with a momentary reluctance and a glance back at the bow-window
of the drawing-room, from which the sound of voices issued. "Don't you
think I should be there to keep them up to the mark?" she said, half
laughing. And then, "Well, yes--as you are going to Switzerland too. I
think you might have stayed and seen me married after all, and made
acquaintance with Phil."

"I thought I should have met him here to-day, Elinor."

"Now, how could you? You know the accommodation of the cottage just as
well as I do. We have two spare rooms, and no more."

"You could have sent me out somewhere to sleep. That has been done
before now."

"Oh, John, how persistent you are, and worrying! When I tell you that
Phil is shooting, as everybody of his kind is--do you think I want him
to give up all the habits of his life? He is not like us: we adapt
ourselves: but these people parcel out their time as if they were in a
trade, don't you know? So long in London, so long abroad, and in the
Highlands for the grouse, and somewhere else for the partridges, or they
would die."

"I think he might have departed from that routine once in a way, Elinor,
for you."

"I tell you again, John, I shall never put myself in competition"--Elinor
stopped abruptly, with perhaps, he thought, a little glimmer of
indignation in her eyes. "I hate women who do that sort of thing," she
cried. "'Give up your cigar--or me,' as I've heard girls say. Such an
unworthy thing! When one accepts a man one accepts him as he stands,
with all his habits. What should I think of him if he said, 'Give up
your tea--or me!' I should laugh in his face and throw him overboard
without a pause."

"You would never look at tea again as long as you lived if he did not
like it; I suppose that is what you mean, Elinor?"

"Perhaps if I found that out, afterwards; but to be given the choice
beforehand, never! After all, you don't half know me, John."

"Perhaps not," he said, gravely. They had left the garden behind in
its blaze of flowers, and strayed off into the subdued twilight of the
copse, where everything was in a half tone of greenness and shadow and
waning light. "There are always new lights arising on a many-sided
creature like you--and that makes one think. Do you know you are not at
all the person to take a great disappointment quietly, if that should
happen to come to you in your life?"

"A great disappointment?" she said, looking up at him with a wondering
glance. Then he thought the colour paled a little in her face. "No," she
said, "I don't suppose I should take it quietly. Who does?"

"Oh, many people--people with less determination and more patience than
you. You are not very patient by nature, Elinor."

"I never said I was."

"And though no one would give up more generously, as a voluntary matter,
you could not bear being made a nonentity of, or put in a secondary
place."

"I should not like it, I suppose."

"You would give everything, flinging it away; but to have all your
sacrifices taken for granted, your tastes made of no account----"

There was no doubt now that she had grown pale. "May I ask what all
these investigations into my character mean? I never was so anatomized
before."

"It was only to say that you are not a good subject for this kind of
experiment, Elinor. I don't see you putting up with things, making the
best of everything, submitting to have your sense of right and wrong
outraged perhaps. Some women would not be much disturbed by that. They
would put off the responsibility and feel it their duty to accept
whatever was put before them. But you--it would be a different matter
with you."

"I should hope so, if I was ever exposed to such dangers. But now may
I know what you are driving at, John, for you have some meaning in what
you say!"

He took her hand and drew it through his arm. He was in more moved than
he wished to show. "Only this, Elinor,"--he said.

"Oh, John, will you never call me Nelly any more?"

"Only this, Nelly, my little Nelly, never mine again--and that never was
mine, except in my silly thought. Only this: that if you have the least
doubt, the smallest flutter of an uncertainty, just enough to make you
hold your breath for a moment, oh, my dear girl, stop! Don't go on with
it; pause until you can make sure."

"John!" she forced her arm from his with an indignant movement. "Oh, how
do you dare to say it?" she said. "Doubt of Mr. Compton! Uncertainty
about Phil!" She laughed out, and the echo seemed to ring into all the
recesses of the trees. "I would be much more ready to doubt myself," she
said.

"Doubt yourself; that is what I mean. Think if you are not deceiving
yourself. I don't think you are so very sure as you believe you are,
Nelly. You don't feel so certain----"

"Do you know that you are insulting me, John? You say as much as that I
am a fool carried away by a momentary enthusiasm, with no real love, no
true feeling in me, tempted, perhaps, as Mrs. Hudson thinks, by the
Honourable!" Her lip quivered, and the fading colour came back in a rush
to her face. "It is hard enough to have a woman like that think it, who
ought to know better, who has always known me--but you, John!"

"You may be sure, Elinor, that I did not put it on that ground."

"No, perhaps: but on ground not much more respectful to me--perhaps that
I have been fascinated by a handsome man, which is not considered
derogatory. Oh, John, a girl does not give herself away on an argument
like that. I may be hasty and self-willed and impatient, as you say; but
when you--love!" Her face flushed like a rose, so that even in the grey
of the evening it shone out like one of the clouds full of sunset that
still lingered on the sky. A few quick tears followed, the natural
consequence of her emotion. And then she turned to him with the ineffable
condescension of one farther advanced in life stooping sweetly to his
ignorance. "You have not yet come to the moment in your experience when
you can understand that, dear John."

Oh, the insight and the ignorance, the knowledge and the absence of all
perception! He, too, laughed out, as she had done, with a sense of the
intolerable ridicule and folly and mistake. "Perhaps that's how it is,"
he said.

Elinor looked at him gravely, in an elder-sisterly, profoundly-investigating
way, and then she took his arm quietly and turned towards home. "I shall
forget what you have said, and you will forget that you ever said it;
and now we will go home, John, and be just the same dear friends as
before."

"Will you promise me," he said, "that whatever happens, without pride,
or recollection of what I've been so foolish as to say, in any need
or emergency, or whenever you want anything, or if you should be in
trouble--trouble comes to everybody in this life--you will remember what
you have said just now, and send for your cousin John?"

Her whole face beamed out in one smile, she clasped her other hand
round his arm; "I should have done it without being asked, without ever
doubting for a moment, because it was the most natural thing in the
world. Whom should I turn to else if not to my dear old---- But call me
Nelly, John."

"Dear little Nelly!" he said with faltering voice, "then that is a
bargain."

She held up her cheek to him, and he kissed it solemnly in the shadow of
the little young oak that fluttered its leaves wistfully in the breeze
that was getting up--and then very soberly, saying little, they walked
back to the cottage. He was going abroad for his vacation, not saying to
himself even that he preferred not to be present at the wedding, but
resigning himself to the necessity, for it was not to be till the middle
of September, and it would be breaking up his holiday had he to come
back at that time. So this little interview was a leave-taking as well
as a solemn engagement for all the risks and dangers of life. The pain
in it, after that very sharp moment in the copse, was softened down into
a sadness not unsweet, as they came silently together from out of the
shadow into the quiet hemisphere of sky and space, which was over the
little centre of the cottage with its human glimmer of fire and lights.
The sky was unusually clear, and among those soft, rose-tinted clouds of
the sunset, which were no clouds at all, had risen a young crescent of a
moon, just about to disappear, too, in the short course of one of her
earliest nights. They lingered for a moment before they went indoors.
The depth of the combe was filled with the growing darkness, but the
ridges above were still light and softly edged with the silver of the
moon, and the distant road, like a long, white line, came conspicuously
into sight, winding for a little way along the hill-top unsheltered,
before it plunged into the shadow of the trees--the road that led into
the world, by which they should both depart presently to stray into such
different ways.




CHAPTER VI.


The drawing-room after dinner always looked cheerful. Perhaps the fact
that it was a sort of little oasis in the desert, and that the light
from those windows shone into three counties, made the interior more
cosy and bright. (There are houses now upon every knoll, and the wind
cannot blow on Windyhill for the quantity of obstructions it meets
with.) There was the usual log burning on the hearth, and the party in
general kept away from it, for the night was warm. Only Mr. Sharp, the
London lawyer, was equal to bearing the heat. He stood with his back to
it, and his long legs showing against the glow behind, a sharp-nosed,
long man in black, who had immediately suggested Mephistopheles to
Elinor, even though he was on the Compton side. He had taken his coffee
after dinner, and now he stood over the fire slowly sipping a cup of
tea. There was a look of acquisitiveness about him which suggested an
inclination to appropriate anything from the unnecessary heat of the
fire to the equally unnecessary tea. But Mr. Sharp had been on the
winning side. He had demonstrated the superior sense of making the
money--which was not large enough sum to settle--of real use to the
young pair by an investment which would increase Mr. Compton's
importance in his company, besides producing very good dividends--much
better dividends than would be possible if it were treated in the
old-fashioned way by trustees. This was how the bride wished it, which
was the most telling of arguments: and surely, to insure good interest
and an increase of capital to her, through her husband's hands, was
better than to secure some beggarly hundred and fifty pounds a year for
her portion, though without any risks at all.

Mr. Sharp had also taken great pains to point out that there were only
three brothers--one an invalid and the other two soldiers--between Mr.
Phil and the title, and that even to be the Honourable Mrs. Compton was
something for a young lady, who was, if he might venture to say so,
nobody--not to say a word against her charms. Lord St. Serf was hourly
getting an old man, and the chances that his client might step over a
hecatomb of dead relations to the height of fortune was a thing quite
worth taking into account. It was a much better argument, however, to
return to the analogy of other poor young people, where the bride's
little fortune would be put into the husband's business, and thus
their joint advantage considered. Mr. Sharp, at the same time, did not
hesitate to express politely his opinion that to call him down to the
country for a discussion which could have been carried on much better
in one or other of their respective offices was a most uncalled for
proceeding, especially as even now the other side was wavering, and
would not consent to conclude matters, and make the signatures that were
necessary at once. Mr. Lynch, it must be allowed, was of the same
opinion too.

"Your country is a little bleak at night," said Mr. Sharp, partially
mollified by a good dinner, but beginning to remember unpleasantly the
cold drive in a rattletrap of a little rustic pony carriage over the
hills and hollows. "Do you really remain here all the year? How wonderful!
Not even a glimpse of the world in summer, or a little escape from the
chills in winter? How brave of you! What patience and powers of
endurance must be cultivated in that way!"

"One would think Windyhill was Siberia at least," said Mrs. Dennistoun,
laughing; "we do not give ourselves credit for all these fine
qualities."

"Some people are heroes--or heroines--without knowing it," said Mr.
Sharp, with a bow.

"And yet," said the mother, with a little indignation, "there was some
talk of Mr. Compton doing me the honour to share my hermitage for a part
of the year."

"Mr. Compton! my dear lady! Mr. Compton would die of it in a week," said
Mr. Sharp.

"I am quite well aware of it," said Mrs. Dennistoun; and she added,
after a pause, "so should I."

"What a change it will be for your daughter," said Mr. Sharp. "She will
see everything that is worth seeing. More in a month than she would see
here in a dozen years. Trust Mr. Compton for knowing all that's worth
going after. They have all an instinct for life that is quite remarkable.
There's Lady Mariamne, who has society at her feet, and the old lord is
a most remarkable old gentleman. Your daughter, Mrs. Dennistoun, is a
very fortunate young lady. She has my best congratulations, I am sure."

"Sharp," said Mr. Lynch from the background, "you had better be thinking
of starting, if you want to catch that train."

"I'll see if the pony is there," said John.

Mr. Sharp put down his teacup with precipitation. "Is it as late as
that?" he cried.

"It is the last train," said Mrs. Dennistoun, with great satisfaction.
"And I am afraid, if you missed it, as the house is full, there would be
nothing but a bed at the public-house to offer----"

"Oh, not another word," the lawyer said: and fortunately he never knew
how near that rising young man at the bar, John Tatham, who had every
object in conciliating a solicitor, was to a charge of manslaughter, if
killing an attorney can thus be called. But the feelings of the party
were expressed only in actions of the greatest kindness. They helped him
on with his coat, and covered him with rugs as he got in, shivering, to
the little pony carriage. It was a beautiful night, but the wind is
always a thing to be considered on Windyhill.

"Well, that's a good thing over," said Mr. Lynch, going to the fire as
he came in from the night air at the door and rubbing his hands.

"It would have been a relief to one's feeling to have kicked that fellow
all the way down and up the other side of the combe, and kept him warm,"
said John, with a laugh of wrath.

"It is a pity a man should have so little taste," said Mrs. Dennistoun.

Elinor still stood where she had been standing, with every feeling in
her breast in commotion. She had not taken any part in the insidious
kindnesses of speeding the parting guest; and now she remembered that he
was her Phil's representative: whatever she might herself think of the
man, how could she join in abuse of one who represented Phil?

"He is no worse, I suppose, than others," she said. "He was bound to
stand up for those in whose interest he was. Mr. Lynch would have made
himself quite as disagreeable for me."

"Not I," said the old gentleman; "for what is the good of standing up
for you? You would throw me over on the first opportunity. You have
taken all the force out of my sword-arm, my dear, as it is. How can I
make myself disagreeable for those who won't stand up for themselves? I
suppose you must have it your own way."

"Yes, I suppose it will be the best," said Mrs. Dennistoun, in subdued
tones.

"It would come to about the same thing, however you settled it," said
John.

Elinor looked from one to another with eyes that began to glow. "You are
a cheerful company," she said. "You speak as if you were arranging my
funeral. On the whole I think I like Mr. Sharp best; for if he was
contemptuous of me and my little bit of money, he was at all events
cheerful about the future, and that is always something; whereas you
all----"

There was a little pause, no one responding. There was no pleasant jest,
no bright augury for Elinor. The girl's heart rose against this gloom
that surrounded her. "I think," she said, with an angry laugh, "that I
had better run after Mr. Sharp and bring him back, for he had at least a
little sympathy with me!"

"Don't be too sure of that," said Mr. Lynch, "for if we think you are
throwing yourself away, Elinor, so does he on his side. He thinks the
Honourable Mr. Compton is going dreadfully cheap for five thousand
pounds."

"Elinor need not take any of us _au pied de la lettre_--of course we are
all firm for our own side," said John.

Elinor turned her head from one to another, growing pale and red by
turns. There was a certain surprise in her look, as she found herself
thus at bay. The triumph of having got the better of their opposition
was lost in the sense of isolation with which the girl, so long the
first object of everybody about her, felt herself thus placed alone. And
the tears were very ready to start, but were kept back by jealous pride
which rose to her help. Well! if they put her outside the circle she
would remain so; if they talked to her as one no longer of them, but
belonging to another life, so be it! Elinor determined that she would
make no further appeal. She would not even show how much it hurt her.
After that pale look round upon them all, she went into the corner of
the room where the piano stood, and where there was little light. She
was too proud to go out of the room, lest they should think she was
going to cry. She went with a sudden, quick movement to the piano
instead, where perhaps she might cry too, but where nobody should see.
Poor Elinor! they had made her feel alone by their words, and she made
herself more alone by this little instinctive withdrawal. She began to
play softly one thing after another. She was not a great performer. Her
little "tunes" were of the simplest--no better indeed than tunes, things
that every musician despises: they made a little atmosphere round her, a
voluntary hermitage which separated her as if she had been a hundred
miles away.

"I wish you could have stayed for the marriage," Mrs. Dennistoun said.

"My dear lady, it would spoil my holiday--the middle of September.
You'll have nobody except, of course, the people you have always. To
tell the truth," John added. "I don't care tuppence for my holiday. I'd
have come--like a shot: but I don't think I could stand it. She has
always been such a pet of mine. I don't think I could bear it, to tell
the truth."

"I shall have to bear it, though she is more than a pet of mine," said
Mrs. Dennistoun.

"I know, I know! the relatives cannot be let off--especially the mother,
who must put up with everything. I trust," said Mr. Lynch, with a sigh,
"that it may all turn out a great deal better than we hope. Where are
they going after the marriage?"

"Some one has lent them a place--a very pretty place--on the Thames,
where they can have boating and all that--Lord Sudbury, I think. And
later they are going on a round of visits, to his father, Lord St. Serf,
and to Lady Mariamne, and to his aunt, who is Countess of--something or
other." Mrs. Dennistoun's voice was not untouched by a certain vague
pleasure in these fine names.

"Ah," said the old lawyer, nodding his head at each, "all among the
aristocracy, I see. Well, my dear lady, I hope you will be able to find
some satisfaction in that; it is better than to fall among--nobodies at
least."

"I hope so," said Mrs. Dennistoun, with a sigh.

They were speaking low, and fondly hoped that they were not heard; but
Elinor's ears and every faculty were quickened and almost every word
reached her. But she was too proud to take any notice. And perhaps these
dreary anticipations, on the whole, did her good, for her heart rose
against them, and any little possible doubts in her own mind were put
to sudden flight by the opposition and determination which flooded her
heart. This made her playing a little more unsteady than usual, and she
broke down several times in the middle of a "tune;" but nobody remarked
this: they were all fully occupied with their own thoughts.

All, at least, except John, who wandered uneasily about the room, now
studying the names of the books on the bookshelves--which he knew by
heart, now pulling the curtain aside to look out at the moonlight, now
pulling at the fronds of the great maidenhair in his distraction till
the table round was scattered with little broken leaves. He wanted to
keep out of that atmosphere of emotion which surrounded Elinor at the
piano. But it attracted him, all the same, as the light attracts a moth.
To get away from that, to make the severance which so soon must be a
perfect severance, was the only true policy he knew; for what was he to
her, and what could she be to him? He had already said everything which
a man in his position ought to say. He took out a book at last, and sat
down doggedly by the table to read, thus making another circle of
atmosphere, so to speak, another globe of isolated being in the little
room, while the two elder people talked low in the centre, conventionally
inaudible to the girl who was playing and the young man who was reading.
But John might as well have tried to solve some tremendous problem as to
read that book. He too heard every word the elders were saying. He heard
them with his own ears, and also he heard them through the ears of
Elinor, gauging the effect which every word would have upon her. At last
he could bear it no longer. He was driven to her side to bear a part of
her burden, even to prevent her from hearing, which would be something.
He resisted the impulse to throw down his book, and only placed it very
quietly on the table, and even in a deliberate way, that there might be
no appearance of feeling about him--and made his way by degrees, pausing
now and then to look at a picture, though he knew them all by heart.
Thus he arrived at last at the piano, in what he flattered himself was
an accidental way.

"Elinor, the stars are so bright over the combe, do come out. It is not
often they are so clear."

"No," she said, more with the movement of her lips than with any sound.

"Why not? You can't want to play those old pieces just at this moment.
You will have plenty of time to play them to-morrow."

She said "No" again, with a little impatient movement of her hands on
the keys and a look towards the others.

"You are listening to what they are saying? Why should you? They don't
want you to hear. Come along, Elinor. It's far better for you not to
listen to what is not intended----"

"Oh, go away, John."

"I must say no in my turn. Leave the tunes till to-morrow, and come out
with me."

"I thought," she said, roused a little, "that you were fond of music,
John."

This brought John up suddenly in an unexpected way. "Oh, as for
that,"--he said, in a dubious tone. Poor Elinor's tunes were not music
in his sense, as she very well knew.

She laughed in a forlorn way. "I know what you mean; but this is quite
good enough for what I shall want. I am going down, you know, to a
different level altogether. Oh, you can hear for yourself what mamma and
Mr. Lynch are saying."

"Going up you mean, Elinor. I thought them both very complaisant over
all those titles."

"Ah," she said, "they say that mocking. They think I am going down; so
do you, too, to the land of mere fast people, people with no sense.
Well; there is nothing but the trial will teach any of us. We shall
see."

"It is rather a dreadful risk to run, if it's only a trial, Elinor."

"A trial--for you, not for me--I am not the one that thinks so, except
so far as the tunes are concerned," she said with a laugh. "I confess so
far as that Lady Mariamne is fond of a comic song. I don't think she
goes any further. I shall be good enough for them in the way of music."

"I should be content never to hear another note of music all my life,
Elinor, if----"

"Ah, there you begin again. Not you, John, not you! I can't bear any
more. Neither stars, nor walks, nor listening; no more! This rather,"
and she brought down her hands with a great crash upon the piano, making
every one start. Then Elinor rose, having produced her effect. "I think
it must be time to go to bed, mamma. John is talking of the stars, which
means that he wants his cigar, and Mr. Lynch must want just to look at
the tray in the dining-room. And you are tired by all this fuss, all
this unnatural fuss about me, that am not worth---- Come, mother, to
bed."




CHAPTER VII.


The days in the cottage were full of excitement and of occupation during
the blazing August weather, not so much indeed as is common in many
houses in which the expectant bridegroom is always coming and going;
though perhaps the place of that exhilarating commotion was more or
less filled by the ever-present diversity of opinion, the excitement
of a subdued but never-ended conflict in which one was always on the
defensive, and the other covertly or openly attacking, or at least
believed to be so doing, the distant and unseen object to which all
their thoughts turned. Mrs. Dennistoun, indeed, was not always aggressive,
her opposition was but in fits and starts. Often her feelings of pain
and alarm were quiescent in that unfeigned and salutary interest in
clothes and necessities of preparation which is almost always a resource
to a woman's mind. It is wrong to undervalue this possibility which
compensates a woman in a small degree for some of her special troubles.
When the mother's heart was very heavy, it was often diverted a little
by the discussion of a dinner dress, or made to forget itself for the
moment in a question about the cut of a sleeve, or which would be most
becoming to Elinor of two colours for a ball gown. But though Mrs.
Dennistoun forgot often, Elinor never forgot. The dresses and "things"
generally occupied her a great deal, but not in the form of the anodyne
which they supplied to her mother. Her mind was always on the alert,
looking out for those flying arrows of warfare which your true fighter
lets fly in the most innocent conversation at the most unexpected
moments. Elinor thus flung her shield in her mother's face a hundred
times when that poor lady was thinking no evil, when she was altogether
occupied by the question of frills and laces, or whether tucks or
flounces were best, and she was startled many times by that unnecessary
rattle of Elinor's arms. "I was not thinking of Mr. Compton," she would
sometimes be driven to say; "he was not in my head at all. I was
thinking of nothing more important than that walking dress, and what you
had best wear in the afternoon when you are on those grand visits."

There was one thing which occasioned a little discussion between them,
and that was the necessary civility of asking the neighbours to inspect
these "things" when they were finally ready. It was only the argument
that these neighbours would be Mrs. Dennistoun's sole resource when she
was left alone that made Elinor assent at last. Perhaps, however,
as she walked quickly along towards the moorland Rectory, a certain
satisfaction in showing them how little their hints had been taken,
mingled with the reluctance to admit those people who had breathed a
doubt upon the sacred name of Phil, to such a sign of intimacy.

"I have been watching you along the side of the combe, and wondering if
it was you such a threatening day," said Alice Hudson, coming to the
door to meet her. "How nice of you to come, Elinor, when you must be so
busy, and you have not been here since--I don't know how long ago!"

"No, I have not been here," said Elinor with a gravity worthy the bride
of a maligned man. "But the time is so near when I shall not be able to
come at all that I thought it was best. Mamma wishes you to come over
to-morrow, if you will, to see my things."

"Oh!" the three ladies said together; and Mrs. Hudson came forward and
gave Elinor a kiss. "My dear," she said, "I take it very kind you coming
yourself to ask us. Many would not have done it after what we felt it
our duty---- But you always had a beautiful spirit, Elinor, bearing no
malice, and I hope with all my heart that it will have its reward."

"Well, mother," said Alice, "I don't see how Elinor could do anything
less, seeing we have been such friends all our lives as girls, she and
I, and I am sure I have always been ready to give her patterns, or to
show her how a thing was done. I should have been very much disappointed
if she had not asked me to see her things."

Mary Dale, who was Mrs. Hudson's sister, said nothing at all, but
accepted the visit as in the course of nature. Mary was the one who
really knew something about Phil Compton: but she had been against the
remonstrance which Mrs. Hudson thought it her duty to make. What was the
good? Miss Dale had said; and she had refrained from telling two or
three stories about the Comptons which would have made the hair stand
upright on the heads of the Rector and the Rectoress. She did not even
now say that it was kind, but met Elinor in silence, as, in her position
as the not important member of the family, it was quite becoming for her
to do.

Then the Rector came in and took her by both hands, and gave her the
most friendly greeting. "I heard Elinor's voice, and I stopped in the
middle of my sermon," he said. "You will remark in church on Sunday a
jerky piece, which shows how I stopped to reflect whether it could be
you--and then went on for another sentence, and then decided that it
must be you. There is a big Elinor written across my sermon paper." He
laughed, but he was a little moved, to see, after the "coolness," the
little girl whom he had christened come back to her old friends again.

"She has come to ask us to go and see her things, papa," said Mrs.
Hudson, twinkling an eye to get rid of a suspicion of a tear.

"Am I to come, too?" said the Rector; and thus the little incident of
the reconciliation was got over, to the great content of all.

Elinor reflected to herself that they were really kind people, as she
went out again into the grey afternoon where everything was getting up
for rain. She made up her mind she would just have time to run into the
Hills', at the Hurst, and leave her message, and so get home before the
storm began. The clouds lay low like a dark grey hood over the fir-trees
and moorland shaggy tops of the downs all round. There was not a break
anywhere in the consistent grey, and the air, always so brisk, had
fallen still with that ominous lull that comes over everything before
a convulsion of nature. Some birds were still hurrying home into the
depths of the copses with a frightened straightness of flight, as if
they were afraid they would not get back in time, and all the insects
that are so gay with their humming and booming had disappeared under
leaves and stones and grasses. Elinor saw a bee burrowing deep in
the waxen trumpet of a foxglove, as if taking shelter, as she walked
quickly past. The Hills--there were two middle-aged sisters of them,
with an old mother, too old for such diversion as the inspection of
wedding-clothes, in the background--would scarcely let Elinor go out
again after they had accepted her invitation with rapture. "I was just
wondering where I should see the new fashions," said Miss Hill, "for
though we are not going to be married we must begin to think about our
winter things----" "And this will be such an opportunity," said Miss
Susan, "and so good of you to come yourself to ask us."

"What has she come to ask you to," said old Mrs. Hill; "the wedding? I
told you girls, I was sure you would not be left out. Why, I knew her
mother before she was married. I have known them all, man and boy, for
nearer sixty than fifty years--before her mother was born! To have left
you out would have been ridiculous. Yes, yes, Elinor, my dear; tell your
mother they will come--delighted! They have been thinking for the last
fortnight what bonnets they would wear----"

"Oh, mother!" and "Oh, Elinor!" said the "girls," "you must not mind
what mother says. We know very well that you must have worlds of people
to ask. Don't think, among all your new connections, of such little
country mice as us. We shall always just take the same interest in you,
dear child, whether you find you can ask us or not."

"But of course you are asked," said Elinor, in _gaieté de coeur_, not
reflecting that her mother had begun to be in despair about the number
of people who could be entertained in the cottage dining-room, "and you
must not talk about my new grand connections, for nobody will ever be
like my old friends."

"Dear child!" they said, and "I always knew that dear Elinor's heart was
in the right place." But it was all that Elinor could do to get free of
their eager affection and alarm lest she should be caught in the rain.
Both of the ladies produced waterproofs, and one a large pair of
goloshes to fortify her, when it was found that she would go; and they
stood in the porch watching her as she went along into the darkening
afternoon, without any of their covers and shelters. The Miss Hills were
apt to cling together, after the manner of those pairs of sweet sisters
in the "Books of Beauty" which had been the delight of their youth; they
stood, with arms intertwined, in their porch, watching Elinor as she
hurried home, with her light half-flying step, like the belated birds.
"Did you hear what she said about old friends, poor little thing?" "I
wonder if she is finding out already that her new grand connections are
but vanity!" they said, shaking their heads. The middle-aged sisters
looked out of the sheltered home, which perhaps they had not chosen for
themselves, with a sort of wistful feeling, half pity, perhaps half
envy, upon the "poor little thing" who was running out so light-hearted
into the storm. They had long ago retired into waterproofs and goloshes,
and had much unwillingness to wet their feet--which things are a
parable. They went back and closed the door, only when the first flash
of lightning dazzled them, and they remembered that an open door is
dangerous during a thunderstorm.

Elinor quickened her pace as the storm began and got home breathless
with running, shaking off the first big drops of thunder-rain from her
dress. But she did not think of any danger, and sat out in the porch
watching how the darkness came down on the combe; how it was met with
the jagged gleam of the great white flash, and how the thunderous
explosion shook the earth. The combe, with its hill-tops on either side,
became like the scene of a battle, great armies, invisible in the sharp
torrents of rain, meeting each other with a fierce shock and recoil,
with now and then a trumpet-blast, and now the gleam that lit up tree
and copse, and anon the tremendous artillery. When the lightning came
she caught a glimpse of the winding line of the white road leading away
out of all this--leading into the world where she was going--and for a
moment escaped by it, even amid the roar of all the elements: then came
back, alighting again with a start in the familiar porch, amid all the
surroundings of the familiar life, to feel her mother's hand upon her
shoulder, and her mother's voice saying, "Have you got wet, my darling?
Did you get much of it? Come in, come in from the storm!"

"It is so glorious, mamma!" Mrs. Dennistoun stood for a few minutes
looking at it, then, with a shudder, withdrew into the drawing-room. "I
think I have seen too many storms to like it," she said. But Elinor had
not seen too many storms. She sat and watched it, now rolling away
towards the south, and bursting again as though one army or the other
had got reinforcements; while the flash of the explosions and the roar
of the guns, and the white blast of the rain, falling like a sheet from
the leaden skies, wrapped everything in mystery. The only thing that was
to be identified from time to time was that bit of road leading out of
it--leading her thoughts away, as it should one day lead her eager feet,
from all the storm and turmoil out into the bright and shining world.
Elinor never asked herself, as she sat there, a spectator of this great
conflict of nature, whether that one human thing, by which her swift
thoughts traversed the storm, carried any other suggestion as of coming
back.

Perhaps it is betraying feminine counsels too much to the modest public
to narrate how Elinor's things were all laid out for the inspection of
the ladies of the parish, the dresses in one room, the "under things" in
another, and in the dining-room the presents, which everybody was doubly
curious to see, to compare their own offerings with those of other
people, or else to note with anxious eye what was wanting, in order, if
their present had not yet been procured, to supply the gap. How to get
something that would look well among the others, and yet not be too
expensive, was a problem which the country neighbours had much and
painfully considered. The Hudsons had given Elinor a little tea-kettle
upon a stand, which they were painfully conscious was only plated, and
sadly afraid would not look well among all the gorgeous articles with
which no doubt her grand new connections had loaded her. The Rector came
himself, with his ladies to see how the kettle looked, with a great line
of anxiety between his brows; but when they saw that the revolving
dishes beside it, which were the gift of the wealthy Lady Mariamne, were
plated too, and not nearly such a pretty design, their hearts went up in
instant exhilaration, followed a moment after by such indignation as
they could scarcely restrain. "That rich sister, the woman who married
the Jew" (which was their very natural explanation of the lady's
nickname), "a woman who is rolling in wealth, and who actually made up
the match!" This was crescendo, a height of scorn impossible to describe
upon a mere printed page. "One would have thought she would have given
a diamond necklace or something of consequence," said Mrs. Hudson in
her husband's ear. "Or, at least silver," said the Rector. "These
fashionable people, though they give themselves every luxury, have
sometimes not very much money to spend; but silver, at least, she might
have been expected to give silver." "It is simply disgraceful," said the
Rector's wife. "I am glad, at all events, my dear," said he, "that our
little thing looks just as well as any." "It is one of the prettiest
things she has got," said Mrs. Hudson, with a proud heart. Lord St. Serf
sent an old-fashioned little ring in a much worn velvet case, and the
elder brother, Lord Lomond, an album for photographs. The Rector's
wife indicated these gifts to her husband with little shrugs of her
shoulders. "If that's all the family can do!" she said: "why Alice's
cushion, which was worked with floss silks upon satin, was a more
creditable present than that." The Miss Hills, who as yet had not had
an opportunity, as they said, of giving their present, roamed about,
curious, inspecting everything. "What is the child to do with a kettle,
a thing so difficult to pack, and requiring spirit for the lamp, and all
that--and only plated!" the Hills said to each other. "Now, that little
teapot of ours," said Jane to Susan, "if mother would only consent to
it, is no use to us, and would look very handsome here." "Real silver,
and old silver, which is so much the rage, and a thing she could use
every day when she has her visitors for afternoon tea," said Susan to
Jane. "It is rather small," said Miss Hill, doubtfully. "But quite
enough for two people," said the other, forgetting that she had just
declared that the teapot would be serviceable when Elinor had visitors.
But that was a small matter. Elinor, however, had other things better
than these--a necklace, worth half a year's income, from John Tatham,
which he had pinched himself to get for her that she might hold up her
head among those great friends; and almost all that her mother possessed
in the way of jewellery, which was enough to make a show among these
simple people. "Her own family at least have done Elinor justice," said
the Rector, going again to have a look at the kettle, which was the
chief of the display to him. Thus the visitors made their remarks. The
Hills did nothing but stand apart and discuss their teapot and the means
by which "mother" could be got to assent.

The Rector took his cup of tea, always with a side glance at the kettle,
and cut his cake, and made his gentle jest. "If Alick and I come over in
the night and carry them all off you must not be surprised," he said;
"such valuable things as these in a little poor parish are a dreadful
temptation, and I don't suppose you have much in the way of bolts and
bars. Alick is as nimble as a cat, he can get in at any crevice, and
I'll bring over the box for the collections to carry off the little
things." This harmless wit pleased the good clergyman much, and he
repeated it to all the ladies. "I am coming over with Alick one of these
dark nights to make a sweep of everything," he said. Mr. Hudson retired
in the gentle laughter that followed this, feeling that he had acquitted
himself as a man ought who is the only gentleman present, as well as the
Rector of the parish. "I am afraid I would not be a good judge of the
'things,'" he said, "and for anything I know there may be mysteries not
intended for men's eyes. I like to see your pretty dresses when you are
wearing them, but I can't judge of their effect in the gross." He was a
man who had a pleasant wit. The ladies all agreed that the Rector was
sure to make you laugh whatever was the occasion, and he walked home
very briskly, pleased with the effect of the kettle, and saying to
himself that from the moment he saw it in Mappin's window he had felt
sure it was the very thing.

The other ladies were sufficiently impressed with the number and
splendour of Elinor's gowns. Mrs. Dennistoun explained, with a humility
which was not, I fear, untinctured by pride, that both number and
variety were rendered necessary by the fact that Elinor was going upon a
series of visits among her future husband's great relations, and would
have to be much in society and among fine people who dressed very much,
and would expect a great deal from a bride. "Of course, in ordinary
circumstances the half of them would have been enough: for I don't
approve of too many dresses."

"They get old-fashioned," said Mrs. Hudson, gravely, "before they are
half worn out."

"And to do them up again is quite as expensive as getting new ones, and
not so satisfactory," said the Miss Hills.

The proud mother allowed both of these drawbacks, "But what could I do?"
she said. "I cannot have my child go away into such a different sphere
unprovided. It is a sacrifice, but we had to make it. I wish," she said,
looking round to see that Elinor was out of hearing, "it was the only
sacrifice that had to be made."

"Let us hope," said the Rector's wife, solemnly, "that it will all turn
out for the best."

"It will do that however it turns out," said Miss Dale, who was even
more serious than it was incumbent on a member of a clerical household
to be, "for we all know that troubles are sent for our advantage as well
as blessings, and poor dear Elinor may require much discipline----"

"Oh, goodness, don't talk as if the poor child was going to be
executed," said Susan Hill.

"I am not at all alarmed," said Mrs. Dennistoun. It was unwise of her
to have left an opening for any such remark. "My Elinor has always been
surrounded by love wherever she has been. Her future husband's family
are already very fond of her. I am not at all alarmed on Elinor's
account."

She laid the covering wrapper over the dresses with an air of pride and
confidence which was remembered long afterwards--as the pride that goeth
before a fall by some, but by others with more sympathy, who guessed the
secret workings of the mother's heart.




CHAPTER VIII.


Time went on quickly enough amid all these preparations and the little
attendant excitements of letters, congratulations, and presents which
came in on every side. Elinor complained mildly of the fuss, but it was
a new and far from unpleasant experience. She liked to have the packets
brought in by the post, or the bigger boxes that arrived from the
station, and to open them and produce out of the wadding or the saw-dust
one pretty thing after another. At first it was altogether fresh and
amusing, this new kind of existence, though after a while she grew
_blasée_, as may be supposed. Lady Mariamne's present she was a little
ashamed of: not that she cared much, but because of the look on her
mother's face when those inferior articles were unpacked; and at the
ring which old Lord St. Serf sent her she laughed freely.

"I will put it with my own little old baby rings in this little silver
tray, and they will all look as if they were antiques, or something
worth looking at," said Elinor. Happily there were other people who
endowed her more richly with rings fit for a bride to wear. The
relations at a distance were more or less pleased with Elinor's
prospects. A few, indeed, from different parts of the world wrote in
the vein of Elinor's home-advisers, hoping that it was not the Mr.
Compton who was so well known as a betting man whom she was going to
marry; but the fact that she was marrying into a noble family, and
would henceforward be known as the Honourable Mrs. Compton, mollified
even these critics. Only three brothers--one a great invalid, and two
soldiers--between him and the title. Elinor's relations promptly
inaugurated in their imaginations a great war, in which two noble
regiments were cut to pieces, to dispose of the two Captains Compton;
and as for the invalid, that he would obligingly die off was a
contingency which nobody doubted--and behold Elinor Dennistoun Lady
St. Serf! This greatly calmed criticism among her relations, who
were all at a distance, and whose approval or disapproval did not
much affect her spirits anyhow. John Tatham's father, Mrs. Dennistoun's
cousin, was of more consequence, chiefly as being John's father, but
also a little for himself, and it was remarked that he said not a
word against the marriage, but sent a very handsome present, and many
congratulations--chiefly inspired (but this Elinor did not divine) by an
unfeigned satisfaction that it was not his son who was the bridegroom.
Mr. Tatham, senr., did not approve of early marriages for young men
pushing their way at the bar, unless the bride was, so to speak, in the
profession and could be of use to her husband. Even in such cases, the
young man was better off without a wife, he was of opinion. How could he
get up his cases properly if he had to drag about in society at the tail
of a gay young woman? Therefore he sent Elinor a very nice present in
gratitude to her and providence. She was a danger removed out of his
boy's way.

All this kept a cheerful little commotion about the house, and often
kept the mother and daughter from thinking more than was good for them.
These extraneous matters did not indeed preserve Elinor altogether from
the consciousness that her _fiancé's_ letters were very short and a
little uncertain in their arrival, sometimes missing several days
together, and generally written in a hurry to catch the post. But they
kept Mrs. Dennistoun from remarking that fact, as otherwise she would
have been sure to do. If any chill of disappointment was in Elinor's
mind, she said to herself that men were generally bad correspondents,
not like girls, who had nothing else to do, and other consolations of
this kind, which to begin with beg the question, and show the beginning
of that disenchantment which ought to be reserved at least for a later
period. Elinor had already given up a good deal of her own ideal. She
would not, as she said, put herself in competition with the grouse, she
would not give him the choice between her and a cigar; but already the
consciousness that he preferred the grouse, and even a cigar, to her
society, had come an unwilling intruder into Elinor's mind. She would
not allow to herself that she felt it in either case. She said to
herself that she was proud of it, that it showed the freedom and
strength of a man, and that love was only one of many things which
occupied his life. She rebelled against the other deduction that "'tis
woman's sole existence," protesting loudly (to herself) that she too had
a hundred things to do, and did not want him always at her apron-strings
like a tame curate. But as a matter of fact, no doubt the girl would
have been flattered and happy had he been more with her. The time was
coming very quickly in which they should be together always, even when
there was grouse in hand, when his wife would be invited with him, and
all things would be in common between them; so what did it matter for a
few days? The marriage was fixed for the 16th of September, and that
great date was now scarcely a fortnight off. The excitement quickened as
everything grew towards this central point. Arrangements had to be made
about the wedding breakfast and where the guests were to be placed. The
Hudsons had put their spare rooms at the disposition of the Cottage,
and so had the Hills. The bridegroom was to stay at the Rectory.
Lady Mariamne must of course, Mrs. Dennistoun felt, be put up at the
Cottage, where the two rooms on the ground floor--what were called the
gentlemen's rooms--had to be prepared to receive her. It was with a
little awe indeed that the ladies of the Cottage endeavoured, by the aid
of Elinor's recollections, to come to an understanding of what a fine
lady would want even for a single night. Mrs. Dennistoun's experiences
were all old-fashioned, and of a period when even great ladies were less
luxurious than now; and it made her a little angry to think how much
more was required for her daughter's future sister-in-law than had been
necessary to herself. But after all, what had herself to do with it?
The thing was to do Elinor credit, and make the future sister-in-law
perceive that the Cottage was no rustic establishment, but one in which
it was known what was what, and all the requirements of the most refined
life. Elinor's bridesmaid, Mary Tatham, was to have the spare room
up-stairs, and some other cousins, who were what Mrs. Dennistoun called
"quiet people," were to receive the hospitalities of the Hills, whose
house was roomy and old-fashioned. Thus the arrangements of the crisis
were more or less settled and everything made smooth.

Elinor and her mother were seated together in the drawing-room on one of
those evenings of which Mrs. Dennistoun desired to make the most, as
they would be the last, but which, as they actually passed, were--if not
occupied with discussions of how everything was to be arranged, which
they went over again and again by instinct as a safe subject--heavy,
almost dull, and dragged sadly over the poor ladies whose hearts were so
full, but to whom to be separated, though it would be bitter, would also
at the same time almost be a relief. They had been silent for some time,
not because they had not plenty to say, but because it was so difficult
to say it without awaking too much feeling. How could they talk of the
future in which one of them would be away in strange places, exposed to
the risks and vicissitudes of a new life, and one of them be left alone
in the unbroken silence, sitting over the fire, with nothing but that
blaze to give her any comfort? It was too much to think of, much more
to talk about, though it need not be said that it was in the minds of
both--with a difference, for Elinor's imagination was most employed upon
the brilliant canvas where she herself held necessarily the first place,
with a sketch of her mother's lonely life, giving her heart a pang, in
the distance; while Mrs. Dennistoun could not help but see the lonely
figure in her own foreground, against the brightness of all the
entertainments in which Elinor should appear as a queen. They were
sitting thus, the mother employed at some fine needlework for the
daughter, the daughter doing little, as is usual nowadays. They had been
talking over Lady Mariamne and her requirements again, and had come to
an end of that subject. What a pity that it was so hard to open the door
of their two hearts, which were so close together, so that each might
see all the tenderness and compunction in the other; the shame and
sorrow of the mother to grudge her child's happiness, the remorse
and trouble of the child to be leaving that mother out in all her
calculations for the future! How were they to do it on either side? They
could not talk, these poor loving women, so they were mostly silent,
saying a word or two at intervals about Mrs. Dennistoun's work (which of
course, was for Elinor), or of Elinor's village class for sewing, which
was to be transferred to her mother, skirting the edges of the great
separation which could neither be dismissed nor ignored.

Suddenly Elinor looked up, holding up her finger. "What was that?" she
said. "A step upon the gravel?"

"Nonsense, child. If we were to listen to all these noises of the night
there would always be a step upon---- Oh! I think I did hear something."

"It is someone coming to the door," said Elinor, rising up with that
sudden prevision of trouble which is so seldom deceived.

"Don't go, Elinor; don't go. It might be a tramp; wait at least till
they knock at the door."

"I don't think it can be a tramp, mamma. It may be a telegram. It is
coming straight up to the door."

"It will be the parcel porter from the station. He is always coming and
going, though I never knew him so late. Pearson is in the house, you
know. There is not any cause to be alarmed."

"Alarmed!" said Elinor, with a laugh of excitement; "but I put more
confidence in myself than in Pearson, whoever it may be."

She stood listening with a face full of expectation, and Mrs. Dennistoun
put down her work and listened too. The step advanced lightly, scattering
the gravel, and then there was a pause as if the stranger had stopped to
reconnoitre. Then came a knock at the window, which could only have been
done by a tall man, and the hearts of the ladies jumped up, and then
seemed to stop beating. To be sure, there were bolts and bars, but
Pearson was not much good, and the house was full of valuables and very
lonely. Mrs. Dennistoun rose up, trembling a little, and went forward to
the window, bidding Elinor go back and keep quite quiet. But here they
were interrupted by a voice which called from without, with another
knock on the window, "Nell! Nell!"

"It is Phil," said Elinor, flying to the door.

Mrs. Dennistoun sat down again and said nothing. Her heart sank in her
breast. She did not know what she feared; perhaps that he had come to
break off the marriage, perhaps to hurry it and carry her child away.
There was a pause as was natural at the door, a murmur of voices, a fond
confusion of words, which made it clear that no breach was likely, and
presently after that interval, Elinor came back beaming, leading her
lover. "Here is Phil," she said, in such liquid tones of happiness as
filled her mother with mingled pleasure, gratitude, and despite. "He has
found he had a day or two to spare, and he has rushed down here, fancy,
with an apology for not letting us know!"

"She thinks everyone is like herself, Mrs. Dennistoun, but I am aware
that I am not such a popular personage as she thinks me, and you have
least reason of all to approve of the man who is coming to carry her
away."

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Compton," she said, gravely, giving him her
hand.

The Hon. Philip Compton was a very tall man, with very black hair. He
had fine but rather hawk-like features, a large nose, a complexion too
white to be agreeable, though it added to his romantic appearance. There
was a furtive look in his big dark eyes, which had a way of surveying
the country, so to speak, before making a reply to any question,
like a man whose response depended upon what he saw. He surveyed Mrs.
Dennistoun in this way while she spoke; but then he took her hand,
stooped his head over it, and kissed it, not without grace. "Thank you
very much for that," he said, as if there had been some doubt on his
mind about his reception. "I was glad enough to get the opportunity, I
can tell you. I've brought you some birds, Mrs. Dennistoun, and I hope
you'll give me some supper, for I'm as hungry as a hawk. And now, Nell,
let's have a look at you," the lover said. He was troubled by no false
modesty. As soon as he had paid the required toll of courtesy to the
mother, who naturally ought to have at once proceeded to give orders
about his supper, he held Elinor at arm's length before the lamp, then,
having fully inspected her appearance, and expressed by a "Charming, by
Jove!" his opinion of it, proceeded to demonstrations which the presence
of the mother standing by did not moderate. There are few mothers to
whom it would be agreeable to see their child engulfed in the arms of a
large and strong man, and covered with his bold kisses. Mrs. Dennistoun
was more fastidious even than most mothers, and to her this embrace was
a sort of profanation. The Elinor who had been guarded like a flower
from every contact--to see her gripped in his arms by this stranger,
made her mother glow with an indignation which she knew was out of the
question, yet felt to the bottom of her soul. Elinor was abashed before
her mother, but she was not angry. She forced herself from his embrace,
but her blushing countenance was full of happiness. What a revolution
had thus taken place in a few minutes! They had been so dull sitting
there alone; alone, though each with the other who had filled her life
for more than twenty years; and now all was lightened, palpitating with
life. "Be good, sir," said Elinor, pushing him into a chair as if he had
been a great dog, "and quiet and well-behaved; and then you shall have
some supper. But tell us first where you have come from, and what put it
into your head to come here."

"I came up direct from my brother Lomond's shooting-box. Reply No. 1.
What put it into my head to come? Love, I suppose, and the bright eyes
of a certain little witch called Nell. I ought to have been in Ireland
for a sort of a farewell visit there; but when I found I could steal two
days, you may imagine I knew very well what to do with them. Eh? Oh,
it's mamma that frightens you, I see."

"It is kind of you to give Elinor two days when you have so many other
engagements," said Mrs. Dennistoun, turning away.

But he was not in the least abashed. "Yes isn't it?" he said; "my last
few days of freedom. I consider I deserve the prize for virtue--to cut
short my very last rampage; and she will not as much as give me a kiss!
I think she is ashamed before you, Mrs. Dennistoun."

"It would not be surprising if she were," said Mrs. Dennistoun, gravely.
"I am old-fashioned, as you may perceive."

"Oh, you don't need to tell me that," said he; "one can see it with half
an eye. Come here, Nell, you little coquette: or I shall tell the Jew
you were afraid of mamma, and you will never hear an end of it as long
as you live."

"Elinor, I think you had better see, perhaps, what there is to make up
as good a meal as possible for Mr. Compton," said her mother, sitting
down opposite to the stranger, whose long limbs were stretched over
half the floor, with the intention of tripping up Elinor, it seemed;
but she glided past him and went on her way--not offended, oh, not at
all--waving her hand to him as she avoided the very choice joke of his
stretched-out foot.

"Mr. Compton," said Mrs. Dennistoun, "you will be Elinor's husband in
less than a fortnight."

"I hope so," he said, displaying the large cavern of a yawn under his
black moustache as he looked her in the face.

"And after that I will have no right to interfere; but, in the meantime,
this is my house, and I hope you will remember that these ways are not
mine, and that I am too old-fashioned to like them. I prefer a little
more respect to your betrothed."

"Oh, respect," he said. "I have never found that girls like too much
respect. But as you please. Well, look here, Nell," he said, catching
her by the arm as she came back and swinging her towards him, "your
mother thinks I'm too rough with you, my little dear."

"Do you, mamma?" said Elinor, faltering a little; but she had the
sweetest rose-flush on her cheeks and the moisture of joy in her eyes.
In all her twenty-three years she had never looked as she looked now.
Her life had been a happy one, but not like this. She had been always
beloved, and never had known for a day what it was to be neglected; yet
love had never appeared to her as it did now, so sweet, nor life so
beautiful. What strange delusion! what a wonderful incomprehensible
mistake! or so at least the mother thought, looking at her beautiful
girl with a pang at her heart.

"It is only his bad manners," said Elinor, in a voice which sounded like
a caress. "He knows very well how to behave. He can be as nice as any
one, and as pretty spoken, and careful not to offend. It is only
arriving so suddenly, and not being expected--or that he has forgotten
his nice manners to-night. Phil, do you hear what I say?"

Phil made himself into the semblance of a dog, and sat up and begged
for pardon. It was a trick which made people "shriek with laughing;"
but Mrs. Dennistoun's gravity remained unbroken. Perhaps her extreme
seriousness had something in it that was rather ridiculous too. It was a
relief when he went off to his supper, attended by Elinor, and Mrs.
Dennistoun was left alone over her fire. She had a slight sense that she
had been absurd, as well as that Philip Compton had lacked breeding,
which did not make her more comfortable. Was it possible that she would
be glad when it was all over, and her child gone--her child gone, and
with that man! Her child, her little delicately bred, finely nurtured
girl, who had been wrapped in all the refinements of life from her
cradle, and had never heard a rough word, never been allowed to know
anything that would disturb her virginal calm!--yet now in a moment
passed away beyond her mother to the unceremonious wooer who had no
reverence for her, none of the worship her mother expected. How strange
it was! Yet a thing that happened every day. Mrs. Dennistoun sat over
the fire, though it was not cold, and listened to the voices and
laughter in the next room. How happy they were to be together! She did
not, however, dwell upon the fact that she was alone and deserted, as
many women would have done. She knew that she would have plenty of time
to dwell on this in the lonely days to come. What occupied her was the
want of more than manners, of any delicate feeling in the lover who had
seized with rude caresses upon Elinor in her mother's presence, and the
fact that Elinor did not object, nor dislike that it should be so. That
she should feel forlorn was no wonderful thing; that did not disturb her
mind. It was the other matter about Elinor that pained and horrified
her, she could not tell why; which, perhaps, was fantastic, which,
indeed, she felt sure must be so.

They were so long in the dining-room, where Compton had his supper, that
when that was over it was time to go to bed. Still talking and laughing
as if they could never exhaust either the fountain of talk or the mirth,
which was probably much more sheer pleasure in their meeting than
genuine laughter produced by any wit or _bon mot_, they came out into
the passage, and stood by Mrs. Dennistoun and the housemaid, who had
brought her the keys and was now fastening the hall door. A little
calendar hung on the wall beneath the lamp, and Phil Compton walked up
to it and with a laugh read out the date. "Sixth September," he said,
and turned round to Elinor. "Only ten days more, Nell." The housemaid
stooping down over the bolt blushed and laughed too under her breath in
sympathy; but Mrs. Dennistoun turning suddenly round caught Compton's
eye. Why had he given that keen glance about him? There was nothing to
call for his usual survey of the company in that sentiment. He might
have known well enough what were the feelings he was likely to call
forth. A keen suspicion shot through her mind. Suspicion of what? She
could not tell. There was nothing that was not most natural in his
sudden arrival, the delightful surprise of his coming, his certainty of
a good reception. The wonder was that he had come so little, not that he
should come now.

The next morning the visitor made himself very agreeable: his raptures
were a little calmed. He talked over all the arrangements, and entered
into everything with the interest of a man to whom that great day
approaching was indeed the greatest day in his life. And it turned out
that he had something to tell which was of practical importance. "I may
relieve your mind about Nell's money," he said, "for I believe my
company is going to be wound up. We'll look out for another investment
which will pay as well and be less risky. It has been found not to be
doing quite so well as was thought, so we're going to wind up."

"I hope you have not lost anything," said Mrs. Dennistoun.

"Oh, nothing to speak of," he said, carelessly.

"I am not fond of speculative companies. I am glad you are done with
it," Mrs. Dennistoun said.

"And I'm glad to be done with it. I shall look out for something
permanent and decline joint-stock companies. I thought you would like
to know. But that is the last word I shall say about business. Come,
Nell, I have only one day; let's spend it in the woods."

Elinor, who felt that the day in the woods was far more important than
any business, hurried to get her hat and follow him to the door. It
chanced to her to glance at the calendar as she passed hastily out to
where he stood awaiting her in the porch. Why that should have happened
to anyone in the Cottage twice in the twenty-four hours is a coincidence
which I cannot explain, but so it was. Her eye caught the little white
plaque in passing, and perceived with surprise that it had moved up two
numbers, and that it was the figure 8 which was marked upon it now.

"We cannot have slept through a day and night," she said, laughing as
she joined him. "The calendar says the eighth September now."

"But I arrived on the sixth," he said. "Mind that, Nell, whatever
happens. You saw it with your own eyes. It may be of consequence to
remember."

"Of what consequence could it be?" said Elinor, wondering.

"One can never tell. The only thing is I arrived on the sixth--that you
know. And, Nell, my darling, supposing any fellow should inquire too
closely into my movements, you'll back me up, won't you, and agree in
everything I say?"

"Who should inquire into your movements? There is no one here who would
be so impertinent, Phil."

"Oh," he said, "there is never any telling how impertinent people may
be."

"And what is there in your movements that any one dare inquire about? I
hope you are not ashamed of coming to see me."

"That is just what is the saving of me, Nell. I can't explain what I
mean now, but I will later on. Only mind you don't contradict me if we
should meet any inquisitive person. I arrived on the sixth, and you'll
back me like my true love in everything I say."

"As far as--as I know, Phil."

"Oh, we must have no conditions. You must stand by me in everything I
say."




CHAPTER IX.


This day in the copse was one that Elinor never forgot. At the moment it
seemed to her the most blissful period of all her life. There had been
times in which she had longed that Phil knew more and cared more for the
objects which had always been most familiar, and told for most in her
own existence--although it is true that at first his very ignorance,
real or assumed, his careless way of treating all intellectual subjects,
his indifference to books and pictures, and even nature, had amused and
pleased her, giving a piquancy to the physical strength and enjoying
manhood, the perpetual activity and state of doing something in which he
was. It was not a kind of life which she had ever known before, and it
dazzled her with its apparent freedom and fulness, the variety in it,
the constant movement, the crowd of occupations and people. To her who
had been used to finding a great deal of her amusement in reading, in
sketching (not very well), in playing (tunes), and generally practising
with very moderate success arts for which she had no individual
enthusiasm, it had seemed like a new life to be plunged into the society
of horses and dogs, into the active world which was made up of a round
of amusements, race meetings, days on the river, follies of every
conceivable kind, exercise, and air, and movement. The ignorance of all
these people dazzled her as if it had been a new science. It had seemed
something wonderful and piquant to Elinor to find people who knew so
much of subjects she had never heard of, and nothing at all of those she
had been trained to know. And then there had come a moment when she had
begun to sigh under her breath, as it were, and wish that Phil would
sometimes open a book, that when he took up the newspaper he would look
at something more than the sporting news and the bits of gossip, that he
would talk now and then of something different from the racings and the
startings, and the odds, and the scrapes other men got into, and the
astonishing "frocks" of the Jew--those things, so wonderful at first,
like a new language, absurd, yet amusing, came to be a little tiresome,
especially when scraps of them made up the bulk of the very brief
letters which Phil scribbled to his betrothed. But during this day,
after his unexpected arrival, the joy of seeing him suddenly, the
pleasure of feeling that he had broken through all his engagements to
come to her, and the fervour of his satisfaction in being with her again
(that very fervour which shocked her mother), Elinor's first glow of
delight in her love came fully back. And as they wandered through the
pleasant paths of the copse, his very talk seemed somehow changed, and
to have gained just that little mingling of perception of her tastes and
wishes which she had desired. There was a little autumnal mist about the
softening haze which was not decay, but only the "mellow fruitfulness"
of the poet; and the day, notwithstanding this, was as warm as June, the
sky blue, with only a little white puff of cloud here and there. Phil
paused to look down the combe, with all the folds of the downs that
wrapped it about, going off in blue outlines into the distance, and said
it was "a jolly view"--which amused Elinor more than if he had used the
finest language, and showed that he was beginning (she thought) to care
a little for the things which pleased her. "And I suppose you could see
a man coming by that bit of road."

"Yes," said Elinor, "you could see a man coming--or going: but, unless
you were to make believe very strong, like the Marchioness, you could
not make out who the man was."

"What Marchioness?" said Phil. "I didn't know you had anybody with a
title about here. I say, Nell, it's a very jolly view, but hideously
dull for you, my pet, to have lived so long here."

"I never found it in the least dull," she said.

"Why, there is nothing to do! I suppose you read books, eh? That's what
you call amusing yourself. You ought to have made the old lady take you
about a deal, abroad, and all over the place: but I expect you have
never stood up for yourself a bit, Nell."

"Don't call mamma the old lady, Phil. She is not old, and far prettier
than most people I know."

"Well, she should have done it for herself. Might have picked up a good
match, eh? a father-in-law that would have left you a pot of money. You
don't mean to say you wouldn't have liked that?"

"Oh, Phil, Phil! I wish you could understand."

"Well, well, I'll let the old girl alone." And then came the point at
which Phil improved so much. "Tell me what you've been reading last," he
said. "I should like to know what you are thinking about, even if I
don't understand it myself. I say, Nell, who do you think that can be
dashing so fast along the road?"

"It is the people at Reddown," she said. "I know their white horses.
They always dash along as if they were in the greatest hurry. Do you
really want to know what I have been reading, Phil? though it is very
little, I fear, because of the dressmakers and--all the other things."

"You see," he said, "when you have lots to do you can't keep up with
your books: which is the reason why I never pretend to read--I have no
time."

"You might find a little time. I have seen you look very much bored, and
complain that there was nothing to do."

"Never when you were there, Nell, that I'll answer for--but of course
there are times when a fellow isn't doing anything much. What would you
have me read? There's always the _Sporting and Dramatic_, you know, the
_Pink 'un_, and a few more."

"Oh, Phil! you don't call them literature, I hope."

"I don't know much about what you call literature. There's Ruff, and
Hoyle, and--I say, Nell, there's a dog-cart going a pace! Who can that
be, do you suppose?"

"I don't know all the dog-carts about. I should think it was some one
coming from the station."

"Oh!" he said, and made a long pause. "Driving like that, if they don't
break their necks, they should be here in ten minutes or so."

"Oh, not for twice that time--the road makes such a round--but there is
no reason to suppose that any dog-cart from the station should be coming
here."

"Well, to return to the literature, as you call it. I suppose I shall
have to get a lot of books for you to keep you amused--eh, Nell? even in
the honeymoon."

"We shall not have time to read very much if we are moving about all the
time."

"Not me, but you. I know what you'll do. You'll go and leave me planted,
and run up-stairs to read your book. I've seen the Jew do it with some
of her confounded novels that she's always wanting to turn over to me."

"But there are some novels that you would like to read, Phil."

"Not a bit. Why, Nell, I know far better stories of fellows in our own
set than any novel these writing men ever can put on paper: fellows, and
women, too--stories that would make your hair stand on end, and that
would make you die with laughing. You can't think what lots I know. That
cart would have been here by this time if it had been coming here, eh?"

"Oh, no, not yet--the road makes such a long round. Do you expect any
one, Phil?"

"I don't quite know; there's something on at that confounded office of
ours; everything, you know, has gone to smash. I didn't think it well to
say too much to the old lady last night. There's been a regular row, and
the manager's absconded, and all turns on whether they can find some
books. I shouldn't wonder if one of the fellows came down here, if they
find out where I am. I say, Nell, mind you back me up whatever I say."

"But I can't possibly know anything about it," said Elinor, astonished.

"Never mind--about dates and that--if you don't stand by me, there may
be a fuss, and the wedding delayed. Remember that, my pet, the wedding
delayed--that's what I want to avoid. Now, come, Nell, let's have
another go about the books. All English, mind you. I won't buy you any
of the French rot. They're too spicy for a little girl like you."

"I don't know what you mean, Phil. I hope you don't think that I read
nothing but novels," Elinor said.

"Nothing but novels! Oh, if you go in for mathematics and that sort of
thing, Nell! the novels are too deep for me. Don't say poetry, if you
love me. I could stand most things from you, Nell, you little
darling--but, Nell, if you come spouting verses all the time----"

His look of horror made Elinor laugh. "You need not be afraid. I never
spout verses," she said.

"Come along this way a little, where we can see the road. All women seem
to like poetry. There's a few fellows I don't mind myself. Ingoldsby,
now that's something fine. We had him at school, and perhaps it was the
contrast from one's lessons. Do you know Ingoldsby, Nell?"

"A--little--I have read some----"

"Ah, you like the sentimental best. There's Whyte Melville, then,
there's always something melancholy about him--'When the old horse
died,' and that sort of thing--makes you cry, don't you know. You all
like that. Certainly, if that dog-cart had been coming here it must have
come by this time."

"Yes, it must have come," Elinor admitted, with a little wonder at the
importance which he gave to this possible incident. "But there is
another train at two if you are very anxious to see this man."

"Oh, I'm not anxious to see him," said Mr. Compton, with a laugh, "but
probably he will want to see me. No, Nell, you will not expect me to
read poetry to you while we're away. There's quite a library at Lomond's
place. You can amuse yourself there when I'm shooting; not that I shall
shoot much, or anything that takes me away from my Nell. But you must
come out with us. There is no such fun as stumping over the moors--the
Jew has got all the turn-out for that sort of thing--short frocks and
knickerbockers, and a duck of a little breech-loader. She thinks she's a
great shot, poor thing, and men are civil and let her imagine that she's
knocked over a pheasant or a hare, now and then. As for the partridges,
she lets fly, of course, but to say she hits anything----"

"I should not want to hit anything," said Elinor. "Oh, please Phil! I
will try anything else you like, but don't make me shoot."

"You little humbug! See what you'll say when you get quite clear of the
old lady. But I don't want you to shoot, Nell. If you don't get tired
sitting at home, with all of us out on the hill, I like to come in for
my part and find a little duck all tidy, not blowzy and blown about by
the wind, like the Jew with her ridiculous bag, that all the fellows
snigger at behind her back."

"You should not let any fellow laugh at your sister, Phil----"

"Oh, as for that! they are all as thick with her as I am, and why should
I interfere? But I promise you nobody shall cut a joke upon my Nell."

"I should hope not, indeed," said Elinor, indignant; "but as for your
'fellows,' Phil, as you call them, you mustn't be angry with me, but I
don't much like those gentlemen; they are a little rude and rough. They
shall not call me by my Christian name, or anything but my own
formal----"

"Mrs. Compton," he said, seizing her in his arms, "you little duck!
they'll be as frightened of you as if you were fifty. But you mustn't
spoil good company, Nell. I shall like you to keep them at a distance,
but you mustn't go too far; and, above all, my pet, you mustn't put out
the Jew. I calculate on being a lot there; they have a nice house and a
good table, and all that, and Prestwich is glad of somebody to help
about his horses. You mustn't set up any of your airs with the Jew."

"I don't know what you mean by my airs, Phil."

"Oh, but I do, and they're delicious, Nell: half like a little girl and
half like a queen: but it will never do to make the Jew feel small in
her own set. Hallo! there's some one tumbling alone over the stones on
that precious road of yours. I believe it's that cart from the station
after all."

"No," said Elinor, "it is only one of the tradespeople. You certainly
are anxious about those carts from the station, Phil."

"Not a bit!" he said, and then, after a moment, he added, "Yes, on the
whole, I'd much rather the man came, if he's coming while I'm here, and
while you are with me, Nell; for I want you to stick to me, and back me
up. They might think I ought to go after that manager fellow and spoil
the wedding. Therefore mind you back me up."

"I can't think, dear Phil, what there is for me to do. I know nothing
about the business nor what has happened. You never told me anything,
and how can I back you up about things I don't know?"

"Oh, yes, you can," he said, "you'll soon see if the fellow comes; just
you stand by me, whatever I say. You mayn't know--or even I may seem to
make a mistake; but you know me if you don't know the circumstances, and
I hope you can trust me, Nell, that it will be all right."

"But----" said Elinor, confused.

"Don't go on with your buts; there's a darling, don't contradict me.
There is nothing looks so silly to strangers as a woman contradicting
every word a fellow says. I only want you to stand by me, don't you
know, that's all; and I'll tell you everything about it after, when
there's time."

"Tell me about it now," said Elinor; "you may be sure I shall be
interested; there's plenty of time now."

"Talk about business to you! when I've only a single day, and not half
time enough, you little duck, to tell you what a darling you are, and
how I count every hour till I can have you all to myself. Ah, Nell,
Nell, if that day were only here----"

And then Phil turned to those subjects and those methods which cast so
much confusion into the mind of Mrs. Dennistoun, when practised under
her sedate and middle-aged eyes. But Elinor, as has been said, did not
take exactly the same view.

Presently they went to luncheon, and Phil secured himself a place at
table commanding the road. "I never knew before how jolly it was," he
said, "though everything is jolly here. And that peep of the road must
give you warning when any invasion is coming."

"It is too far off for that," said Mrs. Dennistoun.

"Oh, no, not for sharp eyes. Nell there told me who several people
were--those white horses--the people at--where did you say, Nell?"

"Reddown, mamma--the Philistines, as you call them, that are always
dashing about the country--_nouveaux riches_, with the finest horses in
the county."

"I like the _nouveaux riches_ for that," said Phil (he did not go wrong
in his French, which was a great consolation to Elinor), "they like to
have the best of everything. Your poor swell has to take what he can
get, but the _parvenu's_ the man in these days; and then there was a
dog-cart, which she pronounced to be from the station, but which turned
out to be the butcher, or the baker, or the candle-stick maker----"

"It is really too far off to make sure of anything, except white
horses."

"Ah, there's no mistaking them. I see something sweeping along, but
that's a country wagon, I suppose. It gives me a great deal of diversion
to see the people on the road--which perhaps you will think a vulgar
amusement."

"Not at all," said Mrs. Dennistoun, politely, but she thought within
herself how empty the brain must be which sought diversion from the
distant carriages passing two miles off: to be sure across the combe,
as the crow flies, it was not a quarter part so far as that.

"Phil thinks some one may possibly come to him on business--to explain
things," said Elinor, anxious on her part to make it clear that it was
not out of mere vacancy that her lover had watched so closely the
carriages on the road.

"Unfortunately, there is something like a smash," he said; "they'll keep
it out of the papers if they can, but you may see it in the papers; the
manager has run away, and there's a question about some books. I don't
suppose you would understand--they may come to me here about it, or they
may wait till I go back to town."

"I thought you were going to Ireland, Phil."

"So I shall, probably, just for three days--to fill up the time. One
wants to be doing something to keep one's self down. You can't keep
quiet and behave yourself when you are going to be married in a week:
unless you're a little chit of a girl without any feelings," he said
with a laugh. And Elinor laughed too; while Mrs. Dennistoun sat as grave
as a judge at the head of the table. But Phil was not daunted by her
serious face: so long as the road was quite clear he had all the
appearance of a perfectly easy mind.

"We have been talking about literature," he said. "I am a stupid fellow,
as perhaps you know, for that sort of thing. But Nell is to indoctrinate
me. We mean to take a big box of books, and I'm to be made to read
poetry and all sorts of fine things in my honeymoon."

"That is a new idea," said Mrs. Dennistoun. "I thought Elinor meant to
give up reading, on the other hand, to make things square."

There was a little breath of a protest from Elinor. "Oh, mamma!" but she
left the talk (he could do it so much better) in Compton's hand.

"I expect to figure as a sort of prodigy in my family," he said; "we're
not bookish. The Jew goes in for French novels, but I don't intend to
let Nell touch them, so you may be easy in your mind."

"I have no doubt Lady Mariamne makes a good selection," said Mrs.
Dennistoun.

"Not she! she reads whatever comes, and the more salt the better. The
Jew is quite an emancipated person. Don't you think she'll bore you
rather in this little house? She carries bales of rubbish with her
wherever she goes, and her maid, and her dog, and I don't know what. If
I were you I'd write, or better wire, and tell her there's a capital
train from Victoria will bring her here in time for the wedding, and
that it's a thousand pities she should disturb herself to come for the
night."

"If your sister can put up with my small accommodation, I shall of
course be happy to have her, whatever she brings with her," Mrs.
Dennistoun said.

"Oh! it's not a question of putting up--she'd be delighted, I'm sure:
but I think you'll find her a great bore. She is exceedingly fussy when
she has not all her things about her. However, you must judge for
yourself. But if you think better of it, wire a few words, and it'll be
all right. I'm to go to the old Rectory, Nell says."

"It is not a particularly old Rectory; it is a very nice, pleasant
house. I think you will find yourself quite comfortable--you and the
gentleman----"

"Dick Bolsover, who is going to see me through it: and I daresay I
should not sleep much, if I were in the most luxurious bed in the world.
They say a man who is going to be hanged sleeps like a top, but I don't
think I shall; what do you say, Nell?"

"Elinor, I should think, could have no opinion on the subject," said
Mrs. Dennistoun, pale with anger. "You will all dine here, of course.
Some other friends are coming, and a cousin, Mr. Tatham, of Tatham's
Cross."

"Is that," said Phil, "the Cousin John?"

"John, I am sorry to say, is abroad; the long vacation is the worst
time. It is his father who is coming, and his sister, Mary Tatham, who
is Elinor's bridesmaid--she and Miss Hudson at the Rectory."

"Only two; and very sensible, instead of the train one sees, all
thinking how best to show themselves off. Dick Bolsover is man enough to
tackle them both. He expects some fun, I can tell you. What is there to
be after we are gone, Nell?" He stopped and looked round with a laugh.
"Rather close quarters for a ball," he said.

"There will be no ball. You forget that when you take Elinor away I
shall be alone. A solitary woman living in a cottage, as you remark,
does not give balls. I am much afraid that there will be very little fun
for your friend."

"Oh, he'll amuse himself well enough; he's the sort of fellow who always
makes himself at home. A Rectory will be great fun for him; I don't
suppose he was ever in one before, unless perhaps when he was a boy at
school. Yes, as you say--what a lot of trouble it will be for you to
be sure: not as if Nell had a sister to enjoy the fun after. It's a
thousand pities you did not decide to bring her up to town, and get
us shuffled off there. You might have got a little house for next
to nothing at this time of the year, and saved all the row, turning
everything upside down in this nice little place, and troubling yourself
with visitors and so forth. But one always thinks of that sort of thing
too late."

"I should not have adopted such an expedient in any case. Elinor must be
married among her own people, wherever her lot may be cast afterwards.
Everybody here has known her ever since she was born."

"Ah, that's a thing ladies think of, I suppose," said Compton. He had
stuck his glass into his eye and was gazing out of the window. "Very
jolly view," he continued. "And what's that, Nell, raising clouds of
dust? I haven't such quick eyes as you."

"I should think it must be a circus or a menagerie, or something,
mamma."

"Very likely," said Mrs. Dennistoun. "They sometimes come this way on
the road to Portsmouth, and give little representations in all the
villages, to the great excitement of the country folk."

"We are the country folk, and I feel quite excited," said Phil, dropping
his glass. "Nell, if there's a representation, you and I will go
to-night."

"Oh, Phil, what----" Elinor was about to say folly: but she paused,
seeing a look in his eye which she had already learned to know, and
added "fun," in a voice which sounded almost like an echo of his own.

"There is nothing like being out in the wilderness like this to make one
relish a little fun, eh? I daresay you always go. The Jew is the one for
every village fair within ten miles when she is in the country. She says
they're better than any play. Hallo! what is that?"

"It is some one coming round the gravel path."

A more simple statement could not be, but it made Compton strangely
uneasy. He rose up hastily from the table. "It is, perhaps, the man I am
looking for. If you'll permit me, I'll go and see."

He went out of the room, calling Elinor by a look and slight movement of
his head, but when he came out into the hall was met by a trim clerical
figure and genial countenance, the benign yet self-assured looks of the
Rector of the Parish: none other could this smiling yet important
personage be.




CHAPTER X.


The Rector came in with his smiling and rosy face. He was, as many of
his parishioners thought, a picture of a country clergyman. Such a
healthy colour, as clear as a girl's, limpid blue eyes, with very light
eyelashes and eyebrows; a nice round face, "beautifully modelled,"
according to Miss Sarah Hill, who did a little in that way herself, and
knew how to approve of a Higher Sculptor's work. And then the neatest
and blackest of coats, and the whitest and stiffest of collars. Mr.
Hudson, I need scarcely say, was not so left to himself as to permit his
clerical character to be divined by means of a white tie. He came in, as
was natural among country neighbours, without thinking of any bell or
knocker on the easily opened door, and was about to peep into the
drawing-room with "Anybody in?" upon his smiling lips, when he saw a
gentleman approaching, picking up his hat as he advanced. Mr. Hudson
paused a moment in uncertainty. "Mr. Compton, I am sure," he said,
holding out both of his plump pink hands. "Ah, Elinor too! I was
sure I could not be mistaken. And I am exceedingly glad to make your
acquaintance." He shook Phil's hand up and down in a sort of see-saw.
"Very glad to make your acquaintance! though you are the worst enemy
Windyhill has had for many a day--carrying off the finest lamb in all
the fold."

"Yes, I'm a wolf, I suppose," said Phil. He went to the door and took a
long look out while Elinor led the Rector into the drawing-room. Then
Mr. Compton lounged in after them, with his hands in his pockets, and
placed himself in the bow-window, where he could still see the white
line across the combe of the distant road.

"They'll think I have stolen a march upon them all, Elinor," said the
Rector, "chancing upon Mr. Compton like this, a quite unexpected
pleasure. I shall keep them on the tenterhooks, asking them whom they
suppose I have met? and they will give everybody but the right person.
What a thing for me to have been the first person to see your intended,
my dear! and I congratulate you, Elinor," said the Rector, dropping his
voice; "a fine handsome fellow, and such an air! You are a lucky girl--"
he paused a little and said, with a slight hesitation, in a whisper, "so
far as meets the eye."

"Oh, Mr. Hudson, don't spoil everything," said Elinor, in the same tone.

"Well, I cannot tell, can I, my dear?--the first peep I have had." He
cleaved his throat and raised his voice. "I believe we are to have the
pleasure of entertaining you, Mr. Compton, on a certain joyful occasion
(joyful to you, not to us). I need not say how pleased my wife and I
and the other members of the family will be. There are not very many of
us--we are only five in number--my son, and my daughter, and Miss Dale,
my wife's sister, but much younger than Mrs. Hudson--who has done us the
pleasure of staying with us for part of the year. I think she has met
you somewhere, or knows some of your family, or--something. She is a
great authority on noble families. I don't know whether it is because
she has been a good deal in society, or whether it is out of
Debrett----"

"Nell, come and tell me what this is," Compton said.

"Oh, Phil! it is nothing, it is a carriage. I don't know what it is. Be
civil to the Rector, please."

"So I am, perfectly civil."

"You have not answered a single word, and he has been talking to you for
ten minutes."

"Well, but he hasn't said anything that I can answer. He says Miss
Something or other knows my family. Perhaps she does. Well, much good
may it do her! but what can I say to that? I am sure I don't know hers.
I didn't come here to be talked to by the Rector. Could we slip out and
leave him with your mother? That would suit his book a great deal
better. Come, let's go."

"Oh! he is speaking to you, Phil."

Compton turned round and eyed the Rector. "Yes?" he said in so marked an
interrogative that Mr. Hudson stopped short and flushed. He had been
talking for some time.

"Oh! I was not precisely asking a question," he said, in his quiet
tones. "I was saying that we believe and hope that another gentleman is
coming with you--for the occasion."

"Dick Bolsover," said Compton, "a son of Lord Freshfield's; perhaps Miss
----, the lady you were talking of, may know his family too. His brother
got a little talked of in that affair about Fille d'Or, don't you know,
at Newmarket. But Dick is a rattling good fellow, doesn't race, and has
no vices. He is coming to stand by me and see that all's right."

"We shall be happy to see Mr. Bolsover, I am sure." The Rector rubbed
his hands and said to himself with pleasure that two Honourables in his
quiet house was something to think of, and that he hoped it would not
turn the heads of the ladies, and make Alice expect--one couldn't tell
what. And then he said, by way of changing yet continuing the subject,
"I suppose you've been looking at the presents. Elinor must have shown
you her presents."

"By Jove, I never thought of the presents. Have you got a lot, Nell?"

"She has got, if I may be allowed to answer for her, having known her
all her life, a great many pretty things, Mr. Compton. We are not rich,
to be sure, her old friends here. We have to content ourselves with but
a small token of a great deal of affection; but still there are a number
of pretty things. Elinor, what were you thinking of, my dear, not to
show Mr. Compton the little set out which you showed us? Come, I should
myself like to look them over again."

Phil gave another long look at the distant road, and then he thrust his
arm into Elinor's and said, "To be sure, come along, Nell. It will be
something to do." He did not wait for the Rector to pass first, which
Elinor thought would have been better manners, but thrust her before him
quite regardless of the older people. "Let's see the trumpery," he said.

"Don't use such a word, Phil: the Rector will be so hurt."

"Oh, will he? did he work you an--antimacassar or something?"

"Phil, speak low at least. No, but his daughter did; and they gave
me----"

"I know: a cardcase or a button-hook, or something. And how many
biscuit-boxes have you got, and clocks, and that sort of thing? I advise
you to have an auction as soon as we get away. Hallo! that's a nice
little thing; look pretty on your pretty white neck I should say, Nell.
Who gave you that?" He took John's necklace out of its box where it had
lain undisturbed until now, and pulled it through his fingers. "Cost a
pretty bit of money that, I should say. You can raise the wind on it
when we're down on our luck, Nell."

"My cousin John, whom you have heard me speak of, gave me that, Phil,"
said Elinor, with great gravity. She thought it necessary, she could
scarcely tell why, to make a stand for her cousin John.

"Ah, I thought it was one of the disappointed ones," said Phil, flinging
it back carelessly onto the bed of white velvet where it had been fitted
so exactly. "That's how they show their spite; for of course I can't
give you anything half as good as that."

"There was no disappointment in the matter," said Elinor, almost angry
with the misconceptions of her lover.

"You are a nice one," said Compton, taking her by the chin, "to tell me!
as if I didn't know the world a long sight better than you do, my little
Nell."

The Rector, who was following slowly, for he did not like to go up-stairs
in a hurry, saw this attitude and drew back, a little scandalized.
"Perhaps we were indiscreet to--to follow them too closely," he said,
disconcerted. "Please to go in first, Mrs. Dennistoun--the young couple
will not mind you."

Mr. Hudson was prim; but he was rather pleased to see that "the young
couple" were, as he said, so fond of each other. He went into the room
under the protection of the mother--blushing a little. It reminded him,
as he said afterwards, of his own young days; but it was only natural
that he should walk up direct to the place where his kettle stood
conspicuous, waiting only the spark of a match to begin to boil the
water for the first conjugal tea. It appeared to him a beautiful
idea as he put his head on one side and looked at it. It was like the
inauguration of the true British fireside, the cosy privacy in which,
after the man had done his work, the lady awaited him at home, with the
tea-kettle steaming. A generation before Mr. Hudson there would have
been a pair of slippers airing beside the fire. But neither of these
preparations supply the ideal of perfect happiness now.

"I say, where did you get these hideous things?" said Compton,
approaching the table on which "the silver" was laid out. By a special
dispensation it was Lady Mariamne's dishes which caught Phil's
attention. "Some old grandmother, I suppose, that had 'em in the house.
Hallo! if it isn't the Jew! Nell, you don't mean to tell me you got
these horrors from the Jew?"

"They are supposed to be--quite handsome," said Elinor, with a
suppressed laugh. "We must not criticise. It is very kind of people to
send presents at all. We all know it is a very severe tax--to those who
have a great many friends----"

"The stingy old miser," said Compton. "Rolling in money, and to send you
these! By Jove! there's a neat little thing now that looks what it is;
probably one of your nice country friends, Nell----" (It was the kettle,
as a kind Providence decreed; and both the ladies breathed an internal
thanksgiving.) "Shows like a little gem beside that old, thundering,
mean-spirited Jew!"

"That," said the Rector, bridling a little and pink with pleasure, "is
our little offering: and I'm delighted to think that it should please so
good a judge. It was chosen with great care. I saw it first myself,
and the idea flashed upon me--quite an inspiration--that it was the
very thing for Elinor; and when I went home I told my wife--the very
thing--for her boudoir, should she not be seeing company--or just for
your little teas when you are by yourselves. I could at once imagine the
dear girl looking so pretty in one of those wonderful white garments
that are in the next room."

"Hallo!" said Compton, with a laugh, "do you show off your things in
this abandoned way, Nell, to the killingest old cov----"

She put her hand up to his mouth with a cry of dismay and laughter, but
the Rector, with a smile and another little blush, discreetly turned his
back. He was truly glad to see that they were so fond of each other, and
thought it was pretty and innocent that they should not mind showing
it--but it was a little embarrassing for an old and prim clergyman to
look on.

"What a pleasure it must be to you, my dear lady," he said when the
young couple had gone: which took place very soon, for Phil soon grew
tired of the presents, and he was ill at ease when there was no window
from which he could watch the road--"what a pleasure to see them so much
attached! Of course, family advantage and position is always of
importance--but when you get devoted affection, too----"

"I hope there is devoted affection," said Mrs. Dennistoun; "at all
events, there is what we are all united in calling 'love,' for the
present. He is in love with Elinor--I don't think there can be much
doubt of that."

"I did not of course know that he was here," said the Rector, with some
hesitation. "I came with the intention of speaking--I am very sorry to
see in the papers to-day something about that Joint-Stock Company of
which Mr. Compton was a director. It's rather a mysterious paragraph:
but it's something about the manager having absconded, and that some of
the directors are said to be involved."

"Do you mean my future son-in-law?" she said, turning quickly upon him.

"Good heavens, no! I wouldn't for the world insinuate---- It was only
that one felt a desire to know. Just upon the eve of a marriage
it's--it's alarming to hear of a business the bridegroo

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