THE MARRIAGE OF ELINOR

BY

MRS. OLIPHANT

CHICAGOW. B. CONKEY COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1891, BYUNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY

[_All rights reserved. _]

THE MARRIAGE OF ELINOR. 

CHAPTER I. 

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

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

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

Mr. Tatham was a well-built and vigorous man of five-and-thirty, withhealth, good behaviour, and well-being in every line of his cheerfulcountenance and every close curl of his brown hair. His hair was verycurly, and helped to give him the cheerful look which was one of hischief characteristics. Nevertheless, when these innocent seeming words, "Do you know the man?" which was more certainly demonstrative ofcertain 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 waslike the push or poke of a blunt but heavy weapon somewhere in theregions of the heart. For the moment he felt that he could not read anymore. "Do you know the man?" He did not even ask what man in themomentary sickness of his heart. Then he said to himself, almostangrily, "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, andwhich he had expected to happen for the last four or five years. It wasnothing to him one way or another. Nothing could be more absurd thanthat a hearty and strong young man in the full tide of his life and witha good breakfast before him should receive a shock from that innocentlittle letter as if he had been a sentimental woman. But the fact isthat he pushed his plate away with an exclamation of disgust and afeeling that everything was bad and uneatable. He drank his tea, thoughthat also became suddenly bad too, full of tannin, like tea that hasstood too long, a thing about which John was very particular. He hadbeen half an hour later than usual this morning consequent on havingbeen an hour or two later than usual last night. These things have theirreward, and that very speedily; but as for the letter, what could thathave 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 thephraseology, as if no explanation was needed, as if he must know byinstinct what she meant--he who knew nothing about it, who did not knowthere was a man at all!

After a while he began to smile rather cynically to himself. He had gotup from the breakfast table, where everything was so bad, and had goneto look out of one of the windows of his pleasant sitting-room. It wasin one of the wider ways of the Temple, and looked out upon varioushouses with a pleasant misty light upon the redness of their oldbrickwork, and a stretch of green grass and trees, which were scanty infoliage, yet suited very well with the bright morning sun, which was notparticularly warm, but looked as if it were a good deal for effect andnot so very much for use. That thought floated across his mind withothers, and was of the same cynical complexion. It was very well for thesun to shine, making the glistening poplars and plane-trees glow, andwarming all the mellow redness of the old houses, but what did he meanby it? No warmth to speak of, only a fictitious gleam--a thing got upfor effect. And so was the affectionateness of woman--meaning nothing, only an effect of warmth and geniality, nothing beyond that. As a matterof fact, he reminded himself after a while that he had never wantedanything beyond, neither asked for it, nor wished it. He had no desireto change the conditions of his life: women never rested till they haddone so, manufacturing a new event, whatever it might be, pleased evenwhen they were not pleased, to have a novelty to announce. That, nodoubt, was the state of mind in which the lady who called herself hisaunt was: pleased to have something to tell him, to fire off her bigguns in his face, even though she was not at all pleased with the eventitself. But John Tatham, on the other hand, had desired nothing tohappen; things were very well as they were. He liked to have a placewhere he could run down from Saturday to Monday whenever he pleased, andwhere his visit was always a cheerful event for the womankind. He hadliked to take them all the news, to carry the picture-papers, quite aload; to take down a new book for Elinor; to taste doubtfully his aunt'swine, and tell her she had better let him choose it for her. It was avery pleasant state of affairs: he wanted no change; not, certainly, above everything, the intrusion of a stranger whose very existence hadbeen 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 ofworkers whom a persistent popular joke nicknames the "Devil's Own:"--thatis, he had to put on gown and wig and go off to the courts, where he wasenvied of all the briefless as a man who for his age had a great deal todo. He "devilled" for Mr. Asstewt, the great Chancery man, which was themost excellent beginning: and he was getting into a little practice ofhis own which was not to be sneezed at. But he did not find himself in asatisfactory frame of mind to-day. He found himself asking the judge, "Do you know anything of the man?" when it was his special business soto bewilder that potentate with elaborate arguments that he should nothave time to consider whether he had ever heard of the particular manbefore him. Thus it was evident that Mr. Tatham was completely _hors deson assiette_, as the French say; upset and "out of it, " according tothe equally vivid imagination of the English manufacturer of slang. JohnTatham was a very capable young lawyer on ordinary occasions, and it wasall the more remarkable that he should have been so confused in his mindto-day. 

When he went back to his chambers in the evening, which was not until itwas 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 todine out, and had not much time: yet all the way, as he drove along thestreets, just as sunset was over and a subduing shade came over thelight, and that half-holiday look that comes with evening--he keptthinking of the fat letter upon his table. Do you know anything ofthe man? That would no longer be the refrain of his correspondent, but some absurd strain of devotion and admiration of the man whom Johnknew nothing of, not even his name. He wondered as he went along in hishansom, and even between the courses at dinner, while he listened witha smile, but without hearing a word, to what the lady next him wassaying--what she would tell him about this man? That he was everythingthat was delightful, no doubt; handsome, of course; probably clever; andthat she was fond of him, confound the fellow! Elinor! to think that sheshould come to that--a girl like her--to tell him, as if she was sayingthat she had caught a cold or received a present, that she was in lovewith a man! Good heavens! when one had thought her so much aboveanything 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 alwayspreferred to walk home in the evening, and he was not going to changehis habit now out of any curiosity about Elinor's letter. Oh, not somuch as that! not above all women, or better than the rest, perhaps--butdifferent. He could not quite explain to himself how, except that hehad always known her to be Elinor and not another, which was a quitesufficient explanation. And now it appeared that she was not different, although she would still profess to be Elinor--a curious puzzle, whichhis brain in its excited state was scarcely able to tackle. His thoughtsgot somewhat confused and broken as he approached his chambers. He wasso near the letter now--a few minutes and he would no longer need towonder or speculate about it, but would know exactly what she said. Heturned and stood for a minute or so at the Temple gates, looking outupon the busy Strand. It was still as lovely as a summer night could beoverhead, but down here it was--well, it was London, which is anotherthing. The usual crowd was streaming by, coming into bright light as itstreamed past a brilliant shop window, then in the shade for anothermoment, and emerging again. The faces that were suddenly lit up as theypassed--some handsome faces, pale in the light; some with heads hungdown, 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 knowanything 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 amatter that could not be explained? There were faces with far moretragic meaning in them than could be so easily explained as that--thefaces of men, alas! and women too, who were going to destruction as fastas their hurrying feet could carry them; or else were languidly driftingno one knew where--out of life altogether, out of all that was good inlife. John Tatham knew this very well too, and had it in him to doanything a man could to stop the wanderers in their downward career. Butto-night he was thinking of none of these things. He was only wonderinghow 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 timeor another, he found himself at last in his room, in his smoking-coatand slippers, divested of his stiff collar--at his ease, the windowsopen upon the quiet of the Temple Gardens, a little fresh air breathingin. He had taken all this trouble to secure ease for himself, to putoff a little the reading of the letter. Now the moment had come whenit would be absurd to delay any longer. It was so natural to see herfamiliar handwriting--not a lady's hand, angular and pointed, like hermother's, but the handwriting of her generation, which looks as if itwere full of character, until one perceives that it _is_ the writing ofthe generation, and all the girls and boys write much the same. He tooktime for this reflection still as he tore open the envelope. There weretwo sheets very well filled, and written in at the corners, so that noavailable spot was lost. "My dear old John, " were the first words hesaw. He put down the letter and thought over the address. Well, she hadalways called him so. He was old John when he was fourteen, to littleElinor. They had always known each other like that--like brother andsister. But not particularly like brother and sister--like cousins twiceremoved, which is a more interesting tie in some particulars. And nowfor the letter. 

"MY DEAR OLD JOHN: I want to tell you myself of a great thing that hashappened to me--the very greatest thing that could happen in one'slife. Oh, John, dear old John, I feel as if I had nobody else I couldopen my heart to; for mamma--well, mamma is mamma, a dear mother and agood 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 Imy own ways of thinking, too?" he said to himself. 

"Jack dear, " continued the letter, "you must give me your sympathy, allyour sympathy. You never were in love, I suppose (oh, what an odiousway that is of putting it! but it spares one's feelings a little, foreven in writing it is too tremendous a thing to say quite gravely andseriously, 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 quiverin his lip, which might, of course, have been a laugh, but, on the otherhand, might have been something else, "I never was--or I would have toldher--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 weekago that it happened, and we wanted to keep it quiet for a time; butthings get out in spite of all one can do--things of that sort, atleast. And, oh, dear Jack, fancy! I have got three letters already, allwarning me against him; raking up trifling things that have occurredlong ago, long before he met me, and holding them up before me likescarecrows--telling me he is not worthy of me, and that I will bewretched if I marry him, and other dreadful lies like that, whichshow me quite plainly that they neither know him nor me, and that theyhaven't eyes to see what he really is, nor minds to understand. Butthough 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 besaid for her, that she does not know him yet, and therefore cannot beexpected to be ready to take his own word before all. Dear Jack, myheart is so full, and I have so much to tell you, and such perfectconfidence in your sympathy, and also in your insight and capacity tosee through all the lies and wicked stories which I foresee are going tobe poured upon us like a flood that--I don't know how to begin, I haveso many things to say. I know it is the heart of the season, and thatyou 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 tellyou everything and show you his picture, and read you parts of hisletters, I know you would see how false and wrong it all is, and help meto 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 agreat deal worse, and leaving you to your own responsibility, whichnearly drives me mad even in little things--so you may suppose what itdoes in this. Of course, she must see him, which is all I want, for Iknow after she has had a half-hour's conversation with him that she willbe like me and will not believe a word--not one word. Therefore, Jackdear, 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 havedone everything for me. I never remember any trouble I ever had but youfound 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 wouldonly be two nights, after all--Saturday and Sunday. Oh, do come, docome, 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 therefollowed a postscript all about the gifts and graces of the unknownlover, and how he was the victim of circumstances, and how, while othermen might steal the horse, he dared not look over the wall, and otherconvincing pleadings such as these, till John's head began to go round. When he had got through this postscript John Tatham folded the letterand put it away. He had a smile on his face, but he had the air of a manwho had been beaten about the head and was confused with the hurry andstorm 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 thefreemasonry of youth, had thought her right and vindicated her capacityto judge for herself. He had been called often on this errand, and hehad never refused to obey. For Elinor was very wilful, she had alwaysbeen wilful--"a rosebud set about with wilful thorns, But sweet asEnglish 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. Usuallywhen he had a letter from Elinor he put it into his pocket, for thesatisfaction of reading it over again: for she had a fantastic way ofwriting, adding little postscripts which escaped the eye at first, andwhich it was pleasant to find out afterwards. But with this letter hedid not do so. He put it in a drawer of his writing-table, so that hemight find it again when necessary, but he did not put it in his breastpocket. And then he sat for some time doing nothing, looking before him, with his legs stretched out and his hand beating a little tattoo uponthe 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, asort of blank and vacuum expressed by the first of these words--and thenit meant a question of great importance and many divisions. How could itever 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 formyself? And then came the conclusion. Since I can't do anything elsefor her; since she's done it for herself--shall I be a beast and nothelp 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'ssentiments a dignified style is scarcely possible; they expressthemselves sometimes with much force in their private moments, but notas Dr. Johnson would have approved, or with any sense of elegance; andone must try to be truthful to nature. He knew very well that Elinor wasnot responsible for his disappointment, and even he was aware that ifshe had been so foolish as to fix her hopes upon him, it would probablyhave 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 gooddeal of soda-water (with or without, how should I know, some othermoderate ingredient), and a cigar or two--not to speak of certain hourswhen he ought to have been in bed to keep his head clear for the casesof to-morrow: when it suddenly flashed upon him all at once that he wasnot a step further on than when he had received Mrs. Dennistoun's letterin the morning, for Elinor, though she had said so much about him, hadgiven 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, setout from the station at Hurrymere for Mrs. Dennistoun's cottage. Whythat station should have had "mere" in its name I have never been ableto divine, for there is no water to be seen for miles, scarcely so muchas a duckpond: but, perhaps, there are two meanings to the words. It wasa steep walk up a succession of slopes, and the name of the one uponwhich the cottage stood was Windyhill not an encouraging title on sucha day, but true enough to the character of the place. The cottage lay, however, at the head of a combe or shelving irregular valley, justsheltered from the winds on a little platform of its own, and commandinga view which was delightful in its long sweeping distance, and variedenough to be called picturesque, especially by those who were familiarwith nothing higher than the swelling slopes of the Surrey hills. It waswild, little cultivated, save in the emerald green of the bottom, afew fields which lay where a stream ought to have been. Nowadays thereare red-roofed houses peeping out at every corner, but at that periodfashion had not even heard of Hurrymere, and, save for a farm-house ortwo, 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 bylichens, and its walls were covered by climbing plants, so that itstruck no bold note upon the wild landscape, yet was visible afar off inglimpses, from the much-winding road, for a mile or two before it couldbe come at. There was, indeed, a nearer way, necessitating a sharpscramble, but when John came just in sight of the house his heart failedhim a little, and, notwithstanding that his bag had come to feel veryheavy by this time, he deliberately chose the longer round to gain alittle time--as we all do sometimes, when we are most anxious to beat our journey's end, and hear what has to be told us. It looked verypeaceful 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 wereflinging themselves about against the grey sky in a kind of agonisedappeal. John liked the sound of the wind sweeping over the hills, rendingthe trees, and filling the horizon as with a crowd of shadows in pain, twisting and bending with every fresh sweep of the breeze. Sometimessuch sounds and sights give a relief to the mind. He liked it betterthan if all had been undisturbed, lying in afternoon quiet as might havebeen expected at the crown of the year--but the winds had always to betaken into account at Windyhill. 

When he came in sight of the gate, John was aware of some one waitingfor him, walking up and down the sandy road into which it opened. Herface was turned the other way, and she evidently looked for him by wayof 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 tenminutes sooner what he did not wish to hear at all? She turned roundsuddenly as he knocked his foot against a stone upon the rough, butotherwise noiseless road, presenting a countenance flushed with suddenrelief and pleasure to John's remorseful eye. "Oh, there you are!" shesaid; "I am so glad. I thought you could not be coming. You might havebeen here a quarter of an hour ago by the short road. "

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

"It's always quiet here, " she said, reading his face with her eyes afterthe manner of women, and wondering what the harassed look meant that wasso unusual in John's cheerful face. She jumped at the idea that he wastired, that his bag was heavy, that he had been beaten about by the windtill 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 hisother hand. 

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

"Nonsense. I am tired, buffeting about with this wind. " Here thegardener 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 sortof weapon of offence. After it was gone there was nothing for it but towalk quietly to the house through the flowers with that girl hanging onhis arm, begging a hundred pardons with her eyes. The folly of it! asif she had not a right to do as she pleased, or he would try to preventher; but finally, the soft, silent apology of that clinging, and thelook 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 instantupleaping of pleasure and confidence in her changeable face, which (Johntried to say to himself) was not really pretty at all, only so full ofexpression, changing with every breath of feeling. The eyes, which hadonly been brown a moment before, leaped up into globes of light, yetnot too dazzling, with some liquid medium to soften their shining. Eventhough you know that a girl is in love with another man, that she thinksof you no more than of the old gardener who has just hobbled round thecorner, it is pleasant to be able to change the whole aspect of affairsto her and make her light up like that, solely by a little unwillingsoftening 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 thatfellow will object. "

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

"Oh, John, John, I have so much to say to you! He will object tonothing. He knows very well you are like my brother--almost more than mybrother--for you could help it, John. You almost chose me for yourfriend, which a brother would not. He says, 'Get him to be our friendand all will be well!'"

_He_ had not said this, but Elinor had said it to him, and he hadassented, 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 whichhad almost made him throw off Elinor's arm, and fling away from her inindignation. Her brother----!! But there was no use making any row, hesaid to himself. If anything were to be done for her he must put up withall that. There had suddenly come upon John, he knew not how, as hescanned her anxious face, a conviction that the man was a scamp, fromwhom at all hazards she should be free. 

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

"That's a very good quality, " said John, reluctantly, "if it doesn'tmean confounding good with bad, and thinking nothing matters. "

Elinor gave him a grieved, reproachful look, and loosened the claspingof 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 blowhis trumpet, the only thing left for me to do is to insinuate somethingagainst him? I don't know the man from Adam. He may be an angel, foranything I can say. "

"No; I do not pretend he is that, " said Elinor, with impartiality. "Hehas his faults, like others, but they are _nice_ faults. He doesn't knowhow to take care of his money (but he hasn't got very much, which makesit 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 thatopinion in the very least. "

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

"And he doesn't know how to curry favour with people who can help himon; so that though he has been for years promised something, it neverturns up. Oh, I know his faults very well indeed, " said Elinor; "but awoman can do so much to make up for faults like that. We're naturallysaving, you know, and we always keep those unnecessary friends that weremade before our time at a distance; and it's part of our nature to coaxa patron--that is what Mariamne says. "

"Mariamne?" said John. 

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

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

Elinor's hands dropped from his arm. She drew herself up until sheseemed 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 rosyred of love and happiness, covering her face. 

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

Elinor said not a word. She turned from him with a look of patheticreproach but with the air of a queen, and walked into the house, hefollowing in a ferment of wrath and trouble, yet humbled and miserablemore than words could say. Oh, the flowery, peaceful house! jasmine androse overleaping each other upon the porch, honeysuckle scenting theair, all manner of feminine contrivances to continue the greenness andthe sweetness into the little bright hall, into the open drawing-room, where flowers stood on every table amid the hundred pretty trifles of awoman's house. There was no one in this room where she led him, and thenturned round confronting him, taller than he had ever seen her before, pale, with her nostrils dilating and her lips trembling. "I neverthought it possible that you of all people in the world, you, John--mystand-by since ever I was a baby--my---- Oh! what a horrid thing it isto be a woman, " cried Elinor, stamping her foot, "to be ready to cry foreverything!--you, John! that I always put my trust in--that you shouldturn against me--and at the very first word!"

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

"And what is _me_?" she said, with that sudden turning of the tables andhigh scorn of her previous argument which is common with women; "do Icare what you do to _me_? Oh, nothing, nothing! I am of no account, youcan trample me down under your feet if you like. But what I will notbear, " she said, clenching her hands, "is injustice to him: that I willnot 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 anyone in the world. "

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

"Oh, no, no, " she cried, flying to him, seizing once more his arm withher 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 mylife!"

And then the poor girl broke out into passionate weeping with her headupon his shoulder, as she might have leant upon the handy trunk of atree, or on the nearest door or window, as John Tatham said in hisheart. He soothed her as best he could, and put her in a chair and stoodwith his hand upon the back of it, looking down upon her as the fit ofcrying wore itself out. Poor little girl! he had seen her cry oftenenough 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 thetears out of her eyes on such occasions, oh! often and often: there wasthat time when he rushed out of the bushes unexpectedly and frightenedher 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 forboy's play, when she fell upon her little nose and cut it and disfiguredherself, and held up that wounded little knob of a feature to have itkissed and made well. Oh, why did he think of that now! the little thingall trust and simple confidence! There was that time too when she jumpedup to get a gun and shoot the tramps who had hurt somebody, if Johnwould but give her his hand! These things came rushing into his mind ashe 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 greaterdangers. Oh, poor little Nelly! poor little thing! but he could not puther on his shoulder and carry her out to face the foe now. 

She jumped up suddenly while he was thinking, with the tears still wetupon her cheeks, but the paroxysm mastered, and the light of her eyescoming 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 youcall it! We can't help crying like fools! We can't help caring for whatother people think, trying to conciliate and bring them round to approveus--when we ought to stand by our own conscience and judgment, and senseof what is right, like independent beings. "

"If that means taking your own way, Elinor, whatever any one may say toyou, 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 notunderstand any better than that, why should I---- But you do understandbetter, John, " she said, her countenance again softening: "you know Iwant, above everything in the world, that you should approve of me andsee 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 yousaw with me that it was the best, the only thing to do! Happiness liesin that, not in having one's own way. "

"My dear Elinor, " he said, "isn't that asking a great deal? To preventyou from doing what you think right is in nobody's power. You are ofage, and I am sure my aunt will force nothing; but how can we change ouropinions, our convictions, our entire points of view? There is nobody inthe 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. Shelooked at him, her efforts to gain him at an end, on the equal footingof an independent individual agreeing to differ, and as strong in herown view as he could be. 

"There is one thing you can do for me, " she said. "Mamma knows nothingabout--fashionable gossip. She is not acquainted with the wicked thingsthat are said. If she disapproves it is only because---- Oh, I supposebecause one's mother always disapproves a thing that is done withouther, that she has no hand in, what she calls pledging one's self to astranger, and not knowing his antecedents, his circumstances, and soforth! 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 welove one another the more there is against him the more need he has ofme! But all I have to ask of you, John, is not to prejudice my mother. Iknow you can do it if you please--a hint would be enough, an uncertainword, even hesitating when you answer a question--that would be quiteenough! 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 thinkone thing when I think quite another. Not to say that my duty is toinform her exactly what things are said, so that she may judge forherself, 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, forthe sake of all the time that you have been so good to Nelly--your ownlittle Nelly, nobody else's! Remember that I and everybody who loveshim know these stories to be lies--and don't, don't put things into mymother'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 isno 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 looksor the agitation that scarcely could have been hidden but for the dusk. "You seem to have been having a very animated conversation. I heard yourvoices all along the garden walk. Let me have the benefit of it, ifthere 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 nothingso interesting as that sort of thing. I thought, however, you wouldprobably have put it off a little, Elinor. "

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

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

"Yes, I like it more than anything, " said John, "but the evening is notso 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 ourview for nothing; but the sky is quite clear in the west, and all theclouds blowing away. I don't think we shall have more than a shower. "

Elinor stood listening to this talk with restrained impatience, as ifwaiting for the moment when they should come to something worth talkingabout. Then she gave herself a sort of shake--half weary, halfindignant--and left the room. There was a moment's silence, until herquick 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. "Iscarcely thought she would have begun to you about it at once; but thenI am doing the very same. We can't think of anything else. I am notgoing to worry you before dinner, for you must be tired with your walk, and want to refresh yourself before we enter upon that weary, wearybusiness. But my heart misgives me dreadfully about it all. If I onlyhad gone with her! It was not for want of an invitation, but just mylaziness. 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 andhis 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 andagain. 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; butin the evening, or to-morrow, when we can get a quiet moment----"

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

CHAPTER III. 

The drawing-room of the cottage was large and low, and had that _fauxair_ of being old-fashioned which is dear to the hearts of superiorpeople generally. Mrs. Dennistoun and her daughter scarcely belonged tothat class, yet they were, as ladies of leisure with a little taste forthe 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 cabinetswhich were "the fashion:" and partly because that was also "the fashion, "and partly because on Windyhill even a July evening was sometimes alittle chill, or looked so by reason of the great darkness of thesilent, little-inhabited country outside--there was a log burning on thefire-dogs (the newest thing in furnishing in those days though now socommon) on the hearth. The log burned as little as possible, being, perhaps, not quite so thoroughly dry and serviceable as it would havebeen in its proper period, and made a faint hissing sound in the silenceas it burned, and diffused its pungent odour through the house. The bowwindow was open behind its white curtains, and it was there that thelittle party gathered out of reach of the unnecessary heat and thesmoke. There was a low sofa on either side of this recess, and in thecentre the French window opened into the garden, where all the scentswere balmy in the stillness which had fallen upon the night. 

Mrs. Dennistoun was tall and slim, a woman with a presence, and sat witha sort of dignity on her side of the window, with a little table besideher covered with her little requirements, the properties, so to speak, without which she was never known to be--a book for moments when therewas nothing else to interest her, a case for work should there ariseany necessity for putting in a stitch in time, a bottle of salts shouldshe or any one else become suddenly faint, a paper cutter in cases ofemergency, and finally, for mere ornament, two roses, a red and a white, in one of those tall old-fashioned glasses which are so pretty forflowers. I do wrong to dismiss the roses with such vulgar qualificationsas white and red--the one was a _Souvenir de Malmaison_, the other a_General_ ---- something or other. If you spoke to Mrs. Dennistounabout her flowers she said, "Oh, the Malmaison, " or "Oh, the GeneralSo-and-so. " Rose was only the family name, but happily, as we all know, under the other appellation they smelt just as sweet. Mrs. Dennistounkept 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 alsoa cushion, which was necessary, if not for comfort, yet for her sense ofbeing fully equipped, placed behind her back when she sat down. But withall this she was not a formal or prim person. She was a woman who hadnot produced a great deal of effect in life; one of those who are notaccustomed to have their advice taken, or to find that their opinion hasmuch weight upon others. Perhaps it was because Elinor resembled herfather that this peculiarity which had affected all Mrs. Dennistoun'smarried life should have continued into a sphere where she ought to havebeen paramount. But she was with her daughter as she had been with herhusband, a person of an ineffective character, taking refuge from thesensation of being unable to influence those about her whose wills werestronger than her own, by relinquishing authority, and in her mostdecided moments offering an opinion only, no more. This was not becauseshe was really undecided, for on the contrary she knew her own mind wellenough; but it had become a matter of habit with her to insist upon noopinion, knowing, as she did, how little chance she had of imposing heropinion upon the stronger wills about her. She had two other childrenolder than Elinor: one, the eldest of all, married in India, a womanwith many children of her own, practically altogether severed fromthe maternal nest; the other an adventurous son, who was generallyunderstood to be at the ends of the earth, but seldom or never had anymore definite address. This lady had naturally gone through many pangsand anxieties on behalf of these children, who had dropped away from herside into the unknown; but it belonged to her character to have saidvery little about this, so that she was generally supposed to takethings very easily, and other mothers were apt to admire the composureof Mrs. Dennistoun, whose son might be being murdered by savages at anymoment, for anything she knew--or minded, apparently. "Now it would havedriven _me_ out of my senses!" the other ladies said. Mrs. Dennistounperhaps did not feel the back so well fitted to the burden asappeared--but she kept her own sentiments on this subject entirely toherself. 

(I may say too--but this, the young reader may skip withoutdisadvantage--by way of explanation of a peculiarity which has latelybeen much remarked as characteristic of those records of human historycontemptuously called fiction, _i. E. _, the unimportance, or ill-report, or unjust disapproval of the mother in records of this description--thatit is almost impossible to maintain her due rank and character in apiece of history, which has to be kept within certain limits--and whereher daughter the heroine must have the first place. To lessen _her_pre-eminence by dwelling at length upon the mother, unless that motheris a fool, or a termagant, or something thoroughly contrasting with thebeauty and virtues of the daughter--would in most cases be a mistake inart. For one thing the necessary incidents are wanting, for I stronglyobject, and so I think do most people, to mothers who fall in love, orthink of marriage, or any such vanity in their own person, and unlessshe is to interfere mischievously with the young lady's prospects, ortake more or less the part of the villain, how is she to be permittedany importance at all? For there cannot be two suns in one sphere, ortwo centres to one world. Thus the mother has to be sacrificed to thedaughter: which is a parable; or else it is the other way, which isagainst all the principles and prepossessions of life. )

Elinor did not sit up like her mother. She had flung herself upon theopposite sofa, with her arms flung behind her head, supporting it withher fingers half buried in the twists of her hair. She was not talllike Mrs. Dennistoun, and there was far more vivid colour than had everbeen the mother's in her brown eyes and bright complexion, which wasmilk-white and rose-red after an old-fashioned rule of colour, too crudeperhaps for modern artistic taste. Sometimes these delightful tints gowith a placid soul which never varies, but in Elinor's case there was ademon in the hazel of the eyes, not dark enough for placidity, all fireat the best of times, and ready in a moment to burst into flame. Sheit was who had to be in the forefront of the interest, and not hermother, though for metaphysical, or what I suppose should now becalled psychological interests, the elder lady was probably the mostinteresting of the two. Elinor beat her foot upon the carpet, out ofsheer impatience, while John lingered alone in the dining-room. What didhe stay there for? When there are several men together, and they drinkwine, the thing is comprehensible; but one man alone who takes hisclaret with his dinner, and cares for nothing more, why should he staybehind when there was so much to say to him, and not one minute toomuch time till Monday morning, should the house be given up to talk notonly by day but by night? But it was no use beating one's foot, for Johndid 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 butthat? I sent for him on purpose, you know, mamma, to hear what he wouldsay. "

"And what did he say?"

This most natural question produced a small convulsion once more onElinor's side. She loosed the hands that had been supporting her headand flung them out in front of her. "Oh, mamma, how can you be soexasperating! What did he say? What was he likely to say? If the beggarmaid that married King Cophetua had a family it would have been exactlythe same thing--though in that case surely the advantage was all on thegentleman'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 maidwas a princess of an old dynasty and King Cophetua a _parvenu_. But inyour 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 ofmy 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 knowyou think I don't know my own mind; but there will never be any changein me. Oh, what does John mean, sitting all by himself in that stuffyroom? He has had time to smoke a hundred cigarettes!"

"Elinor, you must not forget it is rather hard upon John to be broughtdown 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? Youmust be reasonable, my dear. "

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

"My dear, when you argue I am lost. I am not clever at making out myground. Mine is not mere blind opposition, or indeed opposition at all. You have been always trained to use your own faculties, and I have nevermade any stand against you. "

"Why not? why not?" said the girl, springing to her feet. "That is justthe dreadful, dreadful part of it! Why don't you say straight out whatI am to do and keep to it, and not tell me I must make use of my ownfaculties? 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 neverhappen. You will never take that responsibility. For my part, if youlocked 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 Iwould, saying I am to exercise my own faculties, and then hesitating andfinding fault. "

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And that is just what I hate to hear, " said Elinor, "what I have alwaysheard. Oh, yes, when you don't say it you mean it, mamma. One can readit in the turn of your head. You put up with things. You think perhapsthey might have been worse. In every way that's your philosophy. Andit'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 theleast hate him. I am glad I was not called upon to marry him myself, Idon't think I should have liked it. But he makes Adelaide a very goodhusband, 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 beenmarried 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 ofthe dining-room open--into a smile. 

"I try you in every way, " she said, half laughing. "I do everything tobeguile you into a pleasanter speech. I thought you must at least havesaid 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 thecigarette over which he had lingered so. It relieved him to see thetwo ladies seated opposite each other in the bow window, and to hearsomething like a laugh in the air. Perhaps they were discussing otherthings, and not this momentous marriage question, in which certainly nolaughter 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 ofsight of it--one of the prejudices of English life. "

And then he came forward into the recess of the window, which was partlyseparated from the room by a table with flowers on it, and a great bushin a pot, of delicate maiden-hair fern. It was perhaps significant, though he did not mean it for any demonstration of partisanship, thathe 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 realagreement was with the mother; but in such a conjuncture it is not truthbut personal sympathy that carries the day. "You are almost in the darkhere, " 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 voicewhich faltered a little. "You talk about summer nights, and the weather, and all manner of indifferent things, but you know all the time thereis but one real subject to talk of, and that we are all thinking ofthat. "

"That is my line, aunt, " said John. "Elinor is right. We might sitand make conversation, but of course this is the only subject we arethinking of. It's very kind of you to take me into the consultation. Ofcourse I am in a kind of way the nearest in relation, and the only manin the family--except my father--and I know a little about law, and allthat. Now let me hear formally, as if I knew nothing about it (and, infact, I know very little), what the question is. Elinor has met someonewho--who has proposed to her--not to put too fine a point upon it, " saidJohn, 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 oldwoman, who doesn't know him either, has written to her--to her and alsoto me--telling us a pack of lies, " said Elinor, indignantly, "to which Ido 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 forus, Elinor--that is, for your mother and me, as you are good enough toallow me to have a say in the matter--it's not so simple. We feel, youknow, that, like Cæsar's wife, our Elinor's--husband"--he could not helpmaking a grimace as he said that word, but no one saw or suspectedit--"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 beas 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 tomarry Elinor! For a moment he was silenced by the thought, as if someone had given him a blow. )

"To clear himself!" said Elinor. "And do you think I will permit him tobe asked to clear himself? Do you think I will allow him to believe fora moment that _I_ believed anything against him? Do you think I willtake 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, inMr. Compton's case--and I don't know what has been said. "

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

"Oh, if you could only hear yourself, mamma! You are not generally aPhilistine, I must say that for you; but if you only heard the tonein which you said 'comfortable establishment!' the most conventionalmatch-making in existence could not have done it better; and as forwhat has been said, there has nothing been said but what is said abouteverybody--what, probably, would be said of you yourself, John, for youplay 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, ifyou 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, " saidJohn. "I am too closely interested to be judicial. Let somebody whoknows nothing about it be your judge. Let the accusations be submitted--toyour Rector, say; he's a sensible man enough, and knows the world. Hewon't be scared by a rubber at the club, or that sort of thing. Let himinquire, and then your mind will be at rest. "

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

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

"And that proves, if there was nothing else, " said Elinor, "how falseit is: for how could Mrs. Hudson and Mary Dale know? They are notfashionable people, they are not in society. How could they or any onelike 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, unacquaintedwith evidence. Why should not you do it, though you are, as you kindlysay, an interested party?"

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

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

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

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

"I know the truth already, " said Elinor, rising with great dignity. "Doyou think that any slander would for a moment shake my faith in you--oryou? You don't deserve it, John, for you turn against me--you that Ithought were going to take my part; but do you think if all the peoplein London set up one story that I would believe it against you? And howshould I against _him_?" she added, with an emphasis upon the word, asexpressing something immeasurably more to be loved and trusted thaneither mother or cousin, by which, after having raised John up to a sortof heaven of gratified affection, she let him down again to the groundlike a stone. Oh, yes! trusted in with perfect faith, nothing believedagainst him, whom she had known all her life--but yet not to be mentionedin the same breath with the ineffable trust she reposed in the man sheloved--whom she did not know at all. The first made John's countenancebeam with emotion and pleasure, the second brought a cold shade over hisface. For a moment he could scarcely speak. 

"She bribes us, " he said at last, forcing a smile. "She flatters us, butonly 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 inhis voice which made them both look at him--Elinor only for a moment, carelessly, before she swept away--Mrs. Dennistoun with a more warmlyawakened 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 shefelt, the honours of war. They might plot, indeed, behind her back, andtry to invent some tribunal before which her future husband might bearraigned; 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, thoughshe could scarcely have told how, that it would be a point of honourwith him not to betray her love. 

He sat with Mrs. Dennistoun in partial silence for some time afterthis. He felt as if he had been partially discovered--partially, and yetmore would be discovered than there was to discover; for if either ofthem believed that he was in love with Elinor, they were mistaken, hesaid to himself. He had been annoyed by her engagement, but he had nevercome to the point of asking her that question in his own person. No, norwould not, he said to himself--certainly would not--not even to save herfrom the clutches of this gambler and adventurer. No; they might thinkwhat they liked, but this was the case. He never should have doneit--never would have exposed himself to refusal--never besought thishigh-tempered girl to have the control of his life. Poor Nelly all thesame! poor little thing! To think she had so little judgment as toignore what might have been a great deal better, and to pin her faith tothe dis-Honourable Phil. 

CHAPTER IV. 

In the morning John accompanied Elinor to church. Mrs. Dennistoun hadfound an excuse for not going, which I am sorry to say was a way shehad. She expressed (and felt) much sorrow for it herself, saying, whichwas quite true, that not to go was a great distress to her, and put thehousehold out, and was a custom she did not approve of. But somehowit had grown upon her. She regretted this, but did it, saying thateverybody was illogical, and that when Elinor had some one to go withshe thought herself justified at her age in this little indulgence. Neither Elinor nor John objected to the arrangement. There are thingsthat can be said in a walk while both parties are in motion, and when itis not necessary to face each other and to be subjected each to theother's examination of feature and expression. It is easier in this wayto say many things, to ask questions which might be embarrassing, toreceive the fire of an examination which it might be otherwise difficultto 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 oldplace--but not the trim and restored and well-decorated edifice it isnowadays--tinkling its little bells into the sweet moorland air, amidsuch a hum of innumerable bees as seemed to make the very sunshine avehicle for sound--before John began to perceive that he was beingingeniously driven to revelations which he had never intended, by aprocess for which he was not at all prepared. She who had been soindignant last night and determined not to allow a word to be saidagainst the immaculate honour of the man she loved, was now--was itpossible?--straining all her faculties to obtain from him, whom shewould not permit to be Phil Compton's judge, such unguarded admissionsas would enlighten her as to what Phil Compton was accused of. It wassome time before John perceived her aim; he did not even grasp the ideaat first that this girl whose whole heart was set upon marrying PhilCompton, and defying for his sake every prophecy of evil and all theteachings of prudence, did not indeed at all know what it was which Philhad been supposed to have done. Had she been a girl in society she couldscarcely have avoided some glimmerings of knowledge. She would haveheard an unguarded word here and there, a broken phrase, an expressionof scorn or dislike, she might even have heard that most unforgettableof nicknames, the dis-Honourable Phil. But Elinor, who was not insociety, heard none of these things. She had been warned in the firstfervour of her betrothal that he was not a man she ought to marry, butwhy? 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 ina year. "

"It will matter if you are to be in a kind of way connected. What hasshe 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 withthem. "

"Ah, I daresay; it's pretty to see a tiger with her cubs, I don'tdoubt. "

"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. Howdreadful you good people are! Pretending to mean kindness, " she cried, "you put the mark of your dislike upon people, and then you won't saywhy. What have _they_ done?"

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

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

"I know that well enough--generally because she does not comply withevery conventional rule, but does and thinks what commends itself toher; 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: sheto be compared--but Elinor met his eyes with scornful composure anddefiance, 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 nearrelation. No one will judge you by her. " He would not be led into anydiscussion of the other, whose name, alas! Elinor intended to bear. 

"If it comes to that. Perhaps you think, " said Elinor, with a smile offine 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 powersin that way: nothing that I can do will affect it, if Providence doesn'ttake 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, "itcertainly 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 shadyman!"

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 shadylot--excuse a man's way of talking. I don't know what other words touse--partly from misfortune, but more from---- Nelly, Nelly, how couldyou, a high-minded, well-brought-up girl like you, tolerate that?"

She turned upon him again, breathing hard with restrained rage anddesperation; evidently she was at a loss for words to convey herindignant wrath: and at last in sheer inability to express the vehemenceof 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 girlcould not be better brought up than you've been: and you could not putup 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 thesloping sides of the combe, through the rustling copse, sometimes wherethere was a path, sometimes where there was none, treading over thebig bushes of ling and the bell-heather, all bursting into bloom, pastgroups of primeval firs and seedling beeches, self-sown, over littlehillocks and hollows formed of rocks or big old roots of trees coveredwith the close glittering green foliage and dark blue clusters of thedewberry, with the hum of bees filling the air, the twittering of thebirds, the sound of the church bells--nothing more like the heart ofsummer, more peaceful, genial, happy than that brooding calm of natureamid all the harmonious sounds, could be. 

But as Elinor put this impatient question, her countenance all ablazewith anger and vehemence and resolution, yet with a gleam of anxiety inthe puckers of her forehead and the eyes which shone from beneath them, they stepped out upon the road by which other groups were passing, allbound towards the centre of the church and its tinkling bells. Elinorstopped, and drew a longer panting breath, and gave him a look offierce reproach, as if this too were his fault: and then she smoothedher ruffled plumes, after the manner of women, and replied to theSunday-morning salutations, with the smiles and nods of use and wont. She knew everybody, both the rich and the poor, or rather I should saythe well-off and the less-well-off, for there were neither rich norpoor, formally speaking, on Windyhill. John did not find it so easy toput his emotions in his pocket. He cast an admiring glance upon her aswith heightened colour and a little panting of the breath, but no othersign of disturbance, she made her inquiries after this one's mother andthat one's child. It was wonderful to him to see how the storm was gotunder in a moment. An occasional glance aside at himself from the cornerof her eye, a sort of dart of defiance as if to bid him remember thatshe was not done with him, was shot at John from time to time over theheads of the innocent country people in whom she pretended to be so muchinterested. Pretended!--was it pretence, or was the one as real as theother? He heard her promising to come to-morrow to see an invalid, tosend 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 whichengaged all her soul?

And then there came the service--that soothing routine of familiarprayers, which the lips of men and women absorbed in the violence andurgency of life murmur over almost without knowing, with now and then anawakening to something that touches their own aspirations, to somethingthat offers or that asks for help. "Because there is none other thatfighteth for us but only Thou, O God. " That seems to the careless soulsuch a _non sequitur_, as if peace was asked for, only because therewas none other to fight; but to the man heavily laden, what a cry outof the depths! Because there is none other--all resources gone, allpossibilities: but one that fighteth for us, standing fast, always thechampion of the perplexed, the overborne, the weak. John was a littlecareless in this respect, as so many young men are. He thought most ofthe 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 ofthe bees outside, and the birds and the sighing bass of the fir-treesthan of anything more carefully concerted. The organ was played with acurious drone in it, almost like that of the primitive bagpipe. Butthere was that one phrase, a strong strain of human appeal, enough tolift 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. Whatshould he have preached it for, that little sermon, which was onlycomposed because he could not help himself, which was about nothing inheaven or earth? John gave it a sort of partial attention because hecould not help it, partly in wonder to think how a sensible man like Mr. Hudson could account to himself for such strange little interruption ofthe natural sequence of high human emotion. What theory had he in hismind? This was a question John was fond of putting to himself, withperhaps an idea peculiar to a lawyer, that every man must be thinkingwhat he is about, and be able to produce a clear reason, and, as itwere, some theory of the meaning of his own actions--which everybodymust know is nonsense. For the Rector of course preached just because itwas in his day's work, and the people would have been much surprised, though possibly much relieved, had he not done so--feeling that tolisten was in the day's work too, and to be gone through doggedly as aduty. John thought how much better it would be to have some man whocould preach now and then when he had something to say, instead oftroubling the Rector, who, good man, had nothing. But it is not to besupposed that he was thinking this consecutively while the morningwent on. It flitted through his mind from time to time among his manythinkings about the Compton family and Elinor; poor Nelly, standing uponthe edge of that precipice and the helplessness of every one to saveher, and the great refrain like the peal of an organ going througheverything, "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 withthat same look of eager defiance yet demand, and as soon as they leftthe road, the first step into the copse, putting out her hand tocall his attention: "You said I could not put up with it, a girl sowell-brought-up as I am. What is it a well-brought-up girl can't putup with? A disorderly house, late hours, and so forth, hateful to thewell-brought-up? What is it, what is it, John?"

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

"Yes, I have been thinking about it. What did you expect me to thinkabout? 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 doingit; and there were other things----" John did not like to say what itwas which was still throbbing through the air to him, and through hisown being. 

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

"You think that's a poor sort of description, Elinor; so it is. You areof course a great deal more than that. Still it's what one can turn tomost easily. You don't know what life is in a sort of fast house, wherethere is nothing thought of but amusement or where it's a constant roundof race meetings, yachting, steeplechases--I don't know if men stillride 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'tknow--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 adifferent way not to their prejudice, if put in the right way wouldsound delightful? There is no harm in these things at all. Betting's nota sin in the Bible any more than races are. Don't you see it's only theabuse of them that's wrong? One might ruin one's health, I believe, withtea, which is the most righteous thing! I should like above all things ayacht, say in the Mediterranean, and to go to Monte Carlo, which is abeautiful place, and where there is the best music in the world, besidesthe 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 afortnight 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, Isuppose. "

"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 facewas suffused with rosy colour, so different from the angry red, theflush of love and tenderness--her eyes swam in liquid light, looking upwith 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 withmy 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 almostoffered to come for six months in the year to be with mamma. "

"Good heavens, " cried John to himself, "he must indeed be down on hisluck!" 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 hadto 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 ifI told you that he disapproves too? He said himself that there had beentoo much of all that--that he had backed something--isn't that what yousay?--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 thatwere made--never any more. Now that I know you have nothing more to saymy heart is free, and I can tell you. He has never really liked thatsort of life, but was led into it when he was very young. And now assoon as--we are together, you know"--she looked so bright, so sweet inthe 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 turnentirely 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 havetheir wants attended to, instead of jobs and corruption everywhere. Soyou will see, John, that if he has been fast, and gone a little toofar, and been very much mixed up in the Turf, and all that, it was onlyin the exuberance of youth, liking the fun of it, as I feel I shouldmyself. But that now, now all that is to be changed when he steps intosettled, responsible life. I should not have told you if you hadrepeated the lies that people say. But as you did not, but only foundfault 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 herhands was no longer agreeable to him, and his face seemed suddenly tohave become a blank page, absolutely devoid of all expression. He kickedvigorously at one of the hillocks he had stumbled against, as if hethought 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 soglad, 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 aslanderer of any one, and we can go on being fond of each other likebrother and sister. I have told him you have been the best of brothersto me. "

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

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

"Not Nelly, " said poor John, with a foolish pang that seemed to rend hisheart. Oh, if that scamp, that cheat, that low betting, card-playingrascal were but here! he would capital-fellow him. To take not herselfonly, 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. Iwould 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 herJew--horrible, isn't it?--because she was called after some Jewess; butsomehow it seems queer when you see her, so fair and frizzy, likeanything but a Jew. "

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

"Well they are, you know, " said Elinor, with a laugh, "to a littlecountry mouse like me that has never seen anything. There is alwayssomething going on, and their slang way of speaking is certainly veryamusing if it is not at all dignified, and they have such droll ways oflooking at things. All so entirely different! Don't you know, John, sometimes in one's life one longs for something to be quite different. Acomplete 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 meanto throw it over, oh, no! Coming back to mamma makes the arrangementperfect. Probably in the end it is the old life, the life I was broughtup in that I shall like best in the long run. That is one thing of beingwell brought up. Phil will laugh till he cries when I tell him of yourdescription 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, andswearing under his breath. Her flutter of talk running on, delighted, full of laughter and softness, as if he had fully declared hissatisfaction and was interested in every detail, kept John in a stateof suppressed fury which made his countenance dark, and almost took thesight from his eyes. He did not know how to escape from that falseposition, nor did she give him time, she had so much to say. Mrs. Dennistoun looked anxiously at the pair as they came up through thecopse to the level of the cottage. There were no enclosures in thatprimitive place. From the copse you came straight into the garden withits banks of flowers. She was seated near the cottage door in a cornersheltered from the sun, with a number of books about her. But I don'tthink she had read anything except some portions of the lessons in themorning service. She had been sitting with her eyes vaguely fixed uponthe horizon and her hands clasped in her lap, and a heavy shadow like anoverhanging cloud upon her mind. But when she heard Elinor's voiceapproaching so gay and tuneful her heart rose a little. John evidentlycould have had nothing very bad to say. Elinor had been satisfiedwith the morning. Mrs. Dennistoun had expected to see them come backestranged and silent. The conclusion she drew was entirely satisfactory. After all John must have been moved solely by general disapproval, whichis so very different from the dreadful hints and warnings that mightmean any criminality. Elinor was talking to him as freely as she haddone before this spectre rose. It must, Mrs. Dennistoun concluded, beall right. 

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

"You seemed to get on all right together yesterday, John, so I supposeyou 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 theworld by which you can stop it, do so. I can't bring accusations againstthe man, for I couldn't prove them. I only know what everybody knows. Heis not a man fit for Elinor to marry. He is not fit to touch the tie ofher shoe. "

"Oh, don't trouble me with your superlatives, John. Elinor is a goodgirl and a clever girl, but not a lady of romance. Is there anythingreally against him? Tell me, for goodness' sake! Even with these fewwords you have made me very unhappy, " Mrs. Dennistoun said, in a halfresentful 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 isa 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 haveheard. 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 forthe signing of the very simple settlements; which, as there was nothingor 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 ofbusiness, " and a sharp London solicitor, who was for the husband. Elinor's fortune was five thousand pounds, no more, not counting herexpectations from him, which were left out of the question. It was avery small matter altogether, and one which the smart solicitor who wasin Mr. Compton's interest spoke of with a certain contempt, as whoshould say he was not in the habit of being disturbed and brought to thecountry for any such trifle. It was now August--not a time when any manwas supposed to be available for matters like these. Mr. Lynch was justabout starting for his annual holiday, but came, at no small personalinconvenience, to do his duty by the poor girl whom he had known all hislife. John and he travelled to the cottage together, and their aspectwas not cheerful. "Did you ever hear, " said Mr. Lynch, "such a piece offolly as this--a man with no character at all? This is what it is toleave a girl in the sole care of her mother. What does a woman knowabout such things?"

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

"A bit of a girl!" said Mr. Lynch, contemptuously. He was an old bachelorand knew nothing about the subject, as the reader will perceive. "Hermother ought never to have permitted it for a moment. She should haveput 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 bitof money like that. Five thousand's a mere mouthful to such a man as heis. 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. Hehas got some investment for it, it appears. He is on the board of somecompany--a pretty board to take in such a fellow? But the Honourable isalways something, I suppose. "

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

"No, no; we will not permit it, " said Mr. Lynch, with an emphasis on thenegative 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 theslightest power over her money. It must be tied up as tight as the lawcan do it; not that I think it of the least consequence, " he added. "Ofcourse, he will get it all from her one way or another. Law's but a poorbarrier against a determined man. "

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

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

"That's very true, " said the old lawyer; "and still I think hermother--but I don't put any great confidence in my own power to resistElinor. 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 arelation, Mr. Tatham?"

"Third or fourth cousin. "

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

"I said everything I could say, not to offend them mortally; but I couldonly tell them the common talk of society. I told my aunt he was ascamp: but after the first shock I am not sure that she thought that wasany 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 rakemakes the best husband. It's an old-fashioned sentiment, but it's in thebackground of their minds, a sort of tradition that they can't shakeoff--or else the poor fellow has had so many disadvantages, and theythink they can make it all right. It's partly ignorance and partlyvanity. But they are all the same, and their ways in the matter ofmarriage 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 hasa 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 itbeyond anything but a miser. I have myself remarked----"

"In small matters, " said Mr. Lynch, "in detail--sixpences to railwayporters and that sort of thing--so people say at least. But a sum ofmoney on paper has no effect on a woman, she will sign it away with awave of her hand. It doesn't touch their imagination. Five pounds in herpocket is far more than five thousand on paper, to Elinor, for instance. I wish, " cried the old gentleman, with a little spitefulness, "that thisMarried Women's Property Bill would push on and get itself made law. Itwould save us a great deal of trouble, and perhaps convince the world atthe last how little able they are to be trusted with property. A nicemess they will make of it, and plenty of employment for youngsolicitors, " 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. Lynchforesaw. 

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

"Now you will remember what I said, " she cried in his ear, yet not solow 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 aboutbusiness? You must leave it to me and the other gentleman, who I supposeis here, or coming. "

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

"It will not please him so much if the thing bursts, and you are leftwithout a penny, my dear. "

Elinor laughed. "I don't suppose he will mind a bit: he cares nothingfor money. But I do, " she said. "You know you always say women loveacquisition. I want good interest, and of course with Phil on it, itmust be safe for me. "

"Oh, that makes it like the Bank of England, you think! but I don'tshare your confidence, my pretty Elinor. I'm an old fellow. No Phil inthe world has any charm for me. You must trust me to do what I feel isbest for you. And Mr. Tatham here is quite of my opinion. "

"Oh, John! he is sure to be against me, " said Elinor, with an angryglimmer in her eyes. She had not as yet taken any notice of him whileshe welcomed with such warmth his old companion. And John had stood byoffering no greeting, with his bag in his hand. But when she said thisthe 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 meanthat; it is only that I am excited and cross. And don't, oh, don't goagainst 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 tooverwhelm us already. Mr. Sharp, fortunately, can't stay, " she added, lowering her voice; "he has to be driven back to the station to catchthe last express. And it is August, " she said with a laugh; "you forgetthe 15th. Now, could Phil be anywhere but where there is grouse? Youshall have some to dinner to-night that fell by his gun. That shouldmollify you, for I am sure you never got grouse at the cottage beforein 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 beenhere. What is grouse to you?"

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

The old lawyer had gone into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Dennistoun washolding parley with Mr. Sharp. Elinor and John were standing alone inthe half light of the summer evening, the sun down, the depths of thecombe below falling into faint mist, but the sunset-tinted clouds stillfloating like a vapour made of roses upon the clearness of the blueabove. "Come and take a turn through the copse, " said John. "They don'twant either of us indoors. "

She went with a momentary reluctance and a glance back at the bow-windowof the drawing-room, from which the sound of voices issued. "Don't youthink I should be there to keep them up to the mark?" she said, halflaughing. And then, "Well, yes--as you are going to Switzerland too. Ithink you might have stayed and seen me married after all, and madeacquaintance 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 aswell as I do. We have two spare rooms, and no more. "

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

"Oh, John, how persistent you are, and worrying! When I tell you thatPhil is shooting, as everybody of his kind is--do you think I want himto give up all the habits of his life? He is not like us: we adaptourselves: but these people parcel out their time as if they were in atrade, don't you know? So long in London, so long abroad, and in theHighlands for the grouse, and somewhere else for the partridges, or theywould 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"--Elinorstopped abruptly, with perhaps, he thought, a little glimmer ofindignation in her eyes. "I hate women who do that sort of thing, " shecried. "'Give up your cigar--or me, ' as I've heard girls say. Such anunworthy 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 upyour tea--or me!' I should laugh in his face and throw him overboardwithout a pause. "

"You would never look at tea again as long as you lived if he did notlike it; I suppose that is what you mean, Elinor?"

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

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

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

"Oh, many people--people with less determination and more patience thanyou. 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 secondaryplace. "

"I should not like it, I suppose. "

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

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

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

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

He took her hand and drew it through his arm. He was in more moved thanhe 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 wasmine, except in my silly thought. Only this: that if you have the leastdoubt, the smallest flutter of an uncertainty, just enough to make youhold your breath for a moment, oh, my dear girl, stop! Don't go on withit; pause until you can make sure. "

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

"Doubt yourself; that is what I mean. Think if you are not deceivingyourself. 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 Iam a fool carried away by a momentary enthusiasm, with no real love, notrue feeling in me, tempted, perhaps, as Mrs. Hudson thinks, by theHonourable!" Her lip quivered, and the fading colour came back in a rushto her face. "It is hard enough to have a woman like that think it, whoought 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 thatI have been fascinated by a handsome man, which is not consideredderogatory. Oh, John, a girl does not give herself away on an argumentlike that. I may be hasty and self-willed and impatient, as you say; butwhen you--love!" Her face flushed like a rose, so that even in the greyof the evening it shone out like one of the clouds full of sunset thatstill lingered on the sky. A few quick tears followed, the naturalconsequence of her emotion. And then she turned to him with the ineffablecondescension of one farther advanced in life stooping sweetly to hisignorance. "You have not yet come to the moment in your experience whenyou can understand that, dear John. "

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

Elinor looked at him gravely, in an elder-sisterly, profoundly-investigatingway, and then she took his arm quietly and turned towards home. "I shallforget 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 asbefore. "

"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 needor emergency, or whenever you want anything, or if you should be introuble--trouble comes to everybody in this life--you will remember whatyou have said just now, and send for your cousin John?"

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI. 

The drawing-room after dinner always looked cheerful. Perhaps the factthat it was a sort of little oasis in the desert, and that the lightfrom those windows shone into three counties, made the interior morecosy and bright. (There are houses now upon every knoll, and the windcannot blow on Windyhill for the quantity of obstructions it meetswith. ) There was the usual log burning on the hearth, and the party ingeneral kept away from it, for the night was warm. Only Mr. Sharp, theLondon lawyer, was equal to bearing the heat. He stood with his back toit, and his long legs showing against the glow behind, a sharp-nosed, long man in black, who had immediately suggested Mephistopheles toElinor, even though he was on the Compton side. He had taken his coffeeafter dinner, and now he stood over the fire slowly sipping a cup oftea. There was a look of acquisitiveness about him which suggested aninclination to appropriate anything from the unnecessary heat of thefire to the equally unnecessary tea. But Mr. Sharp had been on thewinning side. He had demonstrated the superior sense of making themoney--which was not large enough sum to settle--of real use to theyoung pair by an investment which would increase Mr. Compton'simportance in his company, besides producing very good dividends--muchbetter dividends than would be possible if it were treated in theold-fashioned way by trustees. This was how the bride wished it, whichwas the most telling of arguments: and surely, to insure good interestand an increase of capital to her, through her husband's hands, wasbetter than to secure some beggarly hundred and fifty pounds a year forher portion, though without any risks at all. 

Mr. Sharp had also taken great pains to point out that there were onlythree brothers--one an invalid and the other two soldiers--between Mr. Phil and the title, and that even to be the Honourable Mrs. Compton wassomething 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 hourlygetting an old man, and the chances that his client might step over ahecatomb of dead relations to the height of fortune was a thing quiteworth taking into account. It was a much better argument, however, toreturn to the analogy of other poor young people, where the bride'slittle fortune would be put into the husband's business, and thustheir joint advantage considered. Mr. Sharp, at the same time, did nothesitate to express politely his opinion that to call him down to thecountry for a discussion which could have been carried on much betterin one or other of their respective offices was a most uncalled forproceeding, especially as even now the other side was wavering, andwould not consent to conclude matters, and make the signatures that werenecessary at once. Mr. Lynch, it must be allowed, was of the sameopinion too. 

"Your country is a little bleak at night, " said Mr. Sharp, partiallymollified by a good dinner, but beginning to remember unpleasantly thecold drive in a rattletrap of a little rustic pony carriage over thehills 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 thechills in winter? How brave of you! What patience and powers ofendurance 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 finequalities. "

"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 sometalk of Mr. Compton doing me the honour to share my hermitage for a partof the year. "

"Mr. Compton! my dear lady! Mr. Compton would die of it in a week, " saidMr. 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 willsee everything that is worth seeing. More in a month than she would seehere in a dozen years. Trust Mr. Compton for knowing all that's worthgoing 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 isa most remarkable old gentleman. Your daughter, Mrs. Dennistoun, is avery fortunate young lady. She has my best congratulations, I am sure. "

"Sharp, " said Mr. Lynch from the background, "you had better be thinkingof 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 asthat?" 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 benothing but a bed at the public-house to offer----"

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

"Well, that's a good thing over, " said Mr. Lynch, going to the fire ashe 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 fellowall 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 inher breast in commotion. She had not taken any part in the insidiouskindnesses of speeding the parting guest; and now she remembered that hewas her Phil's representative: whatever she might herself think of theman, how could she join in abuse of one who represented Phil?

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

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

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

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

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

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 gloomthat surrounded her. "I think, " she said, with an angry laugh, "that Ihad better run after Mr. Sharp and bring him back, for he had at least alittle sympathy with me!"

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

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

Elinor turned her head from one to another, growing pale and red byturns. There was a certain surprise in her look, as she found herselfthus at bay. The triumph of having got the better of their oppositionwas lost in the sense of isolation with which the girl, so long thefirst object of everybody about her, felt herself thus placed alone. Andthe tears were very ready to start, but were kept back by jealous pridewhich rose to her help. Well! if they put her outside the circle shewould remain so; if they talked to her as one no longer of them, butbelonging to another life, so be it! Elinor determined that she wouldmake 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 ofthe room where the piano stood, and where there was little light. Shewas too proud to go out of the room, lest they should think she wasgoing to cry. She went with a sudden, quick movement to the pianoinstead, where perhaps she might cry too, but where nobody should see. Poor Elinor! they had made her feel alone by their words, and she madeherself more alone by this little instinctive withdrawal. She began toplay softly one thing after another. She was not a great performer. Herlittle "tunes" were of the simplest--no better indeed than tunes, thingsthat every musician despises: they made a little atmosphere round her, avoluntary hermitage which separated her as if she had been a hundredmiles 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. Totell the truth, " John added. "I don't care tuppence for my holiday. I'dhave come--like a shot: but I don't think I could stand it. She hasalways been such a pet of mine. I don't think I could bear it, to tellthe truth. "

"I shall have to bear it, though she is more than a pet of mine, " saidMrs. 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 arethey 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. Andlater 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 orother. " Mrs. Dennistoun's voice was not untouched by a certain vaguepleasure in these fine names. 

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

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

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

All, at least, except John, who wandered uneasily about the room, nowstudying the names of the books on the bookshelves--which he knew byheart, now pulling the curtain aside to look out at the moonlight, nowpulling at the fronds of the great maidenhair in his distraction tillthe table round was scattered with little broken leaves. He wanted tokeep out of that atmosphere of emotion which surrounded Elinor at thepiano. 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 aperfect severance, was the only true policy he knew; for what was he toher, and what could she be to him? He had already said everything whicha man in his position ought to say. He took out a book at last, and satdown doggedly by the table to read, thus making another circle ofatmosphere, so to speak, another globe of isolated being in the littleroom, while the two elder people talked low in the centre, conventionallyinaudible 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 toread that book. He too heard every word the elders were saying. He heardthem with his own ears, and also he heard them through the ears ofElinor, gauging the effect which every word would have upon her. At lasthe could bear it no longer. He was driven to her side to bear a part ofher burden, even to prevent her from hearing, which would be something. He resisted the impulse to throw down his book, and only placed it veryquietly on the table, and even in a deliberate way, that there might beno appearance of feeling about him--and made his way by degrees, pausingnow 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 wasan accidental way. 

"Elinor, the stars are so bright over the combe, do come out. It is notoften 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 onthe keys and a look towards the others. 

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

"Oh, go away, John. "

"I must say no in my turn. Leave the tunes till to-morrow, and come outwith 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 forthat, "--he said, in a dubious tone. Poor Elinor's tunes were not musicin his sense, as she very well knew. 

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

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

"Ah, " she said, "they say that mocking. They think I am going down; sodo 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 shallsee. "

"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, exceptso far as the tunes are concerned, " she said with a laugh. "I confess sofar as that Lady Mariamne is fond of a comic song. I don't think shegoes 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 anymore. Neither stars, nor walks, nor listening; no more! This rather, "and she brought down her hands with a great crash upon the piano, makingevery one start. Then Elinor rose, having produced her effect. "I thinkit must be time to go to bed, mamma. John is talking of the stars, whichmeans that he wants his cigar, and Mr. Lynch must want just to look atthe tray in the dining-room. And you are tired by all this fuss, allthis unnatural fuss about me, that am not worth---- Come, mother, tobed. "

CHAPTER VII. 

The days in the cottage were full of excitement and of occupation duringthe blazing August weather, not so much indeed as is common in manyhouses in which the expectant bridegroom is always coming and going;though perhaps the place of that exhilarating commotion was more orless filled by the ever-present diversity of opinion, the excitementof a subdued but never-ended conflict in which one was always on thedefensive, and the other covertly or openly attacking, or at leastbelieved to be so doing, the distant and unseen object to which alltheir thoughts turned. Mrs. Dennistoun, indeed, was not always aggressive, her opposition was but in fits and starts. Often her feelings of painand alarm were quiescent in that unfeigned and salutary interest inclothes and necessities of preparation which is almost always a resourceto a woman's mind. It is wrong to undervalue this possibility whichcompensates 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 littleby the discussion of a dinner dress, or made to forget itself for themoment in a question about the cut of a sleeve, or which would be mostbecoming 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 anodynewhich they supplied to her mother. Her mind was always on the alert, looking out for those flying arrows of warfare which your true fighterlets fly in the most innocent conversation at the most unexpectedmoments. Elinor thus flung her shield in her mother's face a hundredtimes when that poor lady was thinking no evil, when she was altogetheroccupied by the question of frills and laces, or whether tucks orflounces were best, and she was startled many times by that unnecessaryrattle of Elinor's arms. "I was not thinking of Mr. Compton, " she wouldsometimes be driven to say; "he was not in my head at all. I wasthinking of nothing more important than that walking dress, and what youhad 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 inspectthese "things" when they were finally ready. It was only the argumentthat these neighbours would be Mrs. Dennistoun's sole resource when shewas left alone that made Elinor assent at last. Perhaps, however, as she walked quickly along towards the moorland Rectory, a certainsatisfaction in showing them how little their hints had been taken, mingled with the reluctance to admit those people who had breathed adoubt 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 ifit was you such a threatening day, " said Alice Hudson, coming to thedoor to meet her. "How nice of you to come, Elinor, when you must be sobusy, 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 brideof a maligned man. "But the time is so near when I shall not be able tocome at all that I thought it was best. Mamma wishes you to come overto-morrow, if you will, to see my things. "

"Oh!" the three ladies said together; and Mrs. Hudson came forward andgave Elinor a kiss. "My dear, " she said, "I take it very kind you comingyourself to ask us. Many would not have done it after what we felt itour duty---- But you always had a beautiful spirit, Elinor, bearing nomalice, 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 anythingless, seeing we have been such friends all our lives as girls, she andI, and I am sure I have always been ready to give her patterns, or toshow her how a thing was done. I should have been very much disappointedif she had not asked me to see her things. "

Mary Dale, who was Mrs. Hudson's sister, said nothing at all, butaccepted the visit as in the course of nature. Mary was the one whoreally knew something about Phil Compton: but she had been against theremonstrance which Mrs. Hudson thought it her duty to make. What was thegood? Miss Dale had said; and she had refrained from telling two orthree stories about the Comptons which would have made the hair standupright on the heads of the Rector and the Rectoress. She did not evennow say that it was kind, but met Elinor in silence, as, in her positionas the not important member of the family, it was quite becoming for herto do. 

Then the Rector came in and took her by both hands, and gave her themost friendly greeting. "I heard Elinor's voice, and I stopped in themiddle of my sermon, " he said. "You will remark in church on Sunday ajerky piece, which shows how I stopped to reflect whether it could beyou--and then went on for another sentence, and then decided that itmust be you. There is a big Elinor written across my sermon paper. " Helaughed, but he was a little moved, to see, after the "coolness, " thelittle 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 ofthe reconciliation was got over, to the great content of all. 

Elinor reflected to herself that they were really kind people, as shewent out again into the grey afternoon where everything was getting upfor rain. She made up her mind she would just have time to run into theHills', at the Hurst, and leave her message, and so get home before thestorm began. The clouds lay low like a dark grey hood over the fir-treesand moorland shaggy tops of the downs all round. There was not a breakanywhere in the consistent grey, and the air, always so brisk, hadfallen still with that ominous lull that comes over everything beforea convulsion of nature. Some birds were still hurrying home into thedepths of the copses with a frightened straightness of flight, as ifthey were afraid they would not get back in time, and all the insectsthat are so gay with their humming and booming had disappeared underleaves and stones and grasses. Elinor saw a bee burrowing deep inthe waxen trumpet of a foxglove, as if taking shelter, as she walkedquickly past. The Hills--there were two middle-aged sisters of them, with an old mother, too old for such diversion as the inspection ofwedding-clothes, in the background--would scarcely let Elinor go outagain after they had accepted her invitation with rapture. "I was justwondering where I should see the new fashions, " said Miss Hill, "forthough we are not going to be married we must begin to think about ourwinter things----" "And this will be such an opportunity, " said MissSusan, "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? Itold you girls, I was sure you would not be left out. Why, I knew hermother before she was married. I have known them all, man and boy, fornearer sixty than fifty years--before her mother was born! To have leftyou out would have been ridiculous. Yes, yes, Elinor, my dear; tell yourmother they will come--delighted! They have been thinking for the lastfortnight what bonnets they would wear----"

"Oh, mother!" and "Oh, Elinor!" said the "girls, " "you must not mindwhat mother says. We know very well that you must have worlds of peopleto ask. Don't think, among all your new connections, of such littlecountry 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_, notreflecting that her mother had begun to be in despair about the numberof people who could be entertained in the cottage dining-room, "and youmust not talk about my new grand connections, for nobody will ever belike my old friends. "

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

Elinor quickened her pace as the storm began and got home breathlesswith running, shaking off the first big drops of thunder-rain from herdress. But she did not think of any danger, and sat out in the porchwatching how the darkness came down on the combe; how it was met withthe jagged gleam of the great white flash, and how the thunderousexplosion shook the earth. The combe, with its hill-tops on either side, became like the scene of a battle, great armies, invisible in the sharptorrents 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 treeand copse, and anon the tremendous artillery. When the lightning cameshe caught a glimpse of the winding line of the white road leading awayout of all this--leading into the world where she was going--and for amoment escaped by it, even amid the roar of all the elements: then cameback, alighting again with a start in the familiar porch, amid all thesurroundings of the familiar life, to feel her mother's hand upon hershoulder, 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 minuteslooking at it, then, with a shudder, withdrew into the drawing-room. "Ithink I have seen too many storms to like it, " she said. But Elinor hadnot seen too many storms. She sat and watched it, now rolling awaytowards the south, and bursting again as though one army or the otherhad got reinforcements; while the flash of the explosions and the roarof the guns, and the white blast of the rain, falling like a sheet fromthe leaden skies, wrapped everything in mystery. The only thing that wasto be identified from time to time was that bit of road leading out ofit--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 greatconflict of nature, whether that one human thing, by which her swiftthoughts traversed the storm, carried any other suggestion as of comingback. 

Perhaps it is betraying feminine counsels too much to the modest publicto narrate how Elinor's things were all laid out for the inspection ofthe ladies of the parish, the dresses in one room, the "under things" inanother, and in the dining-room the presents, which everybody was doublycurious to see, to compare their own offerings with those of otherpeople, or else to note with anxious eye what was wanting, in order, iftheir present had not yet been procured, to supply the gap. How to getsomething that would look well among the others, and yet not be tooexpensive, was a problem which the country neighbours had much andpainfully considered. The Hudsons had given Elinor a little tea-kettleupon a stand, which they were painfully conscious was only plated, andsadly afraid would not look well among all the gorgeous articles withwhich no doubt her grand new connections had loaded her. The Rector camehimself, with his ladies to see how the kettle looked, with a great lineof anxiety between his brows; but when they saw that the revolvingdishes beside it, which were the gift of the wealthy Lady Mariamne, wereplated too, and not nearly such a pretty design, their hearts went up ininstant exhilaration, followed a moment after by such indignation asthey could scarcely restrain. "That rich sister, the woman who marriedthe Jew" (which was their very natural explanation of the lady'snickname), "a woman who is rolling in wealth, and who actually made upthe match!" This was crescendo, a height of scorn impossible to describeupon a mere printed page. "One would have thought she would have givena diamond necklace or something of consequence, " said Mrs. Hudson inher husband's ear. "Or, at least silver, " said the Rector. "Thesefashionable people, though they give themselves every luxury, havesometimes not very much money to spend; but silver, at least, she mighthave been expected to give silver. " "It is simply disgraceful, " said theRector's wife. "I am glad, at all events, my dear, " said he, "that ourlittle thing looks just as well as any. " "It is one of the prettiestthings she has got, " said Mrs. Hudson, with a proud heart. Lord St. Serfsent an old-fashioned little ring in a much worn velvet case, and theelder brother, Lord Lomond, an album for photographs. The Rector'swife indicated these gifts to her husband with little shrugs of hershoulders. "If that's all the family can do!" she said: "why Alice'scushion, which was worked with floss silks upon satin, was a morecreditable present than that. " The Miss Hills, who as yet had not hadan 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 allthat--and only plated!" the Hills said to each other. "Now, that littleteapot of ours, " said Jane to Susan, "if mother would only consent toit, 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 useevery day when she has her visitors for afternoon tea, " said Susan toJane. "It is rather small, " said Miss Hill, doubtfully. "But quiteenough for two people, " said the other, forgetting that she had justdeclared that the teapot would be serviceable when Elinor had visitors. But that was a small matter. Elinor, however, had other things betterthan 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 herhead among those great friends; and almost all that her mother possessedin the way of jewellery, which was enough to make a show among thesesimple people. "Her own family at least have done Elinor justice, " saidthe Rector, going again to have a look at the kettle, which was thechief of the display to him. Thus the visitors made their remarks. TheHills did nothing but stand apart and discuss their teapot and the meansby 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 inthe 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 dreadfultemptation, and I don't suppose you have much in the way of bolts andbars. Alick is as nimble as a cat, he can get in at any crevice, andI'll bring over the box for the collections to carry off the littlethings. " This harmless wit pleased the good clergyman much, and herepeated it to all the ladies. "I am coming over with Alick one of thesedark nights to make a sweep of everything, " he said. Mr. Hudson retiredin the gentle laughter that followed this, feeling that he had acquittedhimself as a man ought who is the only gentleman present, as well as theRector 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 notintended for men's eyes. I like to see your pretty dresses when you arewearing them, but I can't judge of their effect in the gross. " He was aman who had a pleasant wit. The ladies all agreed that the Rector wassure to make you laugh whatever was the occasion, and he walked homevery briskly, pleased with the effect of the kettle, and saying tohimself that from the moment he saw it in Mappin's window he had feltsure it was the very thing. 

The other ladies were sufficiently impressed with the number andsplendour of Elinor's gowns. Mrs. Dennistoun explained, with a humilitywhich was not, I fear, untinctured by pride, that both number andvariety were rendered necessary by the fact that Elinor was going upon aseries of visits among her future husband's great relations, and wouldhave 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 ordinarycircumstances the half of them would have been enough: for I don'tapprove of too many dresses. "

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

"And to do them up again is quite as expensive as getting new ones, andnot 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 sphereunprovided. 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 onlysacrifice that had to be made. "

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII. 

Time went on quickly enough amid all these preparations and the littleattendant excitements of letters, congratulations, and presents whichcame in on every side. Elinor complained mildly of the fuss, but it wasa new and far from unpleasant experience. She liked to have the packetsbrought in by the post, or the bigger boxes that arrived from thestation, and to open them and produce out of the wadding or the saw-dustone pretty thing after another. At first it was altogether fresh andamusing, this new kind of existence, though after a while she grew_blasée_, as may be supposed. Lady Mariamne's present she was a littleashamed of: not that she cared much, but because of the look on hermother's face when those inferior articles were unpacked; and at thering which old Lord St. Serf sent her she laughed freely. 

"I will put it with my own little old baby rings in this little silvertray, and they will all look as if they were antiques, or somethingworth looking at, " said Elinor. Happily there were other people whoendowed her more richly with rings fit for a bride to wear. Therelations at a distance were more or less pleased with Elinor'sprospects. A few, indeed, from different parts of the world wrote inthe 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 tomarry; but the fact that she was marrying into a noble family, andwould henceforward be known as the Honourable Mrs. Compton, mollifiedeven these critics. Only three brothers--one a great invalid, and twosoldiers--between him and the title. Elinor's relations promptlyinaugurated in their imaginations a great war, in which two nobleregiments were cut to pieces, to dispose of the two Captains Compton;and as for the invalid, that he would obligingly die off was acontingency which nobody doubted--and behold Elinor Dennistoun LadySt. Serf! This greatly calmed criticism among her relations, whowere all at a distance, and whose approval or disapproval did notmuch affect her spirits anyhow. John Tatham's father, Mrs. Dennistoun'scousin, was of more consequence, chiefly as being John's father, butalso a little for himself, and it was remarked that he said not aword against the marriage, but sent a very handsome present, and manycongratulations--chiefly inspired (but this Elinor did not divine) by anunfeigned satisfaction that it was not his son who was the bridegroom. Mr. Tatham, senr. , did not approve of early marriages for young menpushing their way at the bar, unless the bride was, so to speak, in theprofession and could be of use to her husband. Even in such cases, theyoung man was better off without a wife, he was of opinion. How could heget up his cases properly if he had to drag about in society at the tailof a gay young woman? Therefore he sent Elinor a very nice present ingratitude to her and providence. She was a danger removed out of hisboy's way. 

All this kept a cheerful little commotion about the house, and oftenkept the mother and daughter from thinking more than was good for them. These extraneous matters did not indeed preserve Elinor altogether fromthe consciousness that her _fiancé's_ letters were very short and alittle uncertain in their arrival, sometimes missing several daystogether, and generally written in a hurry to catch the post. But theykept Mrs. Dennistoun from remarking that fact, as otherwise she wouldhave been sure to do. If any chill of disappointment was in Elinor'smind, she said to herself that men were generally bad correspondents, not like girls, who had nothing else to do, and other consolations ofthis kind, which to begin with beg the question, and show the beginningof that disenchantment which ought to be reserved at least for a laterperiod. Elinor had already given up a good deal of her own ideal. Shewould not, as she said, put herself in competition with the grouse, shewould not give him the choice between her and a cigar; but already theconsciousness that he preferred the grouse, and even a cigar, to hersociety, had come an unwilling intruder into Elinor's mind. She wouldnot allow to herself that she felt it in either case. She said toherself that she was proud of it, that it showed the freedom andstrength of a man, and that love was only one of many things whichoccupied his life. She rebelled against the other deduction that "'tiswoman's sole existence, " protesting loudly (to herself) that she too hada hundred things to do, and did not want him always at her apron-stringslike a tame curate. But as a matter of fact, no doubt the girl wouldhave been flattered and happy had he been more with her. The time wascoming very quickly in which they should be together always, even whenthere was grouse in hand, when his wife would be invited with him, andall things would be in common between them; so what did it matter for afew days? The marriage was fixed for the 16th of September, and thatgreat date was now scarcely a fortnight off. The excitement quickened aseverything grew towards this central point. Arrangements had to be madeabout the wedding breakfast and where the guests were to be placed. TheHudsons 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 theCottage, where the two rooms on the ground floor--what were called thegentlemen's rooms--had to be prepared to receive her. It was with alittle awe indeed that the ladies of the Cottage endeavoured, by the aidof Elinor's recollections, to come to an understanding of what a finelady would want even for a single night. Mrs. Dennistoun's experienceswere all old-fashioned, and of a period when even great ladies were lessluxurious than now; and it made her a little angry to think how muchmore was required for her daughter's future sister-in-law than had beennecessary 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-lawperceive that the Cottage was no rustic establishment, but one in whichit was known what was what, and all the requirements of the most refinedlife. Elinor's bridesmaid, Mary Tatham, was to have the spare roomup-stairs, and some other cousins, who were what Mrs. Dennistoun called"quiet people, " were to receive the hospitalities of the Hills, whosehouse was roomy and old-fashioned. Thus the arrangements of the crisiswere more or less settled and everything made smooth. 

Elinor and her mother were seated together in the drawing-room on one ofthose evenings of which Mrs. Dennistoun desired to make the most, asthey would be the last, but which, as they actually passed, were--if notoccupied with discussions of how everything was to be arranged, whichthey went over again and again by instinct as a safe subject--heavy, almost dull, and dragged sadly over the poor ladies whose hearts were sofull, but to whom to be separated, though it would be bitter, would alsoat 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 difficultto say it without awaking too much feeling. How could they talk of thefuture in which one of them would be away in strange places, exposed tothe risks and vicissitudes of a new life, and one of them be left alonein the unbroken silence, sitting over the fire, with nothing but thatblaze to give her any comfort? It was too much to think of, much moreto talk about, though it need not be said that it was in the minds ofboth--with a difference, for Elinor's imagination was most employed uponthe brilliant canvas where she herself held necessarily the first place, with a sketch of her mother's lonely life, giving her heart a pang, inthe distance; while Mrs. Dennistoun could not help but see the lonelyfigure in her own foreground, against the brightness of all theentertainments in which Elinor should appear as a queen. They weresitting thus, the mother employed at some fine needlework for thedaughter, the daughter doing little, as is usual nowadays. They had beentalking over Lady Mariamne and her requirements again, and had come toan end of that subject. What a pity that it was so hard to open the doorof their two hearts, which were so close together, so that each mightsee all the tenderness and compunction in the other; the shame andsorrow of the mother to grudge her child's happiness, the remorseand trouble of the child to be leaving that mother out in all hercalculations for the future! How were they to do it on either side? Theycould not talk, these poor loving women, so they were mostly silent, saying a word or two at intervals about Mrs. Dennistoun's work (which ofcourse, was for Elinor), or of Elinor's village class for sewing, whichwas to be transferred to her mother, skirting the edges of the greatseparation which could neither be dismissed nor ignored. 

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

"Nonsense, child. If we were to listen to all these noises of the nightthere 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 thatsudden prevision of trouble which is so seldom deceived. 

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

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

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

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

She stood listening with a face full of expectation, and Mrs. Dennistounput down her work and listened too. The step advanced lightly, scatteringthe gravel, and then there was a pause as if the stranger had stopped toreconnoitre. Then came a knock at the window, which could only have beendone by a tall man, and the hearts of the ladies jumped up, and thenseemed to stop beating. To be sure, there were bolts and bars, butPearson was not much good, and the house was full of valuables and verylonely. Mrs. Dennistoun rose up, trembling a little, and went forward tothe window, bidding Elinor go back and keep quite quiet. But here theywere interrupted by a voice which called from without, with anotherknock 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 herbreast. She did not know what she feared; perhaps that he had come tobreak 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 fondconfusion of words, which made it clear that no breach was likely, andpresently after that interval, Elinor came back beaming, leading herlover. "Here is Phil, " she said, in such liquid tones of happiness asfilled her mother with mingled pleasure, gratitude, and despite. "He hasfound 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 awarethat I am not such a popular personage as she thinks me, and you haveleast reason of all to approve of the man who is coming to carry heraway. "

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

The Hon. Philip Compton was a very tall man, with very black hair. Hehad fine but rather hawk-like features, a large nose, a complexion toowhite to be agreeable, though it added to his romantic appearance. Therewas a furtive look in his big dark eyes, which had a way of surveyingthe 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 youvery much for that, " he said, as if there had been some doubt on hismind about his reception. "I was glad enough to get the opportunity, Ican tell you. I've brought you some birds, Mrs. Dennistoun, and I hopeyou'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 falsemodesty. As soon as he had paid the required toll of courtesy to themother, who naturally ought to have at once proceeded to give ordersabout his supper, he held Elinor at arm's length before the lamp, then, having fully inspected her appearance, and expressed by a "Charming, byJove!" his opinion of it, proceeded to demonstrations which the presenceof the mother standing by did not moderate. There are few mothers towhom it would be agreeable to see their child engulfed in the arms of alarge and strong man, and covered with his bold kisses. Mrs. Dennistounwas more fastidious even than most mothers, and to her this embrace wasa sort of profanation. The Elinor who had been guarded like a flowerfrom 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 thequestion, yet felt to the bottom of her soul. Elinor was abashed beforeher mother, but she was not angry. She forced herself from his embrace, but her blushing countenance was full of happiness. What a revolutionhad thus taken place in a few minutes! They had been so dull sittingthere alone; alone, though each with the other who had filled her lifefor more than twenty years; and now all was lightened, palpitating withlife. "Be good, sir, " said Elinor, pushing him into a chair as if he hadbeen a great dog, "and quiet and well-behaved; and then you shall havesome supper. But tell us first where you have come from, and what put itinto 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 eyesof a certain little witch called Nell. I ought to have been in Irelandfor a sort of a farewell visit there; but when I found I could steal twodays, 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 otherengagements, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, turning away. 

But he was not in the least abashed. "Yes isn't it?" he said; "my lastfew days of freedom. I consider I deserve the prize for virtue--to cutshort 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 halfan eye. Come here, Nell, you little coquette: or I shall tell the Jewyou were afraid of mamma, and you will never hear an end of it as longas you live. "

"Elinor, I think you had better see, perhaps, what there is to make upas good a meal as possible for Mr. Compton, " said her mother, sittingdown opposite to the stranger, whose long limbs were stretched overhalf 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 atall--waving her hand to him as she avoided the very choice joke of hisstretched-out foot. 

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

"I hope so, " he said, displaying the large cavern of a yawn under hisblack 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 notmine, and that I am too old-fashioned to like them. I prefer a littlemore respect to your betrothed. "

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

"Do you, mamma?" said Elinor, faltering a little; but she had thesweetest 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 alwaysbeloved, and never had known for a day what it was to be neglected; yetlove had never appeared to her as it did now, so sweet, nor life sobeautiful. What strange delusion! what a wonderful incomprehensiblemistake! or so at least the mother thought, looking at her beautifulgirl with a pang at her heart. 

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

Phil made himself into the semblance of a dog, and sat up and beggedfor pardon. It was a trick which made people "shriek with laughing;"but Mrs. Dennistoun's gravity remained unbroken. Perhaps her extremeseriousness had something in it that was rather ridiculous too. It was arelief 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 shehad been absurd, as well as that Philip Compton had lacked breeding, which did not make her more comfortable. Was it possible that she wouldbe glad when it was all over, and her child gone--her child gone, andwith that man! Her child, her little delicately bred, finely nurturedgirl, who had been wrapped in all the refinements of life from hercradle, and had never heard a rough word, never been allowed to knowanything that would disturb her virginal calm!--yet now in a momentpassed away beyond her mother to the unceremonious wooer who had noreverence for her, none of the worship her mother expected. How strangeit was! Yet a thing that happened every day. Mrs. Dennistoun sat overthe fire, though it was not cold, and listened to the voices andlaughter in the next room. How happy they were to be together! She didnot, however, dwell upon the fact that she was alone and deserted, asmany women would have done. She knew that she would have plenty of timeto dwell on this in the lonely days to come. What occupied her was thewant of more than manners, of any delicate feeling in the lover who hadseized with rude caresses upon Elinor in her mother's presence, and thefact that Elinor did not object, nor dislike that it should be so. Thatshe should feel forlorn was no wonderful thing; that did not disturb hermind. It was the other matter about Elinor that pained and horrifiedher, 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, thatwhen that was over it was time to go to bed. Still talking and laughingas if they could never exhaust either the fountain of talk or the mirth, which was probably much more sheer pleasure in their meeting thangenuine laughter produced by any wit or _bon mot_, they came out intothe passage, and stood by Mrs. Dennistoun and the housemaid, who hadbrought her the keys and was now fastening the hall door. A littlecalendar hung on the wall beneath the lamp, and Phil Compton walked upto it and with a laugh read out the date. "Sixth September, " he said, and turned round to Elinor. "Only ten days more, Nell. " The housemaidstooping down over the bolt blushed and laughed too under her breath insympathy; but Mrs. Dennistoun turning suddenly round caught Compton'seye. Why had he given that keen glance about him? There was nothing tocall for his usual survey of the company in that sentiment. He mighthave known well enough what were the feelings he was likely to callforth. A keen suspicion shot through her mind. Suspicion of what? Shecould not tell. There was nothing that was not most natural in hissudden arrival, the delightful surprise of his coming, his certainty ofa good reception. The wonder was that he had come so little, not that heshould come now. 

The next morning the visitor made himself very agreeable: his raptureswere a little calmed. He talked over all the arrangements, and enteredinto everything with the interest of a man to whom that great dayapproaching was indeed the greatest day in his life. And it turned outthat he had something to tell which was of practical importance. "I mayrelieve your mind about Nell's money, " he said, "for I believe mycompany is going to be wound up. We'll look out for another investmentwhich will pay as well and be less risky. It has been found not to bedoing 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 withit, " Mrs. Dennistoun said. 

"And I'm glad to be done with it. I shall look out for somethingpermanent and decline joint-stock companies. I thought you would liketo 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 thanany business, hurried to get her hat and follow him to the door. Itchanced to her to glance at the calendar as she passed hastily out towhere he stood awaiting her in the porch. Why that should have happenedto anyone in the Cottage twice in the twenty-four hours is a coincidencewhich I cannot explain, but so it was. Her eye caught the little whiteplaque in passing, and perceived with surprise that it had moved up twonumbers, 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 asshe joined him. "The calendar says the eighth September now. "

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That is just what is the saving of me, Nell. I can't explain what Imean now, but I will later on. Only mind you don't contradict me if weshould meet any inquisitive person. I arrived on the sixth, and you'llback 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 Isay. "

CHAPTER IX. 

This day in the copse was one that Elinor never forgot. At the moment itseemed to her the most blissful period of all her life. There had beentimes in which she had longed that Phil knew more and cared more for theobjects which had always been most familiar, and told for most in herown 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 andpleased her, giving a piquancy to the physical strength and enjoyingmanhood, the perpetual activity and state of doing something in which hewas. It was not a kind of life which she had ever known before, and itdazzled her with its apparent freedom and fulness, the variety in it, the constant movement, the crowd of occupations and people. To her whohad been used to finding a great deal of her amusement in reading, insketching (not very well), in playing (tunes), and generally practisingwith very moderate success arts for which she had no individualenthusiasm, it had seemed like a new life to be plunged into the societyof horses and dogs, into the active world which was made up of a roundof amusements, race meetings, days on the river, follies of everyconceivable kind, exercise, and air, and movement. The ignorance of allthese people dazzled her as if it had been a new science. It had seemedsomething wonderful and piquant to Elinor to find people who knew somuch of subjects she had never heard of, and nothing at all of those shehad been trained to know. And then there had come a moment when she hadbegun to sigh under her breath, as it were, and wish that Phil wouldsometimes open a book, that when he took up the newspaper he would lookat something more than the sporting news and the bits of gossip, that hewould talk now and then of something different from the racings and thestartings, and the odds, and the scrapes other men got into, and theastonishing "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 briefletters which Phil scribbled to his betrothed. But during this day, after his unexpected arrival, the joy of seeing him suddenly, thepleasure of feeling that he had broken through all his engagements tocome to her, and the fervour of his satisfaction in being with her again(that very fervour which shocked her mother), Elinor's first glow ofdelight in her love came fully back. And as they wandered through thepleasant paths of the copse, his very talk seemed somehow changed, andto have gained just that little mingling of perception of her tastes andwishes which she had desired. There was a little autumnal mist about thesoftening haze which was not decay, but only the "mellow fruitfulness"of the poet; and the day, notwithstanding this, was as warm as June, thesky blue, with only a little white puff of cloud here and there. Philpaused to look down the combe, with all the folds of the downs thatwrapped it about, going off in blue outlines into the distance, and saidit was "a jolly view"--which amused Elinor more than if he had used thefinest language, and showed that he was beginning (she thought) to carea little for the things which pleased her. "And I suppose you could seea man coming by that bit of road. "

"Yes, " said Elinor, "you could see a man coming--or going: but, unlessyou were to make believe very strong, like the Marchioness, you couldnot make out who the man was. "

"What Marchioness?" said Phil. "I didn't know you had anybody with atitle about here. I say, Nell, it's a very jolly view, but hideouslydull 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 whatyou call amusing yourself. You ought to have made the old lady take youabout a deal, abroad, and all over the place: but I expect you havenever stood up for yourself a bit, Nell. "

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

"Well, she should have done it for herself. Might have picked up a goodmatch, eh? a father-in-law that would have left you a pot of money. Youdon'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 atwhich Phil improved so much. "Tell me what you've been reading last, " hesaid. "I should like to know what you are thinking about, even if Idon't understand it myself. I say, Nell, who do you think that can bedashing 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 youreally want to know what I have been reading, Phil? though it is verylittle, 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 withyour books: which is the reason why I never pretend to read--I have notime. "

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

"Never when you were there, Nell, that I'll answer for--but of coursethere are times when a fellow isn't doing anything much. What would youhave 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, andHoyle, and--I say, Nell, there's a dog-cart going a pace! Who can thatbe, do you suppose?"

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

"Oh!" he said, and made a long pause. "Driving like that, if they don'tbreak 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 isno reason to suppose that any dog-cart from the station should be cominghere. "

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

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

"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 someof 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 ownset than any novel these writing men ever can put on paper: fellows, andwomen, too--stories that would make your hair stand on end, and thatwould make you die with laughing. You can't think what lots I know. Thatcart 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 anyone, Phil?"

"I don't quite know; there's something on at that confounded office ofours; everything, you know, has gone to smash. I didn't think it well tosay too much to the old lady last night. There's been a regular row, andthe manager's absconded, and all turns on whether they can find somebooks. I shouldn't wonder if one of the fellows came down here, if theyfind 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 maybe a fuss, and the wedding delayed. Remember that, my pet, the weddingdelayed--that's what I want to avoid. Now, come, Nell, let's haveanother go about the books. All English, mind you. I won't buy you anyof 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 readnothing but novels, " Elinor said. 

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

His look of horror made Elinor laugh. "You need not be afraid. I neverspout verses, " she said. 

"Come along this way a little, where we can see the road. All women seemto 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 thecontrast 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 horsedied, ' and that sort of thing--makes you cry, don't you know. You alllike that. Certainly, if that dog-cart had been coming here it must havecome by this time. "

"Yes, it must have come, " Elinor admitted, with a little wonder at theimportance which he gave to this possible incident. "But there isanother 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, "butprobably he will want to see me. No, Nell, you will not expect me toread poetry to you while we're away. There's quite a library at Lomond'splace. You can amuse yourself there when I'm shooting; not that I shallshoot much, or anything that takes me away from my Nell. But you mustcome out with us. There is no such fun as stumping over the moors--theJew has got all the turn-out for that sort of thing--short frocks andknickerbockers, and a duck of a little breech-loader. She thinks she's agreat shot, poor thing, and men are civil and let her imagine that she'sknocked 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! Iwill 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 theold lady. But I don't want you to shoot, Nell. If you don't get tiredsitting at home, with all of us out on the hill, I like to come in formy part and find a little duck all tidy, not blowzy and blown about bythe wind, like the Jew with her ridiculous bag, that all the fellowssnigger 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 shouldI 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 Idon't much like those gentlemen; they are a little rude and rough. Theyshall not call me by my Christian name, or anything but my ownformal----"

"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'tspoil 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 outthe Jew. I calculate on being a lot there; they have a nice house and agood table, and all that, and Prestwich is glad of somebody to helpabout 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 andhalf like a queen: but it will never do to make the Jew feel small inher own set. Hallo! there's some one tumbling alone over the stones onthat precious road of yours. I believe it's that cart from the stationafter all. "

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

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

"I can't think, dear Phil, what there is for me to do. I know nothingabout 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; justyou stand by me, whatever I say. You mayn't know--or even I may seem tomake a mistake; but you know me if you don't know the circumstances, andI 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 contradictingevery word a fellow says. I only want you to stand by me, don't youknow, that's all; and I'll tell you everything about it after, whenthere's time. "

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

"Talk about business to you! when I've only a single day, and not halftime enough, you little duck, to tell you what a darling you are, andhow 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 somuch confusion into the mind of Mrs. Dennistoun, when practised underher sedate and middle-aged eyes. But Elinor, as has been said, did nottake exactly the same view. 

Presently they went to luncheon, and Phil secured himself a place attable commanding the road. "I never knew before how jolly it was, " hesaid, "though everything is jolly here. And that peep of the road mustgive 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 peoplewere--those white horses--the people at--where did you say, Nell?"

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

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

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

"Ah, there's no mistaking them. I see something sweeping along, butthat's a country wagon, I suppose. It gives me a great deal of diversionto see the people on the road--which perhaps you will think a vulgaramusement. "

"Not at all, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, politely, but she thought withinherself how empty the brain must be which sought diversion from thedistant 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 explainthings, " said Elinor, anxious on her part to make it clear that it wasnot out of mere vacancy that her lover had watched so closely thecarriages on the road. 

"Unfortunately, there is something like a smash, " he said; "they'll keepit out of the papers if they can, but you may see it in the papers; themanager has run away, and there's a question about some books. I don'tsuppose you would understand--they may come to me here about it, or theymay 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. Onewants to be doing something to keep one's self down. You can't keepquiet 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 saidwith a laugh. And Elinor laughed too; while Mrs. Dennistoun sat as graveas a judge at the head of the table. But Phil was not daunted by herserious face: so long as the road was quite clear he had all theappearance 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 indoctrinateme. We mean to take a big box of books, and I'm to be made to readpoetry and all sorts of fine things in my honeymoon. "

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

There was a little breath of a protest from Elinor. "Oh, mamma!" but sheleft 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'renot bookish. The Jew goes in for French novels, but I don't intend tolet 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. TheJew is quite an emancipated person. Don't you think she'll bore yourather in this little house? She carries bales of rubbish with herwherever she goes, and her maid, and her dog, and I don't know what. IfI were you I'd write, or better wire, and tell her there's a capitaltrain from Victoria will bring her here in time for the wedding, andthat it's a thousand pities she should disturb herself to come for thenight. "

"If your sister can put up with my small accommodation, I shall ofcourse 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 whenshe has not all her things about her. However, you must judge foryourself. But if you think better of it, wire a few words, and it'll beall right. I'm to go to the old Rectory, Nell says. "

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

"Dick Bolsover, who is going to see me through it: and I daresay Ishould 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'tthink I shall; what do you say, Nell?"

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

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

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

"Only two; and very sensible, instead of the train one sees, allthinking how best to show themselves off. Dick Bolsover is man enough totackle them both. He expects some fun, I can tell you. What is there tobe 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 Ishall 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 funfor your friend. "

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

"I should not have adopted such an expedient in any case. Elinor must bemarried 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 hadstuck his glass into his eye and was gazing out of the window. "Veryjolly view, " he continued. "And what's that, Nell, raising clouds ofdust? 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 onthe road to Portsmouth, and give little representations in all thevillages, to the great excitement of the country folk. "

"We are the country folk, and I feel quite excited, " said Phil, droppinghis glass. "Nell, if there's a representation, you and I will goto-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, andadded "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 onerelish a little fun, eh? I daresay you always go. The Jew is the one forevery village fair within ten miles when she is in the country. She saysthey'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 strangelyuneasy. He rose up hastily from the table. "It is, perhaps, the man I amlooking 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 ofhis head, but when he came out into the hall was met by a trim clericalfigure and genial countenance, the benign yet self-assured looks of theRector of the Parish: none other could this smiling yet importantpersonage be. 

CHAPTER X. 

The Rector came in with his smiling and rosy face. He was, as many ofhis parishioners thought, a picture of a country clergyman. Such ahealthy colour, as clear as a girl's, limpid blue eyes, with very lighteyelashes and eyebrows; a nice round face, "beautifully modelled, "according to Miss Sarah Hill, who did a little in that way herself, andknew how to approve of a Higher Sculptor's work. And then the neatestand 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 hisclerical character to be divined by means of a white tie. He came in, aswas natural among country neighbours, without thinking of any bell orknocker on the easily opened door, and was about to peep into thedrawing-room with "Anybody in?" upon his smiling lips, when he saw agentleman approaching, picking up his hat as he advanced. Mr. Hudsonpaused a moment in uncertainty. "Mr. Compton, I am sure, " he said, holding out both of his plump pink hands. "Ah, Elinor too! I wassure I could not be mistaken. And I am exceedingly glad to make youracquaintance. " 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 enemyWindyhill has had for many a day--carrying off the finest lamb in allthe fold. "

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

"They'll think I have stolen a march upon them all, Elinor, " said theRector, "chancing upon Mr. Compton like this, a quite unexpectedpleasure. I shall keep them on the tenterhooks, asking them whom theysuppose 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 hisvoice; "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, "sofar 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. " Hecleaved his throat and raised his voice. "I believe we are to have thepleasure 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 Iand the other members of the family will be. There are not very many ofus--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 thepleasure of staying with us for part of the year. I think she has metyou somewhere, or knows some of your family, or--something. She is agreat authority on noble families. I don't know whether it is becauseshe has been a good deal in society, or whether it is out ofDebrett----"

"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. Becivil to the Rector, please. "

"So I am, perfectly civil. "

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

"Well, but he hasn't said anything that I can answer. He says MissSomething or other knows my family. Perhaps she does. Well, much goodmay 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 andleave him with your mother? That would suit his book a great dealbetter. Come, let's go. "

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

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

"Oh! I was not precisely asking a question, " he said, in his quiettones. "I was saying that we believe and hope that another gentleman iscoming 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 brothergot 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 hasno 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 rubbedhis hands and said to himself with pleasure that two Honourables in hisquiet house was something to think of, and that he hoped it would notturn the heads of the ladies, and make Alice expect--one couldn't tellwhat. And then he said, by way of changing yet continuing the subject, "I suppose you've been looking at the presents. Elinor must have shownyou 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 herall 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 buta small token of a great deal of affection; but still there are a numberof pretty things. Elinor, what were you thinking of, my dear, not toshow Mr. Compton the little set out which you showed us? Come, I shouldmyself like to look them over again. "

Phil gave another long look at the distant road, and then he thrust hisarm into Elinor's and said, "To be sure, come along, Nell. It will besomething to do. " He did not wait for the Rector to pass first, whichElinor thought would have been better manners, but thrust her before himquite 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 gaveme----"

"I know: a cardcase or a button-hook, or something. And how manybiscuit-boxes have you got, and clocks, and that sort of thing? I adviseyou to have an auction as soon as we get away. Hallo! that's a nicelittle 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 hadlain undisturbed until now, and pulled it through his fingers. "Cost apretty bit of money that, I should say. You can raise the wind on itwhen 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 couldscarcely tell why, to make a stand for her cousin John. 

"Ah, I thought it was one of the disappointed ones, " said Phil, flingingit back carelessly onto the bed of white velvet where it had been fittedso exactly. "That's how they show their spite; for of course I can'tgive you anything half as good as that. "

"There was no disappointment in the matter, " said Elinor, almost angrywith 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 littleNell. "

The Rector, who was following slowly, for he did not like to go up-stairsin 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 couplewill not mind you. "

Mr. Hudson was prim; but he was rather pleased to see that "the youngcouple" were, as he said, so fond of each other. He went into the roomunder the protection of the mother--blushing a little. It reminded him, as he said afterwards, of his own young days; but it was only naturalthat he should walk up direct to the place where his kettle stoodconspicuous, waiting only the spark of a match to begin to boil thewater for the first conjugal tea. It appeared to him a beautifulidea as he put his head on one side and looked at it. It was like theinauguration of the true British fireside, the cosy privacy in which, after the man had done his work, the lady awaited him at home, with thetea-kettle steaming. A generation before Mr. Hudson there would havebeen a pair of slippers airing beside the fire. But neither of thesepreparations 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 specialdispensation it was Lady Mariamne's dishes which caught Phil'sattention. "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 gotthese horrors from the Jew?"

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

"The stingy old miser, " said Compton. "Rolling in money, and to send youthese! 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 internalthanksgiving. ) "Shows like a little gem beside that old, thundering, mean-spirited Jew!"

"That, " said the Rector, bridling a little and pink with pleasure, "isour little offering: and I'm delighted to think that it should please sogood 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 thevery thing for Elinor; and when I went home I told my wife--the verything--for her boudoir, should she not be seeing company--or just foryour little teas when you are by yourselves. I could at once imagine thedear girl looking so pretty in one of those wonderful white garmentsthat are in the next room. "

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

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

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

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

"I did not of course know that he was here, " said the Rector, with somehesitation. "I came with the intention of speaking--I am very sorry tosee in the papers to-day something about that Joint-Stock Company ofwhich Mr. Compton was a director. It's rather a mysterious paragraph:but it's something about the manager having absconded, and that some ofthe 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 onlythat one felt a desire to know. Just upon the eve of a marriageit's--it's alarming to hear of a business the bridegroom is involved inbeing--what you may call broken up. "

"That was one of the things Mr. Compton came to tell us about, " saidMrs. Dennistoun. "He said he hoped it might be kept out of the papers, but that some of the books have got lost or destroyed. I am afraid Iknow very little about business. But he has lost very little--nothing tospeak of--which was all that concerned me. "

"To be sure, " said the Rector, but in a tone not so assured as hiswords. "It is not perhaps quite a nice thing to be director of a companythat--that collapses in this way. I fear some poor people will losetheir money. I fear there will be things in the papers. "

"On what ground?" she said. "Oh, I don't deny there may be some one toblame; but Mr. Compton was, I suspect, only on the board for the sake ofhis name. He is not a business man. He did it, as so many do, for thesake of a pretence of being in something. And then, I believe, thedirectors got a little by it; they had a few hundreds a year. "

"To be sure, " said Mr. Hudson, but still doubtfully; and then hebrightened up. "For my part, I don't believe there is a word of truth init. Since I have seen him, indeed, I have quite changed my opinion--afine figure of a man, looking an aristocrat every inch of him. Such acontrast and complement to our dear Elinor--and so fond of her. A manlike that would never have a hand in any sham concern. If it was reallya bogus company, as people say, he must be one of the sufferers. That isquite my decided opinion; only the ladies, you know--the ladies who havenot seen him, and who are so much more suspicious by nature (I don'tknow that you are, my dear Mrs. Dennistoun), would give me no rest. Theythought it was my duty to interfere. But I am sure they are quitewrong. "

To think that it was the ladies of the Rector's family who wereinterfering made Mrs. Dennistoun very wroth. "Next time they haveanything to say, you should make them come themselves, " she said. 

"Oh, they would not do that. They say it is the clergyman's business, not theirs. Besides, you know, I have not time to read all the papers. We get the _Times_, and Mary Dale has the _Morning Post_, and anotherthing that is all about stocks and shares. She has such a head forbusiness--far more than I can pretend to. She thought----"

"Mr. Hudson, I fear I do not wish to know what was thought by MissDale. "

"Well, you are, perhaps, right, Mrs. Dennistoun. She is only a woman, of course, and she may make mistakes. It is astonishing, though, howoften she is right. She has a head for business that might do for aChancellor of the Exchequer. She made me sell out my shares in that RedGulch--those American investments have most horrible names--just a weekbefore the smash came, all from what she had read in the papers. Sheknows how to put things together, you see. So I have reason to begrateful to her, for my part. "

"And what persuaded you, here at Windyhill, a quiet clergyman, to putmoney in any Red Gulch? It is a horrible name!"

"Oh, it was Mary, I suppose, " said Mr. Hudson. "She is always lookingout for new investments. She said we should all make our fortunes. Wedid not, unfortunately. But she is so clever, she got us out of it withonly a very small loss indeed. "

"No doubt she is very clever. I wish, though, that she would let us knowdefinitely on what ground----"

"Oh, there is no ground, " cried the Rector. "Now that I have seen Mr. Compton I am certain of it. I said to her before I left the Rectory, 'Now, my dear Mary, I am going like a lamb to the slaughter. I have noreason to give if Mrs. Dennistoun should ask me, and you have no reasonto give. And she will probably put me to the door. ' If I said thatbefore I started, you may fancy how much more I feel it now, when I havemade Mr. Compton's acquaintance. A fine aristocratic face, and all theease of high breeding. There are only three lives--and those not verygood ones--between him and the title, I believe?"

"Two robust brothers, and an invalid who will probably outlive them all;that is, I believe, the state of the case. "

"Dear me, what a pity!" said the Rector, "for our little Elinor wouldhave made a sweet little Countess. She would grow a noble lady, like theone in Mr. Tennyson's poem. Well, now I must be going, and I amextremely glad to have been so lucky as to come in just in time. It hasbeen the greatest pleasure to me to see them together--such a lovingcouple. Dear me, like what one reads about, or remembers in old days, not like the commonplace pairs one has to do with now. "

Mrs. Dennistoun accompanied the Rector to the garden gate. She was halfinclined to laugh and half to be angry, and in neither mood did Mr. Hudson's insinuations which he made so innocently have much effectupon her mind. But when she took leave of him at the gate and cameslowly back among her brilliant flower-beds, pausing here and theremechanically to pick off a withered leaf or prop up the too heavy headof a late rose; her mind began to take another turn. She had always beenconscious of an instinctive suspicion in respect to her daughter'slover. Probably only, she said to herself, because he was her daughter'slover, and she was jealous of the new devotion that withdrew from her socompletely the young creature who had been so fully her own. That is ahard trial for a woman to undergo. It is only to be borne when she, too, is fascinated by her future son-in-law, as happens in some fortunatecases. Otherwise, a woman with an only child is an alarming critic toencounter. She was not fascinated at all by Phil. She was disappointedin Elinor, and almost thought her child not so perfect as she hadbelieved, when it proved that she could be fascinated by this man. Shedisliked almost everything about him--his looks, the very air which theRector thought so aristocratic, his fondness for Elinor, which was notreverential enough to please the mother, and his indifference, nay, contempt, for herself, which was not calculated to please any woman. Shehad been roused into defence of him in anger at the interference, and atthe insinuation which had no proof; but as that anger died away, otherthoughts came into her mind. She began to put the broken facts togetherwhich already had roused her to suspicion: his sudden arrival, sounexpected; walking from the station--a long, very long walk--carryinghis own bag, which was a thing John Tatham did, but not like PhilCompton. And then she remembered, suddenly, his anxiety about thecarriage on the distant road, his care to place himself where he couldsee it. She had thought with a little scorn that this was a proof of hisfrivolity, of the necessity of seeing people, whoever these people mightbe. But now there began to be in it something that could have a deepermeaning. For whom was he looking? Who might be coming? Stories she hadheard of fugitives from justice, of swindlers taking refuge in theinnocence of their families, came up into her mind. Could it be possiblethat Elinor's pure name could be entangled in such a guilty web as this?

CHAPTER XI. 

"Funny old poop!" said Compton. "And that is your Rector, Nell. I shalltell Dick there's rare fun to be had in that house: but not for me. Iknow what I shall be thinking of all the time I'm there. Odious littleNell! to interfere like this with a fellow's fun. But I say, who's thatwoman who knows me or my family?--much good may it do her, as I saidbefore. Tell me, Nell, did she speak ill of me?"

"Oh, Phil, how could you ask? or what would it matter if she spoke everso ill?"

"She did then, " he said with a graver face. "Somebody was bound to doit. And what did she say?"

"Oh, what does it matter, Phil? I don't remember; nothing of anyconsequence. We paid no attention, of course, neither mamma nor I. "

"That was plucky of the old girl, " said Compton. "I didn't suppose youwould give ear, my Nell. Ain't so sure about her. If I'd been yourfather, my pet, I should never have given you to Phil Compton. Andthat's the fact: I wonder if the old lady would like to reconsider thesituation now. "

"Phil!" said Elinor, clinging to his arm. 

"Perhaps it would be best for you if you were to do so, Nell, or if shewere to insist upon it. Eh! You don't know me, my darling, that's thefact. You're too good to understand us. We're all the same, from the oldgovernor downwards--a bad lot. I feel a kind of remorseful over you, child, to-day. That rosy old bloke, though he's a snob, makes a manthink of innocence somehow. I do believe you oughtn't to marry me, Nell. "

"Oh, Phil! what do you mean? You cannot mean what you say. "

"I suppose I don't, or I shouldn't say it, Nell. I shouldn't certainly, if I thought you were likely to take my advice. It's a kind of luxury totell you we're a bad lot, and bid you throw me over, when I know allalong you won't. "

"I should think not indeed, " she said, clinging to him and looking up inhis face. "Do you know what my cous--I mean a friend, said to me on thatsubject?"

"You mean your cousin John, whom you are always quoting. Let's hear whatthe fellow said. "

"He said--that I wasn't a girl to put up with much, Phil. That I wasn'tone of the patient kind, that I would not bear---- I don't know what itwas I would not bear; but you see you must consider my defects, whichyou can understand well enough, whether I can understand yours or not. "

"That you could not put up with--that you could not bear? that meant me, Nell. He had been talking to you on the same subject, me and my faults. Why didn't you listen to him? I suppose he wanted you to have himinstead of me. "

"Phil! how dare you even think of such a thing? It is not true. "

"Wasn't it? Then he is a greater fool than I took him for, and hisopinion's no good. So you're a spitfire, are you? Can't put up withanything that doesn't suit you? I don't know that I should have foundthat out. "

"I am afraid though that it is true, " she said, half-laughingly lookingup at him. "Perhaps you will want to reconsider too. "

"If you don't want it any more than I want it, Nell---- What's that?" hecried hastily, changing his expression and attitude in a moment. "Isthat one of your neighbours at the gate?"

Elinor looked round, starting away a little from his side, and saw someone--a man she had never seen before--approaching along the path. Shewas just about to say she did not know who it was when Phil, to herastonishment, stepped past her, advancing to meet the newcomer. But ashe did so he put out his hand and caught her as he passed, leading heralong with him. 

"Mind what I said, and stick to me, " he said, in a whisper; then--

"Stanfield!" he cried with an air of perfect ease and cordiality, yetastonishment. "I thought it looked like you, but I could not believe myeyes. "

"Mr. Compton!" said the other. "So you are here. I have been huntingafter you all over the place. I heard only this morning this was alikely spot. "

"A very likely spot!" said Phil. "I suppose you know the good reason Ihave for being in these parts. Elinor, this is Mr. Stanfield, who has todo with our company, don't you know. But I say, Stanfield, what's allthis row in the papers? Is it true that Brown's bolted? I should havetaken the first train to see if I could help; but my private affairs aremost urgent just at this moment, as I suppose you know. "

"I wish you had come, " said the other; "it would have looked well, andpleased the rest of the directors. There has been some queerbusiness--some of the books abstracted or destroyed, we can't tellwhich, and no means of knowing how we stand. "

"Good Heavens!" said Phil, "to cover that fellow's retreat. "

"It you mean Brown, it was not he. They were all there safe enough afterhe was gone; somebody must have got in by night and made off with them, some one that knew all about the place; the watchman saw a light, butthat's all. It's supposed there must have been something compromisingothers besides Brown. He could not have cheated the company to such anextent by himself. "

"Good Heavens!" cried Phil again in natural horror; "I wish I hadfollowed my impulse and gone up to town straight: but it was very vaguewhat was in the papers; I hoped it might not have been our place at all. And I say, Stanfield--who's the fellow they suspect?" Elinor haddisengaged herself from Compton's arm; she perceived vaguely that thestranger paused before he replied, and that Phil, facing him with acertain square attitude of opposition which affected her imaginationvaguely, though she did not understand why--was waiting with keenattention for his reply. She said, a little oppressed by the situation, "Phil, perhaps I had better go. "

"Don't go, " he said; "there's nothing secret to say. If there's anyonesuspected it must very soon be known. "

"It's difficult to say who is suspected, " said the stranger, confused. "I don't know that there's much evidence. You've been in Scotland?"

"Yes, till the other day, when I came down here to see----" He pausedand turned upon Elinor a look which gave the girl the most curiousincomprehensible pang. It was a look of love; but, oh! heaven, was it alook called up that the other man might see? He took her hand in his, and said lightly yet tenderly, "Let's see, what day was it? the sixth, wasn't it the sixth, Nell?"

A flood of conflicting thoughts poured through Elinor's mind. What didit mean? It was yesterday, she was about to say, but something stoppedher, something in Phil's eye--in the touch of his hand. There wassomething warning, almost threatening, in his eye. Stand by me; mind youdon't contradict me; say what I say. All these things which he hadrepeated again and again were said once more in the look he gave her. "Yes, " she said timidly, with a hesitation very unlike Elinor, "it wasthe sixth. " She seemed to see suddenly as she said the words thatcalendar with the date hanging in the hall: the big 6 seemed to hangsuspended in the air. It was true, though she could not tell how itcould be so. 

"Oh, " said Stanfield, in a tone which betrayed a little surprise, andsomething like disappointment, "the sixth? I knew you had left Scotland, but we did not know where you had gone. "

"That's not to be wondered at, " said Phil, with a laugh, "for I shouldhave gone to Ireland, to tell the truth; I ought to have been there now. I'm going to-morrow, ain't I, Nell? I had not a bit of business to behere. Winding up affairs in the bachelor line, don't you know; but I hadto come on my way west to see this young lady first. It plays the deuceand all with one's plans when there's such a temptation in the way. "

"You could have gone from Scotland to Ireland, " said Stanfield, gravely, "without coming to town at all. "

"Very true, old man. You speak like a book. But, as you perceive, I havenot gone to Ireland at all; I am here. Depends upon your motive, Isuppose, which way you go. "

"It is a good way roundabout, " said the other, without relaxing theintent look on his face. 

"Well, " said Phil, "that's as one feels. I go by Holyhead wherever I maybe--even if I had nowhere else to go to on the way. "

"And Mr. Compton got here on the sixth?--this is the eighth, " said thestranger, pointedly. He turned to Elinor, and it seemed to the girl thathis eyes, though they were not remarkable eyes, went through and throughher. He spoke very slowly, with a curious meaning. "But it was on thesixth, you say, that he got here?"

That big 6 on the calendar stood out before her eyes; it seemed to coverall the man's figure that stood before her. Elinor's heart and mind wentthrough the strangest convulsion. Was it false--was it true? What wasshe saying? What did it all mean? She repeated mechanically, "It was onthe sixth, " and then she recovered a kind of desperate courage, andthrowing off the strange spell that seemed to be upon her, "Is there anyreason, " she asked, suddenly, with a little burst of impatience, lookingfrom one to another, "why it should not be the sixth, that you repeat itso?"

"I beg your pardon, " said the stranger, visibly startled. "I did notmean to imply--only thought----Pray, Mr. Compton, tell the lady I had nointention of offending. I never supposed----"

Phil's laugh, loud and clear, rang through the stillness of the afternoon. "He's so used to fibs, he thinks everybody's in a tale, " said Phil, "butI can assure you he is a very good fellow, and a great friend of mine, and he means no harm, Nell. "

Elinor made Mr. Stanfield an extremely dignified bow. "I ought to havegone away at once, and left you to talk over your business, " she said, turning away, and Phil did not attempt to detain her. Then the naturalrural sense of hospitality came over Elinor. She turned back to find thetwo men looking after her, standing where she had left them. "I amsure, " she said, "that mamma would wish me to ask the gentleman if hewould stay to dinner--or at least come in with you, Phil, to tea. "

Mr. Stanfield took off his hat with anxious politeness, and exclaimedhastily that he must go back to town by the next train, and that the cabfrom the station was waiting to take him. And then she left them, andwalked quietly away. She was almost out of hearing before they resumedtheir conversation; that is, she was beyond the sound, not of theirvoices, but of what they said. The murmur of the voices was stillaudible when she got to her favourite seat on the side of the copselooking down the combe. It was a very retired and silent place, notvisible from either the cottage or the garden. And there Elinor tookrefuge in the quiet and hush of the declining day. She was in a greattremor of agitation and excitement as she sat down upon the rusticseat--so great a tremor that she had scarcely been able to walk steadilydown the roughly-made steps--a tremor which had grown with every stepshe took. She did not in the least understand the transaction in whichshe had been engaged. It was something altogether strange to herexperiences, without any precedent in her life. What was it she had beencalled upon to do? What had she said, and why had she been made to sayit? Her heart beat so that she put her two hands upon it crossed overher breast to keep it down, lest it should burst away. She had thesensation of having been brought before some tribunal, put suddenlyto the last shift, made to say--what, what? She was so bewilderedthat she could not tell. Was it the truth, said with the intention todeceive--was it----? She could not tell. There was that great numeralwavering in the air, stalking along with her like a ghost. 6--. She hadread it in all innocence, they had all read it, and nobody had said itwas wrong. No one was very careful about the date in the cottage. If itwas right, if it was wrong, Elinor could not tell. But yet somehow shewas conscious that the man to whom she had spoken had been deceived. And Phil! and Phil! what had he meant, adjuring her to stick to him, tostand by him, not to contradict him? Elinor's mind was in such a wildcommotion that she could not answer these inquiries. She could not feelthat she had one solid step of ground to place herself upon in thewhirlwind which swept her about and about. Had she--lied? And why had heasked her to lie? And what, oh, what did it all mean?

One thing that at last appeared to her in the chaos which seemed likesomething solid that she could grasp at was that Phil had never changedin his aspect. The other man had been very serious, staring at her as ifto intimidate her, like a man who had something to find out; but Philhad been as careless, as indifferent, as he appeared always to be. Hehad not changed his expression. It is true there was that look in whichthere was at once an entreaty and a command--but only she had seenthat, and perhaps it was merely the emotion, the excitement, the strangefeeling of having to face the world for him, and say----what, what?Was it simply, the truth, nothing but the truth, or was it---- AgainElinor's mind began to whirl. It was the truth: she could see now thatbig 6 on the calendar distinct as the sunshine. And yet it was onlyyesterday--and there was 8 this morning. Had she gone through anintervening dream for a whole day without knowing it; or had she, Elinor--she who would not have done it to save her life--told--a lie forPhil? And why should he want her to tell a lie?

Elinor got up from her seat, and stood uncertain, with a cold dew on herforehead, and her hands clasping and holding each other. Should she goback to them and say there must be some mistake--that though she hadsaid the truth it was not true, that there was some mistake, somedreadful mistake! There was no longer any sound of voices where she was. The whole incident seemed to have died out. The sudden commotion ofPhil's visit and everything connected with it had passed away. She wasalone in the afternoon, in the hush of nature, looking over the combe, listening to the rustle of the trees, hearing the bees drone homeward. Had Phil ever been here at all? Had he watched the distant road windingover the slopes for some one whom he had expected to come after him allthe time? Had he ever told her to stand by him? to say what he said, toback him up? Had there ever been another man standing with that big 6wavering between her and him like a ghost? Had all that been at all, orwas it merely a foolish dream? And ought she to go back now, and findthe man before he disappeared, and tell him it was all true, yet somehowa dreadful, dreadful mistake?

Elinor sat down again abruptly on her seat, and put her handkerchief toher forehead and pushed back the damp clusters of her hair, turning herface to the wind to get a little refreshment and calm, if that werepossible. She heard in the sunny distance behind her, where the gardenand the peaceful house lay in the light, the clang of the gate, a soundwhich could not be mistaken. The man then had gone--if there wasanything to rectify in what she said it certainly could not be rectifiednow--he was gone. The certainty came to her with a feeling of relief. Ithad been horrible to think of standing before the two men again andsaying--what could she have said? She remembered now that it was not herassertion alone, but that it all hung together, a whole structure ofincidents, which would be put wrong if she had said it was a mistake--awhole account of Phil's time, how it had been passed--which was quitetrue, which he had told them on his arrival; how he had been going toIreland, and had stopped, longing for a glimpse of her, his bride, feeling that he must have her by him, see her once again before he camefor her to fetch her away. He had told the ladies at the cottage thevery same, and of course it was true. Had he not come straight fromScotland with his big bundle of game, the grouse and partridges whichhad already been shared with all the friends about? Was he not going offto Ireland to-morrow to fulfil his first intention? It was all quiteright, quite true, hanging perfectly together--except that curiousfalling out of a day. And then again Elinor's brain swam round andround. Had he been two days at the cottage instead of one, as he said?Was it there that the mistake lay? Had she been in such a fool'sparadise having him there, that she had not marked the passage oftime--had it all been one hour of happiness flying like the wind? Ablush, partly of sweet shame to think that this was possible, that shemight have been such a happy fool as to ignore the divisions of nightand day, and partly of stimulating hope that such might be the case, awild snatch at justification of herself and him flushed over her fromhead to foot, wrapping her in warmth and delight; and then this allfaded away again and left her as in ashes--black and cold. No!everything, she saw, now depended upon what she had been impelled tosay; the whole construction, Phil's account of his time, his story ofhis doings--all would have fallen to pieces had she said otherwise. Body and soul, Elinor felt herself become like a machine full ofclanging wheels and beating pistons, her heart, her pulses, her breath, all panting, beating, bursting. What did it mean? What did it mean? Andthen everything stood still in a horrible suspense and pause. 

She began to hear voices again in the distance and raised her head, which she had buried in her hands--voices that sounded so calmly in thewestering sunshine, one answering another, everything softened in thegolden outdoor light. At first as she raised herself up she thought withhorror that it was the man, the visitor whom she had supposed to begone, returning with Phil to give her the opportunity of contradictingherself, of bringing back that whirlwind of doubt and possibility. Butpresently her excited senses perceived that it was her mother who waswalking calmly through the garden talking with Phil. There was not atone of excitement in the quiet voices that came gradually nearer andnearer, till she could hear what they were saying. It was Phil who wasspeaking, while her mother now and then put in a word. Elinor did notwish on ordinary occasions for too many private talks between her motherand Phil. They rubbed each other the wrong way, they did not understandeach other, words seemed to mean different things in their comprehensionof them. She knew that her lover would laugh at "the old girl, " whichwas a phrase which offended Elinor deeply, and Mrs. Dennistoun wouldbecome stiffer and stiffer, declaring that the very language of theyounger generation had become unintelligible to her. But to hear themnow together was a kind of anodyne to Elinor, it stayed and calmedher. The cold moisture dried from her forehead. She smoothed her hairinstinctively with her hand, and put herself straight in mind as she didwith that involuntary action in outward appearance, feeling that no signof agitation, no trouble of demeanour must meet her mother's eye. Andthen the voices came so near that she could hear what they were saying. They were coming amicably together to her favourite retreat. 

"It's a very queer thing, " said Phil, "if it is as they think, thatsomebody went there the night before last and cleared off the books. Well, not all the books, some that are supposed to contain the secrettransactions. Deucedly cleverly done it must have been, if it was doneat all, for nobody saw the fellow, or fellows, if there were more thanone----"

"Why do you doubt?" said Mrs. Dennistoun. "Is there any way ofaccounting for it otherwise?"

"Oh, a very good way--that Brown, the manager, simply took them withhim, as he would naturally do, if he wasn't a fool. Why should he go offand leave papers that would convict him, for the pleasure of involvingother fellows, and ruining them too?"

"Are there others, then, involved with him?" Oh, how calm, howinconceivably calm, was Mrs. Dennistoun's voice! Had she been asking thegardener about the slugs that eat the young plants it would have beenmore disturbed. 

"Well, Stanfield seemed to think so. He's a sort of head clerk, a fellowenormously trusted. I shouldn't wonder if he was at the bottom of ithimself, they're so sure of him, " said Phil, with a laugh. "He saysthere's a kind of suspicion of two or three. Clumsy wretches they mustbe if they let themselves be found out like that. But I don't believeit. I believe Brown's alone in it, and that it's him that's takeneverything away. I believe it's far the safest way in those kind ofdodges to be alone. You get all the swag, and you're in no danger ofbeing rounded on, don't you know--till you find things are getting toohot, and you cut away. "

"I don't understand the words you use, but I think I know what youmean, " said Mrs. Dennistoun. "How dreadful it is to think that inbusiness, where honesty is the very first principle, there should besuch terrible plots and plans as those!"

"'Tis awful, isn't it?" said Phil, with a laugh that seemed to ring alldown the combe, and came back in echoes from the opposite slope, wherein the distance the cab from the station was seen hastening back towardsthe railway in a cloud of dust. The laugh was like a trumpet of triumphflung across the distance at the discomfited enemy thus going offdrooping in the hurry of defeat. He added, "But you may imagine, even ifI had known anything, he wouldn't have got much out of me. I didn't knowanything, however, I'm very glad to say. "

"That is always the best, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, with a certain gravedidactic tone. "And here is Elinor, as I thought. When one cannot findher anywhere else she's sure to be found here. "

CHAPTER XII. 

"Well, " said Compton, placing himself beside her, "here you are, Nell;kind of the old lady to bring me, wasn't it? I should never have foundyou out by myself. "

"Has he gone, Phil?" Elinor raised her scared face from her hands, andgave him a piteous look. 

"Why, Nell! you are trembling like a leaf. Was it frightened, my prettypet, for Stanny? Stanny's gone off with his tail between his legs. Not abit of starch left in him. As limp a lawyer as ever you saw. "

"Was he a lawyer?" she said, not knowing why she said it, for itmattered nothing at all to Elinor what the man was. 

"Not exactly; and yet, I suppose, something of the kind. He is the onethat knows about law points, and such things. But now he's as quiet as alamb, thanks to you. "

"Phil, " she cried, "what did you make me say? I don't know what I havedone. I have done something dreadful--deceived the man, as good as toldhim a lie. "

"You told him the truth, " said Phil, with a laugh, "in the mostjudgmatical way. You stuck to it like a--woman. There's nothing like awoman for sticking to a text. You didn't say a word too much. And I say, Nell, that little defiant bit of yours--'Was there any reason why itshouldn't be the sixth?' was grand. That was quite magnificent, my pet. I never thought you had such spirit in you. "

"Oh, Phil, " she cried, "why did you make me say it? What was it I said?I don't know; I don't understand a bit. Whatever it was, I know that itwas wrong. I deceived the man. "

"That's not so great a sin, " he said. "I've known worse things done. Putan old reynard off the scent to save his prey. I don't see what's wrongin that, especially as the innocent chicken to be saved was your ownpoor old Phil. "

"Phil, Phil, " she cried, "what could that man have done to you? What hadput you in his power? You have made me lose all my innocence. I have gothorrible things in my head. What could he have done to you that you mademe tell a lie?"

"What lie did I make you tell? be reasonable; I did arrive on the sixth, you know that just as well as I do. Don't you really remember thecalendar in the hall? You saw it, Nell, as well as I. "

"I know, I know, " she cried, putting her hands up to her eyes, "I see iteverywhere staring at me, that big, dreadful 6. But how is it the 8thnow? There is something in it--something I don't understand. "

He laughed loudly and long: one of those boisterous laughs which alwaysjarred upon Elinor. "I don't in the least mind how it was, " he said. "Itwas, and that's quite enough for me; and let it be for you too, Nell. Ihope you're not going to search into the origin of things like this;we've quite enough to do in this world to take things as they come. "

"Oh, Phil! if at least I could understand--I don't understand: or if Ihad not been made to say what is so mysterious--what must be false. "

"Hush, Nell; how could it be false when you saw with your own eyes itwas true? Now let us be done with this, my darling. The incident isterminated, as the French say. I came here as fast as I could come tohave a good laugh with you over it, and lo! you're nearer crying. Whyshould you have Stanny on your conscience, Nell? a fellow that wouldlike no better than to hang me if he could get the chance. "

"But Phil, Phil--oh, tell me, what could this man have done to you? Whyare you afraid of him? Why, why have you made me tell him----"

"Now, Nell, no exaggerated expression. It was a fact you told him, according to the best of evidence; and what he could have done to me isjust this--he might have given me a deal of trouble, and put off ourmarriage. I should have had to go back to town, and my time would havebeen taken up with finding out about those books, and our marriage wouldhave been put off; that's what he could have done. "

"Is that all?" cried Elinor, "was that all?"

"All!" he said, with that loud laugh again; "you don't mind a bit howyou hurt a fellow's pride, and his affections, and all that. Do you meanto say, you hard-hearted little coquette, that you wouldn't mind? Idon't believe you would mind! Here am I counting the hours, and you, youlittle cold puss, you aggravating little----"

"Oh, Phil, don't talk such nonsense. If we were to be separated, for aweek or a month, what could that matter, in comparison with saying whatwasn't----"

"Hush, " he said, putting his hand to her mouth. "It's not nice of youto take it so easily, Nell. I'd tell as many what-d'ye-call-'ems asyou like, rather than put it off an hour. Why, feeling apart (and Idon't think you've any feeling, you little piece of ice), think howinconvenient it would have been; the people all arriving; the breakfastall ready; the Rector with his surplice on; and no wedding! Fancy theJew with all her fallals, on the old lady's hands, and your cousinJohn----"

"I have told you already, Phil, my cousin John will not be there. "

"So much the better, " he said, with a laugh, "I don't want him to bethere--shows his sense, when his nose is put out of joint, to keep outof the way. "

"I wish you would understand, " she said, with a little vexation, "thatJohn is not put out of joint, as you say in that odious way. He hasnever been anything more to me, nor I to him, than we are now--likebrother and sister. "

"The more fool he, " said Compton, "to have the chance of a nice girllike you, Nell, and not to go in for it. But I don't believe a bit inthe brother and sister dodge. "

"We will be just the same all our lives, " cried Elinor. 

"Not if I know it, " said Phil. "I'm an easy-going fellow in most ways, but you'll find I'm an old Turk about you, my little duck of a Nell. Noamateur brother for me. If you can't get along with your old Phil, without other adorers----"

"Phil! as if I should ever think or care whether there was another manin the world!"

"Oh, that's going too far, " he said, laughing. "I shan't mind a littleflirtation. You may have a man or two in your train to fetch and carry, get your shawl for you, and call your carriage, and so forth; but noserious old hand, Nell--nothing to remind you that there was a time whenyou didn't know Phil Compton. " His laugh died away at this point, andfor a moment his face assumed that grave look which changed itscharacter so much. "If you don't come to repent before then that youever saw that fellow's ugly face, Nell----"

"Phil, how could I ever repent? Nobody but you should dare to say such athing to me!"

"I believe that, " he said. "If that old John of yours tried it on----Well, my pet, he is your old John. You can't change facts, even if youdo throw the poor fellow over. Now, here's a new chance for all of them, Nell. I shouldn't wonder a bit if you had another crop of lettersbidding you look before you leap. That Rectory woman, what's her name?that knows my family. You'll see she'll have some new story before we'reclear of her. They'll never stop blackguarding me, I know, until you'rePhil Compton yourself, my beauty. I wish that day was come. I'm afraidto go off again and leave you, Nell. They'll be putting something intoyour head, or the old lady's. Let's get it over to-morrow morning, andcome to Ireland with me; you've never been there. "

"Phil, what nonsense! mamma would go out of her senses. "

"My pet, what does it matter? She'd come back to them again as soon aswe were gone, and think what a botheration spared her! All the row ofreceiving people, turning the house upside down. And here I am on thespot. And what do you want with bridesmaids and so forth? You've got allyour things. Suppose we walk out to church to-morrow before breakfast, Nell----"

"Phil, you are mad, I think; and why should we do such a thing, scandalizing everybody? But of course you don't mean it. You are excitedafter seeing that man. "

"Excited about Stanny!--not such a fool; Stanny is all square, thanksto---- But what I want is just to take you up in my arms, like this, andrun off with you, Nell. Why we should call the whole world to watch uswhile we take that swing off--into space. "

"Phil!"

"So it is, for you, Nell. You don't know a bit what's going to happen. You don't know where I'm going to take you, and what I'm going to dowith you, you little innocent lamb in the wolf's grip. I want to eat youup, straight off. I shall be afraid up to the last moment that you'llescape me, Nell. "

"I did not know that you were so fond of innocence, " said Elinor, halfafraid of her lover's vehemence, and trying to dispel his gravity with alaugh. "You used to say you did not believe in the _ingénue_. "

"I believe in you, " he said, with an almost fierce pressure of her arm;then, after a pause, "No, I don't believe in women at all, Nell, onlyyou. They're rather worse than men, which is saying a good deal. Whatwould the Jew care if we were all drawn and quartered; so long as shehad all her paraphernalia about her and got everything she wanted? Forright-down selfishness commend me to a woman. A fellow may have gleamsof something better about him, like me, warning you against myself. "

"It is a droll way of warning me against yourself to want to carry meoff to-morrow. "

"It's all the same thing, " he said. "I've warned you that those old hagsare right, and I'm not good enough for you, not fit to come near you, Nell. But if the sacrifice is to be, let's get it over at once, don'tlet us stand and think of it. I'm capable of jilting you, " he said, "leaving you _planté là_, all out of remorse of conscience; or else justcatching you up in my arms, like this, and carrying you off, never to beseen more. "

"You are very alarming, " said Elinor. "I don't know what you mean. Youcan be off with your bargain if you please, Phil; but you had bettermake up your mind at once, so that mamma may countermand her invitations, and stop Gunter from sending the cake. "

(It was Gunter who was the man in those days. I believe people go toBuszard now. )

He gave her again a vehement hug, and burst into a laugh. "I might jiltyou, Nell; such a thing is on the cards. I might leave you in the lurchat the church door; but when you talk of countermanding the cake, Ican't face that situation. Society would naturally be up in arms aboutthat. So you must take your chance like the other innocents. I'll eatyou up as gently as I can, and hide my tusks as long as it's possible. Come on, Nell, don't let us sit here and get the mopes, and think of ourconsciences. Come and see if that show is in the village. Life's betterthan thinking, old girl. "

"Do you call the show in the village, life?" she said, half pleased torouse him, half sorry to be thus carried away. 

"Every show is life, " said Phil, "and everywhere that people meet isbetter than anywhere where you're alone. Mind you take in that axiom, Nell. It's our rule of life, you know, among the set you're marryinginto. That's how the Jew gets on. That's how we all get on. By this timenext year you'll be well inured into it like all the rest. That's whatyour Rector never taught you, I'll be bound; but you'll see the oldfellow practises it whenever he has a chance. Why, there they begin, tootle-te-too. Come on, Nell, and don't let us lose the fun. "

He drew her along hastily, hurrying while the flute and the drum beganto perform their parts. Sound spreads far in that tranquil country, where no railway was visible, and where the winds for the moment werestill. It was Pan's pipes that were being played, attracting a fewstragglers from the scattered houses. Within a hundred yards from thechurch, at the corner of four roads, stood the Bull's Head, with acottage or two linked on to its long straggling front. And this was allthat did duty for a village at Windyhill. The Rectory stood back in itsown copse, surrounded by a growth of young birches and oak near thechurch. The Hills dwelt intermediate between the Bull's Head and theecclesiastical establishment. The school and schoolmaster's house werebehind the Bull. The show was surrounded by the children of the place, who looked on silent with ecstasy, while a burly showman piped his pipesand beat his drum. A couple of ostlers, with their shirt-sleeves rolledup to their shoulders, and one of them with a pail in his hand, stoodarrested in their work. And in the front of the spectators was AlickHudson, a sleepy-looking youth of twenty, who started and took his handsout of his pockets at sight of Elinor. Mr. Hudson himself came walkingbriskly round the corner, swinging his cane with the air of a man whowas afraid of being too late. 

"Didn't I tell you?" said Compton, pressing Elinor's arm. 

As the tootle-te-too went on, other spectators appeared--the two MissHills, one putting on her hat, the other hastily buttoning her jacket asthey hurried up. "Oh, you here, Elinor! What fun! We all run as if wewere six years old. I'm going to engage the man to come round and do itopposite Rosebank to amuse mother. She likes it as much as any of us, though she doesn't see very well, poor dear, nor hear either. But wemust always consider that the old have not many amusements, " said theelder Miss Hill. 

"Though mother amuses herself wonderfully with her knitting, " said MissSarah. "There's a sofa-cover on the stocks for you, Elinor. "

It appeared to be only at this moment that the sisters became aware ofthe presence of "the gentleman" by whom Elinor stood. They had been toobusy with their uncompleted toilettes to observe him at first. But nowthat Miss Hill's hat was settled to her satisfaction, and the blue veiltied over her face as she liked it to be, and Miss Sarah had at lastsucceeded, after two false starts, in buttoning her jacket straight, their attention was released for other details. They both gave a glanceover Elinor at the tall figure on the other side, and then looked ateach other with a mutual little "Oh!" and nod of recognition. Then MissHill took the initiative as became her dignity. "I hope you are going tointroduce us to your companion, Elinor, " she said. "Oh, Mr. Compton, howdo you do? We are delighted to make your acquaintance, I am sure. It ischarming to have an opportunity of seeing a person of so much importanceto us all, our dear Elinor's intended. I hope you know what a prize youare getting. You might have sought the whole country over and youwouldn't have found a girl like her. I don't know how we shall endureyour name when you carry her away. "

"Except, indeed, " said Miss Sarah, "that it will be Elinor's name too. "

"So here we all are again, " said the Rector, gazing down tranquilly uponhis flock, "not able to resist a little histrionic exhibition--and Mr. Compton too, fresh from the great world. I daresay our good friend Mrs. Basset would hand us out some chairs. No Englishman can resist Punch. Alick, my boy, you ought to be at your work. It will not do to neglectyour lessons when you are so near your exam. "

"No Englishman, father, can resist Punch, " said the lad: at which thetwo ostlers and the landlord of the Bull's Head, who was standing withhis hands in his pockets in his own doorway, laughed loud. 

"Had the old fellow there, " said Compton, which was the first observationhe had made. The ladies looked at him with some horror, and Alick alittle flustered, half pleased, half horrified, by this support, whilethe Rector laughed, but stiffly _au bout des lèvres_. He was notaccustomed to be called an old fellow in his own parish. 

"The old fellows, as you elegantly say, Mr. Compton, have always theworst of it in a popular assembly. Elinor, here is a chair for you, mylove. Another one please, Mrs. Basset, for I see Miss Dale coming upthis way. "

"By Jove, " said Compton, under his breath. "Elinor, here's the one thatknows society. I hope she isn't such an old guy as the rest. "

"Oh, Phil, be good!" said Elinor, "or let us go away, which would be thebest. "

"Not a bit, " he said. "Let's see the show. I say, old man, where are youfrom last?"

"Down from Guildford ways, guv'nor--awful bad trade; not taken a bob, s' help me, not for three days, and bed and board to get off o' that, me and my mate. "

"Well, here is a nice little party for you, my man, " said the Rector, "it is not often you have such an audience--nor would I encourage it, indeed, if it were not so purely English an exhibition. "

"Master, " said the showman, "worst of it is, nobody pays till we've donethe show, and then they goes away, and they've got it, don't you see, and we can't have it back once it's in their insides, and there ain'tnothink then, neither for my mate nor me. "

"Here's for you, old fellow, " said Phil. He took a sovereign from hiswaistcoat pocket and chucked it with his thumbnail into the man's hand, who looked at it with astonished delight, tossed it into the air with agrin, a "thank'ee, gentleman!" and a call to his "mate" who immediatelybegan the ever-exciting, ever-amusing drama. The thrill of sensationwhich ran through the little assembly at this incident was wonderful. The children all turned from Punch to regard with large open eyes andmouths the gentleman who had given a gold sovereign to the showman. Alick Hudson looked at him with a grin of pleasure, a blush of envy onhis face; the Rector, with an expression of horror, slightly shaking hishead; the Miss Hills with admiration yet dismay. "Goodness, Sarah, they'll never come now and do it for a shilling to amuse mother!" theelder of the sisters said. 

Miss Dale came hurrying up while still the sensation lasted. "Here is achair for you, Mary, " said her brother-in-law, "and the play is justgoing to begin. I can't help shaking my head when I think of it, butstill you must hear what has just happened. Mr. Compton, let me presentyou to my sister-in-law, Miss Dale. Mr. Compton has made the widow'sheart, nay, not the widow's, but the showman's heart to sing. He haspresented our friend with a----"

"Mind you, " said Phil, from behind Elinor's shoulders, "I've paid thefellow only for two. "

At which the showman turned and winked at the Rector. To think that sucha piece of audacity could be! A dingy fellow in a velveteen coat, with aspotted handkerchief round his neck, and a battered hat on his unkemptlocks, with Pan's pipes at his mouth and a drum tied round hiswaist--winked at the Rector! Mr. Hudson fell back a step, and his verylips were livid with the indignity. He had to support himself on theback of the chair he had just given to Miss Dale. 

"I think we are all forgetting our different positions in this world, "he said. 

"I ain't, " said the showman, "not taking no advantage through thegentleman's noble ways. He's a lord, he is, I don't make no doubt. Andwe're paid. Take the good of it, Guv'nor, and welcome; all them as ishere is welcome. My mate and I are too well paid. A gentleman like thatgood gentleman, as is sweet upon a pretty young lady, and an open 'earta-cause of her, I just wish we could find one at every station; don'tyou, Joe?"

Joe assented, in the person of Mr. Punch, with a horrible squeak fromwithin the tent. 

The sensations of Elinor during this episode were peculiar and full ofmingled emotion. It is impossible to deny that she was proud of theeffect produced by her lover. The sovereign chucked into the showman'shand was a cheap way of purchasing a little success, and yet it dazzledElinor, and made her eyelids droop and her cheek light up with theglow of pleasure. Amid all the people who would search for pennies, or perhaps painfully and not without reluctance produce a sixpenceto reward the humble artists, there was something in the carelessfamiliarity and indifference which tossed a gold coin at them which wascalculated to charm the youthful observer. Elinor felt the same mixtureof pleasure and envy which had moved Alick Hudson; yet it was not envy, for was not he her own who did this thing which she would have liked tohave done herself, overwhelming the poor tramps with delight? Elinorknew, as Alick also did, that it would never have occurred to her to doit. She would have been glad to be kind to the poor men, to give them agood meal, to speak to Basset at the Bull's Head in their favour thatthey might be taken in for the night and made comfortable, but to openher purse and take a real sovereign from it, a whole potential pound, would not have come into her head. Had such a thing been done, forinstance, by the united subscriptions of the party, in case of somepeculiarly touching situation, the illness of a wife, the loss of achild, it would have been done solemnly, the Rector calling the men up, making a little speech to them, telling them how all the ladies andgentlemen had united to make up this, and how they must be careful notto spend it unworthily. Elinor thought she could see the little scene, and the Rector improving the occasion. Whereas Phil spun the moneythrough the air into the man's ready hand as if it had been a joke, atrick of agility. Elinor saw that everybody was much impressed with theincident, and her heart went forth upon a flood of satisfaction andcontent. And it was no premeditated triumph. It was so noble, soaccidental, so entirely out of his good heart!

When he hurried her home at the end of the performance, that Mrs. Dennistoun might not be kept waiting, the previous events of theafternoon, and all that happened in the copse and garden, had faded outof Elinor's mind. She forgot Stanfield and the 6th and everything aboutit. Her embarrassment and trouble were gone. She went in gayly and toldher mother all about this wonderful incident. "The Rector was trying fora sixpence. But, mamma, Phil must not be so ready with his sovereigns, must he? We shall have nothing to live upon if he goes chuckingsovereigns at every Punch and Judy he may meet. "

CHAPTER XIII. 

Phil Compton went off next morning by an early train, having in themeanwhile improved the impression of him left upon the family ingeneral, and specially upon Mrs. Dennistoun, to whom he had talked withenthusiasm about Elinor, expressed indeed in terms unusual to her ears, but perhaps only more piquant on that account, which greatly conciliatedthe mother. "Don't you think, " said the Honourable Phil, "because Ispeak a little free and am not one for tall talk, that I don't knowwhat she is. I've got no poetry in me, but for the freest goer and thehighest spirit, without a bit of vice in her, there never was one likeNell. The girls of my set, they're not worthy to tie her shoes--thing Imost regret is taking her among a lot that are not half good enough forher. But you can't help your relations, can you? and you have to stickto them for dozens of reasons. There's the Jew, when you know her she'snot such a bad sort--not generous, as you may see from what she's givenNell, the old screw: but yet in her own way she stands by a fellow, andwe'll need it, not having just the Bank of England behind us. Herhusband, old Prestwich, isn't bad for a man that has made his own money, and they've got a jolly house, always something going on. "

"But I hope, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, "that as soon as these autumn visitsare over you will have a house of your own. "

"Oh, that!" said Compton, with a wave of his hand, which left it in somedoubt whether he was simply throwing off the suggestion, or treating itas a foregone conclusion of which there could be no doubt. "Nell, " hewent on, "gets on with the Jew like a house on fire--you see they don'tclash. Nell ain't one of the mannish sort, and she doesn't flirt--atleast not as far as I've seen----"

"I should hope not, indeed, " said Mrs. Dennistoun. 

"Oh, I'm not one of your curmudgeons. Where's the harm? But she don't, and there's an end of it. She keeps herself to herself, and lets the Jewgo ahead, and think she's the attraction. And she'll please the old lorddown to the ground. For he's an old-fashioned old coon, and likes whathe calls _tenue_, don't you know: but the end is, there ain't one ofthem that can hold a candle to Nell. And I should not wonder a bit ifshe made a change in the lot of us. Conversion of a family by theinfluence of a pious wife, don't you know. Sort of thing that they maketracts out of. Capital thing, it would be, " said Phil, philosophically, "for some of us have been going a pace----"

"Mr. Compton, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, solemnly, "I don't understand verywell what you mean by these phrases. They may be much more innocentthan they seem to a country lady's ears. But I implore you to keep myElinor clear of anything that you call going the pace. It must meansomething very unlike her, whatever it means. She has been used to avery quiet, orderly life. Don't hurry her off into a whirl of society, or among noisy gay people. Indeed I can assure you that the more youhave her to herself the more you will be happy in her. She is thebrightest companion, the most entertaining---- Oh, Mr. Compton!"

"I think it's about time, now, mater, to call me Phil. "

She smiled, with the tears in her eyes, and held out her hand. "Philip, then, " she said, "to make a little difference. Now remember what I say. It is only in the sacredness of her home that you will know what is inElinor. One is never dull with her. She has her own opinions--her brightway of looking at things--as you know. It is, perhaps, a strange thingfor a mother to say, but she will amuse you, Philip; she is suchcompany. You will never be dull with Elinor: she has so much in her, which will come out in society, it is true, but never so brightly asbetween you two alone. "

This did not seem to have quite the effect upon the almost-bridegroomwhich the mother intended. "Perhaps" (she said to herself), "he was alittle affected by the thought" (which she kept so completely out of theconversation) "of the loss she herself was about to undergo. " At allevents, his face was not so bright as in the vision of that sweetprospect held before him it ought to have been. 

"The fact is, " he said, "she knows a great deal more than I do, or everwill. It's she that will be the one to look blue when she finds herselfalone with a fool of a follow that doesn't know a book from a brick. That's the thing I'm most afraid---- As for society, she can have herpick of that, " he added, brightening up, "I'll not bind her down. "

"You may be sure she'll prefer you to all the world. "

He shrugged his shoulders a little. 

"They say it's always a leap in the dark, " he said, "for how's she toknow the sort of fellow I am with what she sees of me here? But Ipromise you I'll do my best to take her in, and keep her in thatdelusion, for her good--making believe to be all that's virtuous: andperhaps not a bad way--some of it may stick. Come, mater, don't look sohorrified. I'm not of the Cousin John sort, but there may be somethingdecent in me after all. "

"I am sure, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, "that you will try to make her happy, Philip. " She was crying by this time, which was a thing very odious toPhil. He took her by both hands and gave her a hearty kiss, which was athing for which she was not at all prepared. 

"I'll do by her----" he said, with a murmur which sounded like an oath, "as well as I know how. "

Perhaps this was not the very greatest comfort to her mother, but it wasthe best she was at all likely to get from a man so entirely differentin all ways from her own species. She had her cry out quietly while hewent off to get his bag. The pony carriage was at the door in whichElinor was to drive him to the station, and a minute after Mrs. Dennistoun heard his voice in the hall calling to his Nell, his oldgirl, in terms which went against all the mother's prejudices of softand reverent speech. To have her carefully-trained child, her Elinor, whom every one had praised and honoured, her maiden-princess so highapart from all such familiarity, addressed so, gave the old-fashionedlady a pang. It meant nothing but love and kindness, she said toherself. He reverenced Elinor as much as it was in such a man to do. Hemeant with all his heart to do by her as well as he knew how. It was asfantastic to object to his natural language as it would be to object toa Frenchman speaking French. That was his tongue, the only utterance heknew---- She dried her eyes and went out to the door to see them start. The sun was blazing over all the brilliant autumnal colours Of thegarden, though it was still full and brilliant summer in the Septembermorning, and only the asters and dahlias replacing the roses betrayedthe turn of the season. And nothing could be more bright than the faceof Elinor as she sat in the homely little carriage, with the reinsgathered up in her hand. He was going away, indeed, but in a week he wascoming back. Philip, as Mrs. Dennistoun now called him with dignity, yeta little beginning of affection, packed up his long limbs as well as hecould in the small space. "I believe she'll spill us on the road, " hesaid, "or bring back the shandrydan with a hole in it. "

"There is too much of you, Phil, " said Elinor, giving the staid pony aquiet touch. 

"I should like some of those fellows to see me, " he said, "joggled offto market like a basket of eggs; but don't smash me, Nell, on the way. "

Mrs. Dennistoun stood on the steps looking after them, or rather, listening after them, for they had soon turned the corner of the houseand were gone. She heard them jogging over the stony road, and the soundof their voices in the air for a long time after they were out ofsight--the air was so still and so close, nothing in it to break thesound. The atmosphere was all sunshine, not a cloud upon the sky, scarcely a breath stirring over those hill-tops, which had almost theeffect of a mountainous landscape, being the highest ground in all thevisible space. Along the other side of the combe, where the road becamevisible, there were gleams of heather brilliant under the dark foliageof the firs. She sat down in the porch and waited to see them pass;there was a sorrowful background to her thoughts, but for the moment shewas not actually sad, if perhaps a little forlorn. They had gone awayleaving her alone, but yet in an hour or two Elinor was coming back. Time enough to think of the final parting. Next week Elinor would go andwould not return. Mrs. Dennistoun held on by both hands to to-day andwould not think of that future, near as it was. She waited in a hush offeeling, so near to great commotions of the heart and mind, but holdingthem at a distance in a suspense of all thought, till the shandrydanappeared in the opening of the road. They were thinking of her, for shesaw a gleam of white, the waving of a handkerchief, as the littlecarriage trundled along the road, and for a moment the tears againblinded her eyes. But Mrs. Dennistoun was very reasonable. She gotup from the cottage porch after the pony carriage had passed in thedistance, with that determination to make the best of it, which is theinspiration of so many women's lives. 

And what a drive the others had through the sunshine--or at leastElinor! You can never tell by what shadows a man's thoughts may behaunted, who is a man of the world, and has had many other things tooccupy him besides this vision of love. But the girl had no shadows. Theparting which was before her was not near enough to harm as yet, andshe was still able to think, in her ignorance of the world, that evenparting was much more in appearance than in reality, and that she wouldalways be running home, always going upon long visits brighteningeverything, instead of saddening. But even had she been going to the endof the world with her husband next week, Elinor would still have beenhappy to-day. The sunshine itself was enough to go to any one's head, and the pony stepped out so that Phil had the grace to be ashamed of hisreflections upon "the old girl. " They got to the station too early forthe train, and had half an hour's stroll together, with all the railwayporters looking on admiring. They all knew Miss Dennistoun from herchildhood, and they were interested in her "young man. "

"And to think you will be in Ireland to-morrow, " said Elinor, "over thesea, with the Channel between us--in another island!"

"I don't see much that's wonderful in that, " said Phil, "the boat goesevery day. "

"Oh, there's nothing wonderful about the boat. Hundreds might go, and Ishouldn't mind, but you---- It's strange to think of your going off intoa world I don't know at all--and then coming back. "

"To take you off to that world you don't know, Nell; and then the timewill come when you will know it as well as I do, and more, too; and beable to set me down in my proper place. "

"What is your proper place? Your place will always be the same. Phil, you've been so good to me this time; you've made everybody like you so. Mamma--that's the best of all. She was a little--I can't say jealous, that is not the right word, but uncertain and frightened--which justmeans that she did not know you, Phil; now you've condescended to letyourself be known. "

"Have I, Nell? I've had more luck than meaning if that's so. "

"'Tis that you've condescended to let yourself be known. A man has suchodious pride. He likes to show himself all on the wrong side, to bravepeople's opinions--as if it was better to be liked for the badness inyou than for the goodness in you!"

"What's the goodness in me, Nell? I'd like to know, and then I can haveit ready in other emergencies and serve it out as it is wanted. "

"Oh, Phil! the goodness in you is--yourself. You can't help being nicewhen you throw off those society airs. When you are talking withMariamne and all that set of people----"

"Why can't you call her Jew? life is too short to say all thosesyllables. "

"I don't like you to call her Jew. It's unkind. I don't think shedeserves it. It's a sort of an insult. "

"Shut up, Nell. It's her name and that's enough. Mar-ry-am-ne! It's abeast of a name to begin with. And do you think any of us has got timeto say as much as that for one woman? Oh, I suppose I'm fond of her--asmen are of their sisters. She is not a bad sort--mean as her name, andnever fond of parting with her money--but stands by a fellow in a kindof a way all the same. "

"I'll never call her Jew, " said Elinor; "and, Phil, all this wonderfulamount of things you have to do is simply--nothing. What do you everdo? It is the people who do things that have time to spare. I knowone----"

"Don't come down on me, Nell, again with that eternal Cousin John. "

"Phil! I never think of him till you put him into my head. I wasthinking of a gentleman who writes----"

"Rubbish, Nell! What have I to do with men that write, or you either? Weare none of us of that sort. I do what my set do, and more--for therewas this director business; and I should never mind a bit of work thatwas well paid, like attending Board meetings and so forth, or signing myname to papers. "

"What, without reading them, Phil?"

"Don't come over a fellow with your cleverness, Nell! I am not a reader;but I should take good care I knew what was in the papers before Isigned them, I can tell you. Eh! you'd like me to slave, to get youluxuries, you little exacting Nell. "

"Yes, Phil, " she said, "I'd like to think you were working for ourliving. I should indeed. It seems somehow so much finer--so real a life. And I should work at home. "

"A great deal you would work, " he said, laughing, "with those scrapsof fingers! Let's hear what you would do--bits of little pictures, orimpossible things in pincushions, or so forth--and walk out in your mostbecoming bonnet to force them down some poor shop-keeper's throat?"

"Phil!" she said, "how contemptuous you are of my efforts. But I neverthought of either sketches or pincushions. I should work at home to keepthe house nice--to look after the servants, and guide the cook, and seethat you had nice dinners. "

"And warm my slippers by the parlour fire, " said Phil. "That's toodomestic, Nell, for you and me. "

"But we are going to be very domestic, Phil. "

"Are we? Not if I knows it; yawn our heads off, and get to hate oneanother. Not for me, Nell. You'll find yourself up to the eyes inengagements before you know where you are. No, no, old girl, you may doa deal with me, but you don't make a domestic man of Phil Compton. Timeenough for that when we've had our fling. "

"I don't want any fling, Phil, " she said, clinging a little closer tohis arm. 

"But I do, my pet, in the person of Benedick the married man. Don't youthink I want to show all the fellows what a stunning little wife I'vegot? and all the women I used to flirt with----"

"Did you use to flirt much with them, Phil?"

"You didn't think I flirted with the men, did you? like you did, " saidPhil, who was not particular about his grammar. "I want to show you offa bit. Nell. When we go down to the governor's, there you can be asdomestic as you like. That's the line to take with him, and pays too ifyou do it well. "

"Oh, don't talk as if you were always calculating for your advantage, "she said, "for you are not, Phil. You are not a prudent person, but ahorrid, extravagant spendthrift; if you go on chucking sovereigns aboutas you did yesterday. "

"Well, " he said, laughing, "wasn't it well spent? Didn't I make yourRector open his old eyes, and stop the mouths of the old maids? I don'tthrow away sovereigns in a general way, Nell, only when there's apurpose in it. But I think I did them all finely that time--had them ontoast, eh?"

"You made an impression, if that is what you mean; but I confess Ithought you did it out of kindness, Phil. "

"To the Punch and Judy? catch me! Sovereigns ain't plentiful enough forthat. You little exacting thing, ain't you pleased, when I did it toplease you, and get you credit among your friends?"

"It was very kind of you, I'm sure, Phil, " she said, very soberly, "butI should so much rather you had not thought of that. A shilling wouldhave done just as well and they would have got a bed at the Bull'sHead, and been quite kindly treated. Is this your train coming? It's alittle too soon, I think. "

"Thanks for the compliment, Nell. It is really late, " he said, lookingat his watch, "but the time flies, don't it, pet, when you and I aretogether? Here, you fellow, put my bag in a smoking carriage. And now, you darling, we've got to part; only for a little time, Nell. "

"Only for a week, " she said, with a smile and a tear. 

"Not so long--a rush along the rail, a blow on the sea, and then backagain; I shall only be a day over there, and then--bless you, Nell. Good-bye--take care of yourself, my little duck: take care of yourselffor me. "

"Good-bye, " said Elinor, with a little quiver of her lip. A parting at aroadside station is a very abrupt affair. The train stops, the passengeris shoved in, there is a clanging of the doors, and in a moment it isgone. She had scarcely realized that the hour had come before he waswhirled off from her, and the swinging line of carriages disappearedround the next curve. She stood looking vaguely after it till the oldporter came up, who had known her ever since she was a child. 

"Beg your pardon, miss, but the pony is a-waiting, " he said. And then heuttered his sympathy in the form of a question:--"Coming back very soon, miss, ain't the gentleman?" he said. 

"Oh, yes; very soon, " she said, rousing herself up. 

"And if I may make bold to say it, miss, " said the porter, "anopen-hearted gentleman as ever I see. There's many as gives us athreepenny for more than I've done for 'im. And look at what he's giveme, " he said, showing the half-crown in his hand. 

Did he do that from calculation to please her, ungracious girl as shewas, who was so hard to please? But he never could have known thatshe would see it. She walked through the little station to the ponycarriage, feeling that all the eyes of the people about were upon her. They were all sympathetic, all equally aware that she had just partedwith her lover: all ready to cheer her, if she had given them anopportunity, by reminding her of his early return. The old porterfollowed her out, and assisted at her ascent into the pony carriage. Hesaid, solemnly, "And an 'andsome gentleman, miss, as ever I see, " as hefastened the apron over her feet. She gave him a friendly nod as shedrove away. 

How dreadful it is to be so sensitive, to receive a wound so easily!Elinor was vexed more than she could say by her lover's denial of thereckless generosity with which she had credited him. To think that hehad done it in order to produce the effect which had given her sodistinct a sensation of pleasure changed that effect into absolutepain. And yet in the fantastic susceptibility of her nature, there wassomething in old Judkin's half-crown which soothed her again. A shillingwould have been generous, Elinor said to herself, with a feminineappreciation of the difference of small things as well as great, whereashalf-a-crown was lavish--ergo, he gave the sovereign also out of naturalprodigality, as she had hoped, not out of calculation as he said. Shedrove soberly home, thinking over all these things in a mood verydifferent from that triumphant happiness with which she started fromthe cottage with Phil by her side. The sunshine was still as bright, but it had taken an air of routine and commonplace to Elinor. It hadcome to be only the common day, not the glory and freshness of themorning. She felt herself, as she had never done before, on the edge ofa world unknown, where everything would be new to her, where--it waspossible--that which awaited her might not be unmixed happiness, mighteven be the reverse. It is seldom that a girl on the eve of marriageeither thinks this or acknowledges to herself that she thinks it. Elinordid so involuntarily, without thinking upon her thought. Perhaps itwould not be unmixed happiness. Strange clouds seemed to hang upon thehorizon, ready to roll up in tragic darkness and gloom. Oh, no, nottragic, only commonplace, she said to herself; opaqueness, notblackness. But yet it was ominous and lowering, that distant sky. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

The days of the last week hurried along like the grains of sand out ofan hour-glass when they are nearly gone. It is true that almosteverything was done--a few little bits of stitching, a few things stillto be "got up" alone remaining, a handkerchief to mark with Elinor'sname, a bit of lace to arrange, just enough to keep up a possibilityof something to do for Mrs. Dennistoun in the blank of all otherpossibilities--for to interest herself or to occupy herself aboutanything that should be wanted beyond that awful limit of thewedding-day was of course out of the question. Life seemed to stop therefor the mother, as it was virtually to begin for the child; thoughindeed to Elinor also, notwithstanding her love, it was visible more inthe light of a point at which all the known and certain ended, and wherethe unknown and almost inconceivable began. The curious thing was thatthis barrier which was placed across life for them both, got somehowbetween them in those last days which should have been the most tenderclimax of their intercourse. They had a thousand things to say to eachother, but they said very little. In the evening after dinner, whetherthey went out into the garden together to watch the setting of the youngmoon, or whether they sat together in that room which had witnessed allElinor's commencements of life, free to talk as no one else in the worldcould ever talk to either of them, they said very little to each other, and what they said was of the most commonplace kind. "It is a lovelynight; how clear one can see the road on the other side of the combe!""And what a bright star that is close to the moon! I wish I knew alittle more about the stars. " "They are just as beautiful, " Mrs. Dennistoun would say, "as if you knew everything about them, Elinor. ""Are you cold, mamma? I am sure I can see you shiver. Shall I run andget you a shawl?" "It is a little chilly: but perhaps it will be as wellto go in now, " the mother said. And then indoors: "Do you think you willlike this lace made up as a jabot, Elinor?" "You are giving me all yourpretty things, though you know you understand lace much better than Ido. " "Oh, that doesn't matter, " Mrs. Dennistoun said hurriedly; "that isa taste which comes with time. You will like it as well as I do when youare as old as I am. " "You are not so dreadfully old, mamma. " "No, that'sthe worst of it, " Mrs. Dennistoun would say, and then break out into alaugh. "Look at the shadow that handkerchief makes--how fantastic itis!" she cried. She neither cared for the moon, nor for the quaintnessof the shadows, nor for the lace which she was pulling into dainty foldsto show its delicate pattern--for none of all these things, but for heronly child, who was going from her, and to whom she had a hundred, andyet a hundred, things to say: but none of them ever came from her lips. 

"Mary Dale has not seen your things, Elinor: she asked if she might cometo-morrow. "

"I think we might have had to-morrow to ourselves, mamma--the last dayall by ourselves before those people begin to arrive. "

"Yes, I think so too; but it is difficult to say no, and as she was nothere when the others came---- She is the greatest critic in the parish. She will have so much to say. "

"I daresay it may be fun, " said Elinor, brightening up a little, "andof course anyhow Alice must have come to talk about her dress. I amtired of those bride's-maids' dresses; they are really of so littleconsequence. " Elinor was not vain, to speak of, but she thought itimprobable that when she was there any one would look much at thebride's-maids' dresses. For one thing, to be sure, the bride is alwaysthe central figure, and there were but two bride's-maids, whichdiminished the interest; and then--well, it had to be allowed at the endof all, that, though her closest friends, neither Alice Hudson nor MaryTatham were, to look at, very interesting girls. 

"They are of great consequence to them, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, with thefaintest smile. 

"I didn't mean that, of course, " said Elinor, with a blush; "only Inever should have worried about my own dress, which after all is themost important, as Alice does about hers. "

"Which nobody will look at, " Mrs. Dennistoun said. 

"I did not say that: but to tell the truth, it is a pity for the girlsthat the men will not quite be, just of their world, you know. Oh, mamma, you know it is not that I think anything of that, but I am sorryfor Alice and Mary. Mr. Bolsover and the other gentlemen will not takethat trouble which country neighbours, or--or John's friends from theTemple might have done. "

"Why do you speak of John's friends from the Temple, Elinor?"

"Mamma! for no reason at all. Why should I? They were the only other menI could think of. "

"Elinor, did John ever give you any reason to think----"

"Mamma, " cried Elinor again, with double vehemence, her countenance allablaze, "of course he never did! how could you think such foolishthings?"

"Well, my dear, " said her mother, "I am very glad he did not; it willprevent any embarrassment between him and you--for I must alwaysbelieve----"

"Don't, please, oh, don't! it would make me miserable; it would take allmy happiness away. "

Mrs. Dennistoun said nothing, but she sighed--a very small, infinitesimalsigh--and there was a moment's silence, during which perhaps that sighpervaded the atmosphere with a sort of breath of what might have been. After a moment she spoke again:

"I hope you have not packed up your ornaments yet, Elinor. You mustleave them to the very last, for Mary would like to see that beautifulnecklace. What do you think you shall wear on the day?"

"Nothing, " said Elinor, promptly. She was about to add, "I have nothinggood enough, " but paused in time. 

"Not my little star? It would look very well, my darling, to fix yourveil on. The diamonds are very good, though perhaps a littleold-fashioned; you might get them reset. But--your father gave it melike that. "

"I would not change it a bit, mamma, for anything in the world. "

"Thanks, my dearest. I thought that was how you would feel about it. Itis not very big, of course, but it really is very good. "

"Then I will wear it, mamma, if it will please you, but nothing else. "

"It would please me: it would be like having something from your father. I think we had less idea of ornaments in my day. I cannot tell you howproud I was of my diamond star. I should like to put it in for youmyself, Elinor. "

"Oh, mamma!" This was the nearest point they had come to that outburstof two full hearts which both of them would have called breaking down. Mrs. Dennistoun saw it and was frightened. She thought it would bebetraying to Elinor what she wished her never to know, the unspeakabledesolation to which she was looking forward when her child was takenfrom her. Elinor's exclamation, too, was a protest against the imminentbreaking down. They both came back with a hurry, with a panting breath, to safer ground. 

"Yes, that's what I regret, " she said. "Mr. Bolsover and Harry Comptonwill laugh a little at the Rectory. They will not be so--nice as youngmen of their own kind. "

"The Rectory people are just as well born as any of us, Elinor. "

"Oh, precisely, mamma: I know that; but we too---- It is what they calla different _monde_. I don't think it is half so nice a _monde_, " saidthe girl, feeling that she had gone further than she intended to do;"but you know, mamma----"

"I know, Elinor: but I scarcely expected from you----"

"Oh, " cried Elinor again, in exasperation, "if you think that I sharethat feeling! I think it odious, I think their _monde_ is vulgar, nasty, miserable! I think----"

"Don't go too far the other way, Elinor. Your husband will be of it, andyou must learn to like it. You think, perhaps, all that is new to me?"

"No, " said Elinor, her bright eyes, all the brighter for tears, fallingbefore her mother's look. "I know, of course, that you have seen--allkinds----"

But she faltered a little, for she did not believe that her mother wasacquainted with Phil's circle and their wonderful ways. 

"They will be civil enough, " she went on, hurriedly, "and as everybodychaffs so much nowadays they will, perhaps, never be found out. But Idon't like it for my friends. "

"They will chaff me also, no doubt, " Mrs. Dennistoun said. 

"Oh, _you_, mamma! they are not such fools as that, " cried poor Elinor;but in her own mind she did not feel confident that there was any suchlimitation to their folly. Mrs. Dennistoun laughed a little to herself, which was, perhaps, more alarming than that other moment when she wasalmost ready to cry. 

"You had better wear Lord St. Serf's ring, " she said, after a moment, with a tone of faint derision which Elinor knew. 

"You might as well tell me, " cried the bride, "to wear Lady Mariamne'srevolving dishes. No, I will wear nothing, nothing but your star. "

"You have got nothing half so nice, " said the mother. Oh yes, it was alittle revenge upon those people who were taking her daughter from her, and who thought themselves at liberty to jeer at all her friends: but aswas perhaps inevitable it touched Elinor a little too. She restrainedherself from some retort with a sense of extreme and almost indignantself-control: though what retort Elinor could have made I cannot tell. It was much "nicer" than anything else she had. None of Phil Compton'sgreat friends, who were not of the same _monde_ as the people atWindyhill, had offered his bride anything to compare with the diamondswhich her father had given to her mother before she was born. And Elinorwas quite aware of the truth of what her mother said. But she would haveliked to make a retort--to say something smart and piquant and witty inreturn. 

And thus the evening was lost, the evening in which there was so much tosay, one of the three only, no more, that were left. 

Miss Dale came next day to see "the things, " and was very amiable: butthe only thing in this visit which affected Elinor's mind was a curiouslittle unexpected assault this lady made upon her when she was goingaway. Elinor had gone out with her to the porch, according to thecourteous usage of the house. But when they had reached that shadyplace, from which the green combe and the blue distance were visible, stretching far into the soft autumnal mists of the evening, Mary Daleturned upon her and asked her suddenly, "What night was it that Mr. Compton came here?"

Elinor was much startled, but she did not lose her self-possession. Allthe trouble about that date had disappeared out of her mind in thestress and urgency of other things. She cast back her mind with aneffort and asked herself what the conflict and uncertainty of which shewas dimly conscious, had been? It came back to her dimly without any ofthe pain that had been in it. "It was on the sixth, " she said quietly, without excitement. She could scarcely recall to her mind what it wasthat had moved her so much in respect to this date only a little timeago. 

"Oh, you must be mistaken, Elinor, I saw him coming up from the station. It was later than that. It was, if I were to give my life for it, Thursday night. "

This was four or five nights before and a haze of uncertainty hadfallen on all things so remote. But Elinor cast her eyes upon thecalendar in the hall and calm possessed her breast. "It was the sixth, "she said with composed tones, as certain as of anything she had everknown in the course of her life. 

"Well, I suppose you must know, " said Mary Dale. 

CHAPTER XV. 

"Look at that, Elinor, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, next day, when she hadread, twice over, a letter, large and emblazoned with a very bigmonogram, which Elinor, well perceiving from whom it came, had furtivelywatched the effect of from behind an exceeding small letter of her own. Phil was not remarkable as a correspondent: his style was that of theprimitive mind which hopes its correspondent is well, "as this leavesme. " He had never much more to say. 

"From Mariamne, mamma?"

"She takes great pains to make us certain of that fact at least, " Mrs. Dennistoun said; which indeed was very true, for the name of the writerwas sprawled in gilt letters half over the sheet. And this was how itran:--

"DEAR MRS. DENNISTOUN, --

"I have been thinking what a great pity it would be to bore you with me, and my maid, and all my belongings. I am so silly that I can never behappy without dragging a lot of things about with me--dogs, and people, and so forth. Going to town in September is dreadful, but it is rather_chic_ to do a thing that is quite out of the way, and one may perhapspick up a little fun in the evening. So if you don't mind, instead ofinflicting Fifine and Bijou and Leocadie, not to mention some peoplethat might be with me, upon you, and putting your house all outof order, as these odious little dogs do when people are not usedto them--I will come down by the train, which I hope arrives quitepunctually, in time to see poor Phil turned off. I am sure you willbe so kind as to send a carriage for me to the railway. We shall beprobably a party of four, and I hear from Phil you are so hospitable andkind that I need not hesitate to bring my friends to breakfast afterit's all over. I hope Phil will go through it like a man, and I wouldn'tfor worlds deprive him of the support of his family. Love to Nell. I am, "Yours truly, "MARIAMNE PRESTWICH. "

"The first name very big and the second very small, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, as she received the letter back. 

"I am sure we are much obliged to her for not coming, mamma!"

"Perhaps--but not for this announcement of her not coming. I don't wishto say anything against your new relations, Elinor----"

"You need not put any restraint upon yourself in consideration of myfeelings, " said Elinor, with a flush of annoyance. 

And this made Mrs. Dennistoun pause. They ate their breakfast, which wasa very light meal, in silence. It was the day before the wedding. Therooms down-stairs had been carefully prepared for Phil's sister. ThoughMrs. Dennistoun was too proud to say anything about it, she had takengreat pains to make these pretty rooms as much like a fine lady'schamber as had been possible. She had put up new curtains, and a Persiancarpet, and looked out of her stores all the pretty things she couldfind to decorate the two rooms of the little apartment. She had gone inon the way down-stairs to take a final survey, and it seemed to her thatthey were very pretty. No picture could have been more beautiful thanthe view from the long low lattice window, in which, as in a frame, wasset the foreground of the copse with its glimpses of ruddy heather andthe long sweep of the heights beyond, which stretched away into theinfinite. That at least could not be surpassed anywhere; and the Persiancarpet was like moss under foot, and the chairs luxurious--and there wasa collection of old china in some open shelves which would have made themouth of an amateur water. Well! it was Lady Mariamne's own loss if shepreferred the chance of picking up a little fun in the evening, tospending the night decorously in that pretty apartment, and makingfurther acquaintance with her new sister. It was entirely, Mrs. Dennistoun said to herself, a matter for her own choice. But she wasmuch affronted all the same. 

"It will be very inconvenient indeed sending a carriage for her, Elinor. Except the carriage that is to take you to church there is none goodenough for this fine lady. I had concluded she would go in your uncleTatham's carriage. It may be very fine to have a Lady Mariamne in one'sparty, but it is a great nuisance to have to change all one'sarrangements at the last moment. "

"If you were to send the wagonette from the Bull's Head, as rough aspossible, with two of the farm horses, she would think it _genre_, ifnot _chic_----"

"I cannot put up with all this nonsense!" cried Mrs. Dennistoun, with aflush on her cheek. "You are just as bad as they are, Elinor, to suggestsuch a thing! I have held my own place in society wherever I have been, and I don't choose to be condescended to or laughed at, in fact, by anyvisitor in the world!"

"Mamma! do you think any one would ever compare you with Mariamne--theJew?"

"Don't exasperate me with those abominable nicknames. They will give youone next. She is an exceedingly ill-bred and ill-mannered woman. Pickingup a little fun in the evening! What does she mean by picking up alittle fun----"

"They will perhaps go to the theatre--a number of them; and as nobody isin town they will laugh very much at the kind of people, and perhaps thekind of play--and it will be a great joke ever after among themselves--forof course there will be a number of them together, " said Elinor, disclosing her acquaintance with the habits of her new family withdowncast eyes. 

"How can well-born people be so vulgar and ill-bred?" cried Mrs. Dennistoun. "I must say for Philip that though he is careless and notnearly so particular as I should like, still he is not like that. He hassomething of the politeness of the heart. "

Elinor did not raise her downcast eyes. Phil had been on his very goodbehaviour on the occasion of his last hurried visit, but she did notfeel that she could answer even for Phil. "I am very glad anyhow, thatshe is not coming, mamma: at least we shall have the last night and thelast morning to ourselves. "

Mrs. Dennistoun shook her head. "The Tathams will be here, " she said;"and everybody, to dinner--all the party. We must go now and see how wecan enlarge the table. To-night's party will be the largest we haveever had in the cottage. " She sighed a little and paused, restrainingherself. "We shall have no quiet evening--nor morning either--again; itwill be a bustle and a rush. You and I will never have any more quietevenings, Elinor: for when you come back it will be another thing. "

"Oh, mother!" cried Elinor, throwing herself into her mother's arms: andfor a moment they stood closely clasped, feeling as if their heartswould burst, yet very well aware, too, underneath, that any number ofquiet evenings would be as the last, when, with hearts full of athousand things to say to each other, they said almost nothing--whichin some respects was worse than having no quiet evenings evermore. 

In the afternoon Phil arrived, having returned from Ireland thatmorning, and paused only to refresh himself in the chambers which hestill retained in town. He had met all his hunting friends duringthe three days he had been away; and though he retained a gallantappearance, and looked, as Alice Hudson thought, "very aristocratic, "Mrs. Dennistoun caught with anxiety a worn-out look--the look ofexcitement, of nights without sleep, much smoke, and, perhaps, muchwine, in his eyes. What a woman feels who has to hand over her spotlesschild, the most dear and pure thing upon earth, to a man fresh fromthose indulgences and dissipations which never seem harmless, and alwaysare repellent to a woman, is not to be described. Fortunately the brideherself, in invincible ignorance and unconsciousness, seldom feels inthat way. To Elinor her lover looked tired about the eyes, which wasvery well explained by his night journey, and by the agitation of themoment. And, indeed, she did not see very much of Phil, who had hisfriends with him--his aide-de-camp, Bolsover, and his brother Harry. These three gentlemen carried an atmosphere of smoke and other scentswith them into the lavender of the Rectory, which was too amazing inthat hemisphere for words, and talked their own talk in the midstof the fringe of rustics who were their hosts, with a calm which wasextraordinary, breaking into the midst of the Rector's long-winded, amiable sentences, and talking to each other over Mrs. Hudson's head. "I say, Dick, don't you remember?" "By Jove, Phil, you are too bad!"sounded, with many other such expressions and reminders, over theRectory party, strictly silent round their own table, trying to make acourteous remark now and then, but confounded, in their simple countrygood manners, by the fine gentlemen. And then there was the dinner-partyat the cottage in the evening, to which Mr. And Mrs. Hudson were invited. Such a dinner-party! Old Mr. Tatham, who was a country gentleman fromDorsetshire, with his nice daughter, Mary Tatham, a quiet country younglady, accustomed, when she went into the world at all, to the seriousyoung men of the Temple, and John's much-occupied friends, who had theirown asides about cases, and what So-and-So had said in court, but weremuch too well-bred before ladies to fall into "shop;" and Mr. And Mrs. Hudson, who were such as we know them; and the bride's mother, a littleanxious, but always debonair; and Elinor herself, in all the haze andsweet confusion of the great era which approached so closely. The threemen made the strangest addition that can be conceived to the quietguests; but things went better under the discipline of the dinner, especially as Sir John Huntingtower, who was a Master of the houndsand an old friend of the Dennistouns, was of the party, and LadyHuntingtower, who was an impressive person, and knew the world. Thislady was very warm in her congratulations to Mrs. Dennistoun afterdinner on the absence of Lady Mariamne. "I think you are the luckiestwoman that ever was to have got clear of that dreadful creature, " shesaid. "Oh, there is nothing wrong about her that I know. She goeseverywhere with her dogs and her _cavaliers servantes_. There's safetyin numbers, my dear. She has always two of them at least hanging abouther to fetch and carry, and she thinks a great deal more of her dogs;but I can't think what you could have done with her here. "

"And what will my Elinor do in such a sphere?" the troubled motherpermitted herself to say. 

"Oh, if that were all, " said Lady Huntingtower, lifting up her fathands--she was one of those who had protested against the marriage, butnow that it had come to this point, and could not be broken off, thejudicious woman thought it right to make the best of it--"Elinor neednot be any the worse, " she said. "Thank heaven, you are not obliged tobe mixed up with your husband's sister. Elinor must take a line of herown. You should come to town yourself her first season, and help her on. You used to know plenty of people. "

"But they say, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, "that it is so much better toleave a young couple to themselves, and that a mother is always in theway. "

"If I were you I would not pay the least attention to what they say. Ifyou hold back too much they will say, 'There was her own mother, knowingnumbers of nice people, that never took the trouble to lend her ahand. '"

"I hope, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, turning round immediately to this otheraspect of affairs, "that it never will be necessary for the world tointerest itself at all in my child's affairs. "

"Well, of course, that is the best, " Lady Huntingtower allowed, "if shejust goes softly for a year or two till she feels her way. "

"But then she is so young, and so little accustomed to act for herself, "said the mother, with another change of flank. 

"Oh, Elinor has a great deal of spirit. She must just make a standagainst the Compton set and take her own line. "

Mrs. Hudson and Alice and Miss Tatham were at the other end of the roomexchanging a few criticisms under their breath, and disposed to thinkthat they were neglected by their hostess for the greater personage withwhom she was in such close conversation. And Lady Mariamne's defectionwas a great disappointment to them all. "I should like to have seen afine lady quite close, " said Mary (it was not, I think, usual to speakof "smart" people in those days), "one there could be no doubt about, alittle fast and all that. I have seen them in town at a distance, butall the people we know are sure country people. "

"My dear, " said Mrs. Hudson, primly, "I don't like to hear you talk ofany other kind. An English lady, I hope, whatever is her rank, can onlybe of one kind. "

"Oh, mamma, you know very well Lady Mariamne is as different from LadyHuntingtower as----"

"Don't mention names, my dear; it is not well-bred. The one is young, and naturally fond of gayety; the other--well, is not quite so young, and stout, and all that. "

"Oh, that is all very well, " said Alice; "but Aunt Mary says----"

Miss Dale was coming in the evening, and the Miss Hills, and the curate, and the doctor, and various other people, who could not be asked todinner, to whom it had been carefully explained (which, indeed, was afact they knew) that to dine twelve people in the little dining-roomof the cottage was a feat which was accomplished with difficulty, and that more was impossible. Society at Windyhill was very tolerantand understanding on this point, for all the dining-rooms were small, except, indeed, when you come to talk of such places as Huntingtower--andthey were very glad to be permitted to have a peep at the bridegroom onthese terms, or rather, if truth were told, of the bride, and how shewas bearing herself so near the crisis of her fate. The bridegroom isseldom very interesting on such occasions. On the present occasion hewas more interesting than usual, because he was the Honourable Philip, and because he had a reputation of which most people had heard something. There was a mixture of alarm and suspicion in respect to him whichincreased the excitement; and many remarks of varied kinds were made. "Ithink the fellow's face quite bears out his character, " said the doctorto the Rector. "What a man to trust a nice girl to!" Mr. Hudson feltthat as the bridegroom was living under his roof he was partiallyresponsible, and discouraged this pessimistic view. "Mr. Compton hasnot, perhaps, had all the advantages one tries to secure for one's ownson, " he said, "but I have reason to believe that the things that havebeen said of him are much exaggerated. " "Oh, advantages!" said thedoctor, thinking of Alick, of whom it was his strongly expressed opinionthat the fellow should be turned out to rough it, and not coddled up andspoiled at home. But while these remarks were going on, Miss Hill hadbeen expressing to the curate an entirely different view. "I think hehas a _beautiful_ face, " she said with the emphasis some ladies use; "alittle worn, perhaps, with being too much in the world, and I wish hehad a better colour. To me he looks delicate: but what delightfulfeatures, Mr. Whitebands, and what an aristocratic air!"

"He looks tremendously up to everything, " the curate said, with a fainttone of envy in his voice. 

"Don't he just?" cried Alick Hudson. "I should think there wasn't athing he couldn't do--of things that men _do_ do, don't you know, " criedthat carefully trained boy, whose style was confused, though his meaningwas good. But probably there were almost as many opinions about Philas there were people in the room. His two backers-up stood in acorner--half intimidated, half contemptuous of the country people. "Queer lot for Phil to fall among, " said Dick Bolsover. "Que diableallait-il faire dans cette galère?" said Harry Compton, who had beenabout the world. "Oh, bosh with your French, that nobody understands, "said the best man. 

But in the meantime Phil was not there at all to be seen of men. He hadstolen out into the garden, where there was a white vision awaiting himin the milky moonlight. The autumn haze had come early this season, andthe moon was misty, veiled with white amid a jumble of soft floatingvapours in the sky. Elinor stood among the flowers, which showed somestrange subdued tints of colours in the flooding of the white light, like a bit of consolidated moonlight in her white dress. She had a whiteshawl covering her from head to foot, with a corner thrown over herhair. What had they to say to each other that last night? Not much;nothing at all that had any information in it--whispers inaudible almostto each other. There was something in being together for this stolenmoment, just on the eve of their being together for always, which had acharm of its own. After to-night, no stealing away, no escape to thegarden, no little conspiracy to attain a meeting--the last of all thosedelightful schemings and devices. They started when they heard a soundfrom the house, and sped along the paths into the shadow like theconspirators they were--but never to conspire more after this lastenthralling time. 

"You're not frightened, Nell?"

"No--except a little. There is one thing----"

"What is it, my pet? If it's to the half of my kingdom, it shall bedone. "

"Phil, we are going to be very good when we are together? don'tlaugh--to help each other?"

He did laugh low, not to be heard, but long. "I shall have notemptation, " he said, "to be anything but good, you little goose of aNell, " taking it for a warning of possible jealousy to come. 

"Oh, but I mean both of us--to help each other. "

"Why, Nell, I know you'll never go wrong----"

She gave him a little impatient shake. "You will not understand me, Phil. We will try to be better than we've ever been. To be good--don'tyou know what that means?--in every way, before God. "

Her voice dropped very low, and he was for a moment overawed. "You meangoing to church, Nell?"

"I mean--yes, that for one thing; and many other things. "

"That's dropping rather strong upon a fellow, " he said, "just at thismoment, don't you think, when I must say yes to everything you say. "

"Oh, I don't mean it in that way; and I was not thinking of churchparticularly; but to be good, very good, true and kind, in our hearts. "

"You are all that already, Nell. "

"Oh, no, not what I mean. When there are two of us instead of one we cando so much more. "

"Well, my pet, it's for you to make out the much more. I'm quite contentwith you as you are; it's me that you want to improve, and heaven knowsthere's plenty of room for that. "

"No, Phil, not you more than me, " she said. 

"We'll choose a place where the sermon's short, and we'll see about it. You mean little minx, to bind a man down to go to church, the nightbefore his wedding day!"

And then there was a sound of movement indoors, and after a little whilethe bride appeared among the guests with a little more colour thanusual, and an anxiously explanatory description of something she hadbeen obliged to do; and the confused hour flew on with much sound oftalking and very little understanding of what was said. And then allthe visitors streamed away group after group into the moonlight, disappearing like ghosts under the shadow of the trees. Finally, theRectory party went too, the three mild ladies surrounded by an excitingcircle of cigars; for Alick, of course, had broken all bonds, and eventhe Rector accepted that rare indulgence. Alice Hudson half deplored, half exulted for years after in the scent that would cling round oneparticular evening dress. Five gentlemen, all with cigars, and papa asbad as any of them! There had never been such an extraordinaryexperience in her life. 

And then the Tathams, too, withdrew, and the mother and daughter stoodalone on their own hearth. Oh, so much, so much as there was to say! buthow were they to say it?--the last moment, which was so precious and sointolerable--the moment that would never come again. 

"You were a long time with Philip, Elinor, in the garden. I think allyour old friends ---- the last night. "

"I wanted to say something to him, mamma, that I had never had thecourage to say. "

Mrs. Dennistoun had been looking dully into the dim mirror over themantelpiece. She turned half round to her daughter with an inquiringlook. 

"Oh, mamma, I wanted to say to him that we must be good! We're so happy. God is so kind to us; and you--if you suppose I don't think of you! Itwas to say to him--building our house upon all this, God's mercy andyour loss, and all--that we are doubly, doubly bound to serve--and tolove--and to be good people before God; and like you, mother, like you!"

"My darling!" Mrs. Dennistoun said. And that was all. She asked noquestions as to how it was to be done, or what he replied. Elinor hadbroken down hysterically, and sobbed out the words one at a time, asthey would come through the choking in her throat. Needless to say thatshe ended in her mother's arms, her head upon the bosom which had nursedher, her slight weight dependent upon the supporter and protector ofall her life. 

That was the last evening. There remained the last morning to come; andafter that--what? The great sea of an unknown life, a new pilot, and aship untried. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

And now the last morning had come. 

The morning of a wedding-day is a flying and precarious moment whichseems at once as if it never would end, and as if it were a hurriedpreliminary interval in which the necessary preparations never could bedone. Elinor was not allowed to come down-stairs to help, as she felt itwould be natural to do. It was Mary Tatham who arranged the flowers onthe table, and helped Dennistoun to superintend everything. All thewomen in the house, though they were so busy, were devoted at everyspare moment to the service of Elinor. They brought her simple breakfastup-stairs, one maid carrying the tray and another the teapot, that eachmight have their share. The cook, though she was overwhelmed with work, had made some cakes for breakfast, such us Elinor liked. "Most like aswe'll never have her no more--to mind, " she said. The gardener sent upan untidy bundle of white flowers. And Mrs. Dennistoun came herself topour out the tea. "As if I had been ill, or had turned into a babyagain, " Elinor said. But there was not much said. Mary Tatham was therefor one thing, and for another and the most important they had said allthey had to say; the rest which remained could not be said. The weddingwas to be at a quarter to twelve, in order to give Lady Mariamne time tocome from town. It was not the fashion then to delay marriages to theafternoon, which no doubt would have been much more convenient forher ladyship; but the best that could be done was done. Mr. Tatham'scarriage, which he had brought with him to grace the ceremony, wasdespatched to the station to meet Lady Mariamne, while he, good man, had to get to church as he could in one of the flys. And then came theimportant moment, when the dressing of the bride had to be begun. Thewedding-breakfast was not yet all set out in perfect order, and therewere many things to do. Yet every woman in the house had a little sharein the dressing of the bride. They all came to see how it fitted whenthe wedding-dress was put on. It fitted like a glove! The long glossyfolds of the satin were a wonder to see. Cook stood just within the doorin a white apron, and wept, and could not say a word to Miss Elinor; butthe younger maids sent forth a murmur of admiration. And the Missis theythought was almost as beautiful as the bride, though her satin was grey. Mrs. Dennistoun herself threw the veil over her child's head, and put inthe diamond star, the old-fashioned ornament, which had been herhusband's present to herself. And then again she had meant to saysomething to Elinor--a last word--but the word would not come. They wereboth of them glad that somebody should be there all the time, that theyshould not be left alone. And after that the strange, hurried, everlasting morning was over, and the carriage was at the door. 

Then again it was a relief that old Mr. Tatham had missed his properplace in the fly, and had to go on the front seat with the bride and hermother. It was far better so. If they had been left even for ten minutesalone, who could have answered that one or the other would not havecried, and discomposed the bouquet and the veil? It seemed a greatdanger and responsibility over when they arrived at last safely at thechurch door. Lady Mariamne was just then arriving from the station. Shedrew up before them in poor Mr. Tatham's carriage, keeping them back. Harry Compton and Mr. Bolsover sprang to the carriage window to talk toher, and there was a loud explosion of mirth and laughter in the midstof the village people, and the children with their baskets of flowerswho were already gathered. Lady Mariamne's voice burst out so shrillthat it overmastered the church bells. "Here I am, " she cried, "out inthe wilderness. And Algy has come with me to take care of me. And howare you, dear boys; and how is poor Phil?" "Phil is all ready to beturned off, with the halter round his neck, " said Dick Bolsover; andHarry Compton said, "Hurry up, hurry up, Jew, the bride is behind you, waiting to get out. " "She must wait, then, " said Lady Mariamne, andthere came leisurely out of the carriage, first, her ladyship'scompanion, by name, Algy, a tall person with an eye-glass, then a littlepug, which was carefully handed into his arms, and then lightly jumpingdown to the ground, a little figure in black--in black of all things inthe world! a sight that curdled the blood of the village people, andof Mrs. Hudson, who had walked across from the Rectory in a gown ofpigeon's-breast silk which scattered prismatic reflections as shewalked. In black! Mrs. Hudson bethought herself that she had a whiteChina crape shawl in her cupboard, and wondered if she could offer it toconceal this ill omened gown. But if Lady Mariamne's dress was dark, sheherself was fair enough, with an endless fluff of light hair under herlittle black lace bonnet. Her gloves were off, and her hands were whiteand glistening with rings. "Give me my puggy darling, " she said in herloud, shrill tone. "I can go nowhere, can I, pet, without my littlepug!"

"A Jew and a pug, both in church. It is enough, " said her brother, "toget the poor parson into trouble with his bishop. "

"Oh, the bishop's a great friend of mine, " said the lady; "he will saynothing to me, not if I put Pug in a surplice and make him lead thechoir. " At this speech there was a great laugh of the assembled party, which stood in the centre of the path, while Mr. Tatham's carriage edgedaway, and the others made efforts to get forward. The noise of theirtalk disturbed the curious abstraction in which Elinor had been goingthrough the morning hours. Mariamne's jarring voice seemed louder thanthe bells. Was this the first voice sent out to greet her by the newlife which was about to begin? She glanced at her mother, and thenat old Uncle Tatham, who sat immovable, prevented by decorum fromapostrophising the coachman who was not his own, but fuming inwardly atthe interruption. Mrs. Dennistoun did not move at all, but her daughterknew very well what was meant by that look straight before her, in whichher mother seemed to ignore all obstacles in the way. 

"I got here very well, " Lady Mariamne went on; "we started in the middleof the night, of course, before the lamps were out. Wasn't it good ofAlgy to get himself out of bed at such an unearthly hour! But he snappedat Puggy as we came down, which was a sign he felt it. Why aren't youwith the poor victim at the altar, you boys?"

"Phil will be in blue funk, " said Harry; "go in and stand by your man, Dick: the Jew has enough with two fellows to see her into her place. "

The bride's carriage by this time pushed forward, making Lady Mariamnestart in confusion. "Oh! look here; they have splashed my prettytoilette, and upset my nerves, " she cried, springing back into hersupporter's arms. 

That gentleman regarded the stain of the damp gravel on the lady's skirtthrough his eye-glass with deep but helpless anxiety. "It's a pity forthe pretty frock!" he said with much seriousness. And the group gatheredround and gazed in dismay, as if they expected it to disappear ofitself--until Mrs. Hudson bustled up. "It will rub off; it will not makeany mark. If one of you gentlemen will lend me a handkerchief, " shesaid. And Algy and Harry and Dick Bolsover, not to speak of LadyMariamne herself, watched with great gravity while the gravel was sweptoff. "I make no doubt, " said the Rector's wife, "that I have thepleasure of speaking to Lady Mariamne: and I don't doubt that black isthe fashion and your dress is beautiful: but if you would just throw ona white shawl for the sake of the wedding--it's so unlucky to come inblack----"

"A white shawl!" said Lady Mariamne in dismay. 

"The Jew in a white shawl!" echoed the others with a burst of laughterwhich rang into the church itself and made Phil before the altar, aloneand very anxious, ask himself what was up. 

"It's China crape, I assure you, and very nice, " Mrs. Hudson said. 

Lady Mariamne gave the good Samaritan a stony stare, and took Algy's armand sailed into the church before the Rector's wife, without a wordsaid; while all the women from the village looked at each other andsaid, "Well, I never!" under their breath. 

"Let me give you my arm, Mrs. Hudson, " said Harry Compton, "and pleasepardon me that I did not introduce my sister to you. She is dreadfullyshy, don't you know, and never does speak to anyone when she has notbeen introduced. "

"My observation was a very simple one, " said Mrs. Hudson, very angry, yet pleased to lean upon an Honourable arm. 

"My dear lady!" cried the good-natured Harry, "the Jew never wore ashawl in her life----"

And all this time the organ had been pealing, the white vision passingup the aisle, the simple villagers chanting forth their song about thebreath that breathed o'er Eden. Alas! Eden had not much to do with it, except perhaps in the trembling heart of the white maiden roused out ofher virginal dream by the jarring voices of the new life. The laughteroutside was a dreadful offence to all the people, great and small, whohad collected to see Elinor married. 

"What could you expect? It's that woman whom they call the Jew, "whispered Lady Huntingtower to her next neighbour. 

"She should be put into the stocks, " said Sir John, scarcely under hisbreath, which, to be sure, was also an interruption to the decorum ofthe place. 

And then there ensued a pause broken by the voice, a little lugubriousin tone, of the Rector within the altar rails, and the tremulous answersof the pair outside. The audience held its breath to hear Elinor makeher responses, and faltered off into suppressed weeping as the low tonesceased. Sir John Huntingtower, who was very tall and big, and stood outlike a pillar among the ladies round, kept nodding his head all the timeshe spoke, nodding as you might do in forced assent to any dreadful vow. Poor little thing, poor little thing, he was saying in his heart. Hisface was more like the face of a man at a funeral than a man at awedding. "Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord"--he might have beennodding assent to that instead of to Elinor's low-spoken vow. PhilCompton's voice, to tell the truth, was even more tremulous thanElinor's. To investigate the thoughts of a bridegroom would be too muchcuriosity at such a moment. But I think if the secrets of the heartscould be revealed, Phil for a moment was sorry for poor little Elinortoo. 

And then the solemnity was all over in a moment, and the flutter ofvoices and congratulations began. 

I do not mean to follow the proceedings through all the routine of thewedding-day. Attempts were made on the part of the bridegroom's partyto get Lady Mariamne dismissed by the next train, an endeavour intowhich Harry Compton threw himself--for he was always a good-heartedfellow--with his whole soul. But the Jew declared that she was dying ofhunger, and whatever sort of place it was, must have something to eat; aremark which naturally endeared her still more to Mrs. Dennistoun, whowas waiting by the door of Mr. Tatham's carriage, which that anxious oldgentleman had managed to recover control of, till her ladyship had takenher place. Her ladyship stared with undisguised amazement when she wasfollowed into the carriage by the bride's mother, and when the neatlittle old gentleman took his seat opposite. "But where is Algy? I wantAlgy, " she cried, in dismay. "Absolutely I can't go without Algy, whocame to take care of me. "

"You will be perfectly safe, my dear lady, with Mrs. Dennistoun and me. The gentlemen will walk, " said Mr. Tatham, waving his hand to thecoachman. 

And thus it was that the forlorn lady found herself without her cavalierand without her pug, absolutely stranded among savages, notwithstandingher strong protest almost carried the length of tears. She was thuscarried off in a state of consternation to the cottage over the roughroad, where the wheels went with a din and lurch over the stones, anddug deep into the sand, eliciting a succession of little shrieks fromher oppressed bosom. "I shall be shaken all to bits, " she said, graspingthe arm of the old gentleman to steady herself. Mr. Tatham was notdispleased to be the champion of a lady of title. He assured her indulcet tones that his springs were very good and his horses verysure--"though it is not a very nice road. "

"Oh, it is a dreadful road!" said Lady Mariamne. 

But in due time they did arrive at the cottage, where her ladyship couldnot wait for the gathering of the company, but demanded at oncesomething to eat. "I can't really go another moment without food. I musthave something or I shall die. Phil, come here this instant and get mesomething. They have brought me off at the risk of my life, and there'snobody to attend to me. Don't stand spooning there, " cried Lady Mariamne, "but do what I tell you. Do you think I should ever have put myself intothis position but for you?"

"You would never have been asked here if they had consulted me. I knewwhat a nuisance you'd be. Here, get this lady something to eat, oldman, " said the bridegroom, tapping Mr. Tatham on the back, who did, indeed, look rather like a waiter from that point of view. 

"I shall have to help myself, " said the lady in despair. And she satdown at the elaborate table in the bride's place and began to hack atthe chicken. The gentlemen coming in at the moment roared again withlaughter over the Jew's impatience; but it was not regarded with thesame admiration by the rest of the guests. 

These little incidents, perhaps, helped to wile away the weary hoursuntil it was time for the bridal pair to depart. Mrs. Dennistoun was soangry that it kept up a little fire, so to speak, in her heart when thelight of her house was extinguished. Lady Mariamne, standing in theporch with a bag full of rice to throw, kept up the spirit of themistress of the house, which otherwise might, perhaps, have failed heraltogether at that inconceivable moment; for though she had been lookingforward to it for months it was inconceivable when it came, as death isinconceivable. Elinor going away!--not on a visit, or to be back in aweek, or a month, or a year--going away for ever! ending, as might besaid, when she put her foot on the step of the carriage. Her motherstood by and looked on with that cruel conviction that overtakes allat the last. Up to this moment had it not seemed as if the course ofaffairs was unreal, as if something must happen to prevent it? Perhapsthe world will end to-night, as the lover says in the "Last Ride. " Butnow here was the end: nothing had happened, the world was swinging on inspace in its old careless way, and Elinor was going--going away for everand ever. Oh, to come back, perhaps--there was nothing against that--butnever the same Elinor. The mother stood looking, with her hand over hereyes to shield them from the sun. Those eyes were quite dry, and shestood firm and upright by the carriage door. She was not "breaking down"or "giving way, " as everybody feared. She was "bearing up, " as everybodywas relieved to see. And in a moment it was all over, and there wasnothing before her eyes--no carriage, no Elinor. She was so dazed thatshe stood still, looking with that strange kind of smile for a fullminute after there was nothing to smile at, only the vacant air and theprospect of the combe, coming in in a sickly haze which existed only inher eyes. 

But, by good luck, there was Lady Mariamne behind, and the fire ofindignation giving a red flicker upon the desolate hearth. 

"I caught Phil on the nose, " said that lady, in great triumph; "spoilthis beauty for him for to-day. But let's hope she won't mind. She thinkshim beautiful, the little goose. Oh, my Puggy-wuggy, did that cruel Algypull your little, dear tail, you darling? Come to oos own mammy, nowthose silly wedding people are away. "

"Your little dog, I presume, is of a very rare sort, " said Mr. Tatham, to be civil. He had proposed the bride and bridegroom's health in a mostappropriate speech, and he felt that he had deserved well of his kind, which made him more amiable even than usual. "Your ladyship's littledog, " he added, after a moment, as she did not take any notice, "Ipresume, is of a rare kind?"

Lady Mariamne gave him a look, or rather a stare. "Is Puggy of a raresort?" she said over her shoulder, to one of the attendant tribe. 

"Don't be such a duffer, Jew! You know as well as any one what breedhe's of, " Harry Compton said. 

"Oh, I forgot, " said the fine lady. She was standing full in front ofthe entrance, keeping Mrs. Dennistoun in the full sun outside. "I hopethere's a train very soon, " she said. "Did you look, Algy, as I toldyou? If it hadn't been that Phil would have killed me I should have gonenow. It would have been such fun to have spied upon the turtle doves!"

The men thought it would have been rare fun with obedient delight, butthat Phil would have cut up rough, and made a scene. At this LadyMariamne held up her finger, and made a portentous face. 

"Oh, you naughty, naughty boy, " she cried, "telling tales out ofschool. "

"Perhaps, my dear lady, " said Mr. Tatham, quietly, "you would let Mrs. Dennistoun pass. "

"Oh!" said Lady Mariamne, and stared at him again for half a minute;then she turned and stared at the tall lady in grey satin. "Anybody canpass, " she said: "I'm not so very big. "

"That is quite true--quite true. There is plenty of room, " said thelittle gentleman, holding out his hand to his cousin. 

"My dear John, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, "I am sure you will be kind enoughto lend your carriage again to Lady Mariamne, who is in a hurry to getaway. There is another train, which stops at Downforth station, in halfan hour, and there will just be time to get there, if you will order itat once. I told your man to be in readiness: and it would be a thousandpities to lose this train, for there is not another for an hour. "

"By Jove, Jew! there's a slap in the face for you, " said, in an audiblewhisper, one of the train, who had been standing in front of all thefriends, blocking out the view. As for Lady Mariamne, she stared morestraight than ever into Mrs. Dennistoun's eyes, but for the moment didnot seem to find anything to say. She was left in the hall with her bandwhile the mistress of the house went into the drawing-room, followed byall the country ladies, who had not lost a word, and who were alreadywhispering to each other over that terrible betrayal about the temper ofPhil. 

"Cut up rough! Oh! poor little Elinor, poor little Elinor!" the ladiessaid to each other under their breath. 

"I am not at all surprised. It is not any news to me. You could see itin his eyes, " said Miss Mary Dale. And then they all were silent tolisten to the renewed laughter that came bursting from the hall. Mrs. Hudson questioned her husband afterwards as to what it was that madeeverybody laugh, but the Rector had not much to say. "I really couldnot tell you, my dear, " he said. "I don't remember anything that wassaid--but it seemed funny somehow, and as they all laughed one had tolaugh too. "

The great lady came in, however, dragged by her brother to say good-by. "It has all gone off very well, I am sure, and Nell looked very nice, and did you great credit, " she said, putting out her hand. "And it'svery kind of you to take so much trouble to get us off by the firsttrain. "

"Oh, it is no trouble, " Mrs. Dennistoun said. 

"Shouldn't you like to say good-by to Puggy-muggy?" said Lady Mariamne, touching the little black nose upon her arm. "He enjoyed that _pâté_ somuch. He really never has _foie gras_ at home: but he doesn't at allmind if you would like to give him a little kiss just here. "

"Good-by, Lady Mariamne, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, with one of the curtseysof the old school. But there was another gust of laughter as LadyMariamne was placed in the carriage, and a shrill little trumpet gaveforth the satisfaction of the departing guest at having "got a rise outof the old girl. " The gentlemen heaped themselves into Mr. Tatham'scarriage, and swept off along with her, all but civil Harry, whowaited to make their apologies, and to put up along with his own DickBolsover's "things. " And thus the bridegroom's party, the new associatesof Elinor, the great family into which the Honourable Mrs. Phil Comptonhad been so lucky as to marry, to the great excitement of all the countryround, departed and was seen no more. Harry, who was civil, walked homewith the Hudsons when all was over, and said the best he could for theJew and her friends. "You see, she has been regularly spoiled: andthen when a girl's so dreadful shy, as often as not it sounds likeimpudence. " "Dear me, I should never have thought Lady Mariamne wasshy, " the gentle Rector said. "That's just how it is, " said Harry. Hewent over again in the darkening to take his leave of Mrs. Dennistoun. He found her sitting out in the garden before the open door, lookingdown the misty walk. The light had gone out of the skies, but the usualcheerful lights had not yet appeared in the house, where the hum of agreat occasion still reigned. The Tathams were at the Rectory, and Mrs. Dennistoun was alone. Harry Compton had a good heart, and though hecould not conceive the possibility of a woman not being glad to havemarried her daughter, the loneliness and darkness touched him a littlein contrast with the gayety of the previous night. "You must think us adreadful noisy lot, " he said, "and as if my sister had no sense. Butit's only the Jew's way. She's made like that--and at bottom she's notat all a bad sort. "

"Are you going away?" was all the answer that Mrs. Dennistoun made. 

"Oh, yes, and we shall be a good riddance, " said Harry; "but pleasedon't think any worse of us than you can help---- Phil--well, he's got agreat deal of good in him--he has indeed, and she'll bring it all out. "

It was very good of Harry Compton. He had a little choking in his throatas he walked back. "Blest if I ever thought of it in that light before, "he said to himself. 

But I doubt if what he said, however well meant, brought much comfort toMrs. Dennistoun's heart. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Thus Elinor Dennistoun disappeared from Windyhill and was no more seen. There are many ways in which a marriage is almost like a death, especially when the marriage is that of an only child. The young goaway, the old remain. There is all the dreary routine of the solitarylife unbrightened by that companionship which is all the world to theone who is left behind. So little--only the happy going away intobrighter scenes of one whose happiness was the whole thought of thatdreary survivor at the chimney corner--and yet so much. And if thatsurvivor is a woman she has to smile and tell her neighbours of thebride's happiness, and how great the comfort to herself that herElinor's life is assured, and her own ending is now of no particularimportance to her daughter; if it is a man, he is allowed to lament, which is a curious paradox, but one of the many current in this world. Mrs. Dennistoun had to put a very brave face upon it all the morebecause of the known unsatisfactoriness of Elinor's husband: and she hadto go on with her life, and sit down at her solitary meals, and inventlonely occupations for herself, and read and read, till her brains wereoften dazed by the multiplicity of the words, which lost their meaningas she turned over page by page. To sit alone in the house, withouta sound audible, except perhaps the movement of the servants goingup-stairs or down to minister to the wants, about which she felt shecared nothing whether they were ministered to or not, of their solitarymistress, where a little while ago there used to be the rhythm of theone quick step, the sound of the one gay voice which made the world awarm inhabited place to Mrs. Dennistoun--this was more dismal than wordscould say. To be sure, there were some extraordinary and delightfuldifferences; there were the almost daily letters, which afforded thelonely mother all the pleasure that life could give; and there wasalways the prospect, or at least possibility and hope, of seeing herchild again. Those two particulars, it need scarcely be said, make adifference which is practically infinite: but yet for Mrs. Dennistoun, sitting alone all the day and night, walking alone, reading alone, with little to do that was of the slightest consequence, not even thereading--for what did it matter to her dreary, lonely consciousnesswhether she kept afloat of general literature or improved her mindor not? this separation by marriage was dreadfully like the drearyseparation by death, and in one respect it was almost worse; for death, if it reaches our very hearts, takes away at least the gnawing pangs ofanxiety. He or she who is gone that way is well; never more can troubletouch them, their feet cannot err nor their hearts ache; while who cantell what troubles and miseries may be befalling, out there in theunknown, the child who has embarked upon the troubled sea of mortallife?

And it may be imagined with what anxious eyes those letters, which madeall the difference, were read; how the gradually changing tone in themwas noted as it came in, slowly but also surely. Sometimes they gotto be very hurried, and then Mrs. Dennistoun saw as in a glass theimpatient husband waiting, wondering what she could constantly findto say to her mother; sometimes they were long and detailed, andthat meant, as would appear perhaps by a phrase slurred over in thepostscript, that Phil had gone away somewhere. There was never acomplaint in them, never a word that could be twisted into a complaint:but the anxious mother read between the lines innumerable things, nothalf of them true. There is perhaps never a half true of what anxietymay imagine: but then the half that is true!

John Tatham was very faithful to her during that winter. As soon as hecame back from Switzerland, at the end of the long vacation, he wentdown to see her, feeling the difference in the house beyond anything hehad imagined, feeling as if he were stepping into some darkened outerchamber of the grave: but with a cheerful face and eager but confidentinterest in "the news from Elinor. " "Of course she is enjoying herselfimmensely, " he said, and Mrs. Dennistoun was able to reply with a smilethat was a little wistful, that yes, Elinor was enjoying herselfimmensely. "She seems very happy, and everything is new to her andbright, " she said. They were both very glad that Elinor was happy, andthey were very cheerful themselves. Mrs. Dennistoun truly cheered by hisvisit and by the necessity for looking after everything that John mightbe comfortable, and the pleasure of seeing his face opposite to her attable. "You can't think what it is to see you there; sitting down todinner is the most horrible farce when one is alone. " "Poor aunt!" JohnTatham said: and nobody would believe how many Saturdays and Sundays hegave up to her during the long winter. Somehow he himself did not careto go anywhere else. In Elinor's time he had gone about freely enough, liking a little variety in his Saturday to Mondays, though alwayshappiest when he went to Windyhill: but now somehow the other housesseemed to pall upon him. He liked best to go down to that melancholyhouse which his presence made more or less bright, where there was anendless talk of Elinor, where she was, what she was doing, and what wasto be her next move, and, at last, when she was coming to town. Mrs. Dennistoun did not say, as she did at first, "when she is coming home. "That possibility seemed to slip away somehow, and no one suggested it. When she was coming to town, that was what they said between themselves. She had spent the spring on the Riviera, a great part of it at MonteCarlo, and her letters were full of the beauty of the place; but shesaid less and less about people, and more and more about the sea and themountains, and the glorious road which gave at every turn a new andbeautiful vision of the hills and the sea. It was a little like aguide-book, they sometimes felt, but neither said it; but at last itbecame certain that in the month of May she was coming to town. 

More than that, oh, more than that! One evening in May, when it was finebut a little chilly, when Mrs. Dennistoun was walking wistfully in hergarden, looking at the moon shining in the west, and wondering if herchild had arrived in England, and whether she was coming to a house ofher own, or a lodging, or to be a visitor in some one else's house, details which Elinor had not given--her ear was suddenly caught by thedistant rumbling of wheels, heavy wheels, the fly from the stationcertainly. Mrs. Dennistoun had no expectation of what it could be, nosort of hope: and yet a woman has always a sort of hope when her childlives and everything is possible. The fly seemed to stop, not coming upthe little cottage drive; but by and by, when she had almost given uphoping, there came a rush of flying feet, and a cry of joy, and Elinorwas in her mother's arms. Elinor! yes, it was herself, no vision, noshadow such as had many a time come into Mrs. Dennistoun's dreams, butherself in flesh and blood, the dear familiar figure, the face which, between the twilight and those ridiculous tears which come when one istoo happy, could scarcely be seen at all. "Elinor, Elinor! it is you, mydarling!" "Yes, mother, it is me, really me. I could not write, becauseI did not know till the last minute whether I could get away. "

It may be imagined what a coming home that was. Mrs. Dennistoun, whenshe saw her daughter even by the light of the lamp, was greatlycomforted. Elinor was looking well; she was changed in thatindescribable way in which marriage changes (though not always) thehappiest woman. And her appearance was changed; she was no longer thecountry young lady very well dressed and looking as well as any onecould in her carefully made clothes. She was now a fashionable youngwoman, about whose dresses there was no question, who wore everything asthose do who are at the fountain-head, no matter what it was she wore. Mrs. Dennistoun's eyes caught this difference at once, which is alsoindescribable to the uninitiated, and a sensation of pride came into hermind. Elinor was improved, too, in so many ways. Her mother had neverthought of calling her anything more, even in her inmost thoughts, thanvery pretty, very sweet; but it seemed to Mrs. Dennistoun now as ifpeople might use a stronger word, and call Elinor beautiful. Her facehad gained a great deal of expression, though it was always anexpressive face; her eyes looked deeper; her manner had a wonderfulyouthful dignity. Altogether, it was another Elinor, yet, God bepraised, the same. 

It was but for one night, but that was a great deal, a night subtractedfrom the blank, a night that seemed to come out of the old times--thoseold times that had not been known to be so very happy till they wereover and gone. Elinor had naturally a great deal to tell her mother, butin the glory of seeing her, of hearing her voice, of knowing that it wasactually she who was speaking, Mrs. Dennistoun did not observe, what sheremembered afterwards, that again it was much more of places than ofpeople that Elinor talked, and that though she named Phil when there wasany occasion for doing so, she did not babble about him as brides do, asif he were altogether the sun, and everything revolved round him. It isnot a good sign, perhaps, when the husband comes down to his "properplace" as the representative of the other half of the world too soon. Elinor looked round upon her old home with a mingled smile and sigh. Undoubtedly it had grown smaller, perhaps even shabbier, since she wentaway: but she did not say so to her mother. She cried out how pretty itwas, how delightful to come back to it! and that was true too. How oftenit happens in this life that there are two things quite opposed to eachother, and yet both of them true. 

"John will be delighted to hear that you have come, Elinor, " her mothersaid. 

"John, dear old John! I hope he is well and happy, and all that; and hecomes often to see you, mother? How sweet of him! You must give him everso much love from his poor Nelly. I always keep that name sacred tohim. "

"But why should I give him messages as if you were not sure to meet? ofcourse you will meet--often. "

"Do you think so?" said Elinor. She opened her eyes a little insurprise, and then shook her head. "I am afraid not, mamma. We are intwo different worlds. "

"I assure you, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, "John is a very rising man. He isinvited everywhere. "

"That I don't doubt at all. "

"And why then shouldn't you meet?"

"I don't know. I don't fancy we shall go to the same places. John has aprofession; he has something to do. Now you know we have nothing to do. "

She laughed and laid a little emphasis on the _we_, by way of taking offthe weight of the words. 

"I always thought it was a great pity, Elinor. "

"It may be a pity or not, " said Elinor, "but it is, and it cannot behelped. We have got to make up our minds to it. I would rather Phil didnothing than mixed himself up with companies. Thank heaven, at presenthe is free of anything of that kind. "

"I hope he is free of that one at least, that he was going to invest allyour money in, Elinor. I hope you found another investment that wasquite steady and safe. "

"Oh, I suppose so, " said Elinor, with some of her old petulance: "don'tlet us spoil the little time I have by talking about money, mamma!"

And then it was that Mrs. Dennistoun noticed that what Elinor did talkof, hurrying away from this subject, were things of not the leastimportance--the olive woods on the Riviera, the wealth of flowers, thestrange little old towns upon the hills. Surely even the money, whichwas her own and for her comfort, would be a more interesting subjectto discuss. Perhaps Elinor herself perceived this, for she beganimmediately to ask questions about the Hudsons and Hills, and all thepeople of the parish, with much eagerness of questioning, but a flagginginterest in the replies, as her mother soon saw. "And Mary Dale, is shestill there?" she asked. Mrs. Dennistoun entered into a little historyof how Mary Dale had gone away to nurse a distant cousin who had beenill, and finally had died and left a very comfortable little fortune toher kind attendant. Elinor listened with little nods and appropriateexclamations, but before the evening was out asked again, "And MaryDale?" then hastily corrected herself with an "Oh, I remember! you toldme. " But it was perhaps safer not to question her how much sheremembered of what she had been told. 

Thus there were notes of disquiet in even that delightful evening, sucha contrast as it was to all the evenings since she had left home. Evenwhen John came, what a poor substitute for Elinor! The ingratitude ofthose whose heart is set on one object made Mrs. Dennistoun thus makelight of what had been her great consolation. He was very kind, verygood, and oh, how glad she had been to see him through that heavywinter--but he was not Elinor! It was enough for Elinor to step acrossher mother's threshold to make Mrs. Dennistoun feel that there was nosubstitute for her--none: and that John was of no more consequence thanthe Rector or any habitual caller. But, at the same time, in all themelody of the home-coming, in the sweetness of Elinor's voice, and look, and kiss, in the perfection of seeing her there again in her own place, and listening to her dear step running up and down the no longer silenthouse, there were notes of disquiet which could not be mistaken. She wasnot unhappy, the mother thought; her eyes could not be so bright, norher colour so fair unless she was happy. Trouble does not embellish, andElinor was embellished. But yet--there were notes of disquiet in theair. 

Next day Mrs. Dennistoun drove her child to the railway in order notto lose a moment of so short a visit, and naturally, though she hadreceived that unexpected visit with rapture, feeling that a whole nightof Elinor was worth a month, a year of anybody else, yet now that Elinorwas going she found it very short. "You'll come again soon, my darling?"she said, as she stood at the window of the carriage ready to saygood-bye. 

"Whenever I can, mother dear, of that you may be sure; whenever I canget away. "

"I don't wish to draw you from your husband. Don't get away--come withPhilip from Saturday to Monday. Give him my love, and tell him so. Heshall not be bored; but Sunday is a day without engagements. "

"Oh, not now, mamma. There are just as many things to do on Sundays ason any other day. "

There were a great many words on Mrs. Dennistoun's lips, but she did notsay them; all she did say was, "Well, then, Elinor--when you can getaway. "

"Oh, you need not doubt me, mamma. " And the train, which sometimeslingers so long, which some people that very day were swearing at as soslow, "Like all country trains, " they said--that inevitable heartlessthing got into motion, and Mrs. Dennistoun watched it till itdisappeared; and--what was that that came over Elinor's face as she sankback into the corner of her carriage, not knowing her mother's anxiouslook followed her still--what was it? Oh, dreadful, dreadful life! oh, fruitless love and longing!--was it relief? The mother tried to get thatlook out of her mind as she drove silently and slowly home, creeping uphill after hill. There was no need to hurry. All that she was going towas an empty and silent house, where nobody awaited her. What was thatlook on Elinor's face? Relief! to have it over, to get away again, away from her old home and her fond mother, away to her new life. Mrs. Dennistoun was not a jealous mother nor unreasonable. She said toherself--Well! it was no doubt a trial to the child to come back--tocome alone. All the time, perhaps, she was afraid of being too closelyquestioned, of having to confess that _he_ did not want to come, perhapsgrudged her coming. She might be afraid that her mother would divinesomething--some hidden opposition, some dislike, perhaps, on his part. Poor Elinor! and when everything had passed over so well, when it wasended, and nothing had been between them but love and mutualunderstanding, what wonder if there came over her dear face a look ofrelief! This was how this good woman, who had seen a great many thingsin her passage through life, explained her child's look: and though shewas sad was not angry, as many less tolerant and less far-seeing mighthave been in her place. 

John, that good John, to whom she had been so ungrateful, came down nextSaturday, and to him she confided her great news, but not all of it. "She came down--alone?" he said. 

"Well, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, bravely; "she knew very well it was her Iwanted to see, and not Philip. They say a great deal about mothers-in-law, but why shouldn't we in our turn have our fling at sons-in-law, John? Itwas not him I wanted to see: it was my own child: and Elinor understoodthat, and ran off by herself. Bless her for the thought. "

"I understand that, " said John. He had given the mother more than onelook as she spoke, and divined her better than she supposed. "Oh, yes, Ican understand that. The thing I don't understand is why he let her; whyhe wasn't too proud to bring her back to you, that you might see she hadtaken no harm. If it had been I----"

"Ah, but it was not you, " said Mrs. Dennistoun; "you forget that. Itnever could have been you. "

He looked quickly at her again, and it was on his lips to ask, "Whycould it never have been I?" but he did not; for he knew that if it hadever been him, it could not have been for years. He was too prudent, andElinor, even if she had escaped Phil Compton, would have met some oneelse. He had no right to say, or even think, what, in the circumstances, he would have done. He did not make any answer, but she understood himas he understood her. 

And later in the evening she asked his advice as to what she should do. "I am not fond of asking advice, " she said, "and I don't think there isanother in the world I would ask it from but you. What should I do? Itwould cost me nothing to run up to town for a part of the season atleast. I might get a little house, and be near her, where she could cometo me when she pleased. Should I do it, or would it be wise not to doit? I don't want to spy upon her or to force her to tell me more thanshe wishes. John, my dear, I will tell you what I would tell no oneelse. I caught a glimpse of her dear face when the train was just goingout of sight, and she was sinking back in her corner with a look ofrelief----"

"Of relief!" he cried. 

"John, don't form any false impression! it was no want of love: but Ithink she was thankful to have seen me, and to have satisfied me, andthat I had asked no questions that she could not answer--in a way. "

John clenched his fist, but he dared not make any gesture of disgust, or suggest again, "If it had been I. "

"Well, now, " she said, "remember I am not angry--fancy being angry withElinor!--and all I mean is for her benefit. Should I go? it might be arelief to her to run into me whenever she pleased; or should I not go?lest she might think I was bent on finding out more than she chose totell?"

"Wouldn't it be right that you should find out?"

"That is just the point upon which I am doubtful. She is not unhappy, for she is--she is prettier than ever she was, John. A girl does notget like that--her eyes brighter, her colour clearer, looking--well, beautiful!" cried the mother, her eyes filling with bright tears, "ifshe is unhappy. But there may be things that are not quite smooth, thatshe might think it would make me unhappy to know, yet that if let alonemight come all right. Tell me, John, what should I do?"

And they sat debating thus till far on in the night. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Mrs. Dennistoun did not go up to town. There are some women who wouldhave done so, seeing the other side of the subject--at all hazards; andperhaps they would have been right--who can tell? She did not--denyingherself, keeping herself by main force in her solitude, not to interferewith the life of her child, which was drawn on lines so different fromany of hers--and perhaps she was wrong. Who knows, except by the event, which is the best or the worst way in any of our human movements, whichare so short-sighted? And twice during the season Elinor found means tocome to the cottage for a night as she had done at first. These wereoccasions of great happiness, it need not be said--but of many thoughtsand wonderings too. She had always an excuse for Phil. He had meantuntil the last moment to come with her--some one had turned up, quiteunexpectedly, who had prevented him. It was a fatality; especially whenshe came down in July did she insist upon this. He had been invitedquite suddenly to a political dinner to meet one of the Ministers fromwhom he had hopes of an appointment. "For we find that we can't go onenjoying ourselves for ever, " she said gayly, "and Phil has made up hismind he must get something to do. "

"It is always the best way, " said Mrs. Dennistoun. 

"I am not so very sure, mamma, when you have never been used to it. Ofcourse, some people would be wretched without work. Fancy John withnothing to do! How he would torment his wife--if he had one. But Philnever does that. He is very easy to live with. He is always aftersomething, and leaves me as free as if he had a day's work in anoffice. "

This slipped out, with a smile: but evidently after it was said Elinorregretted she had said it, and thought that more might be drawn from theadmission than she intended. She added quietly, "Of course a settledoccupation would interfere with many things. We could not go outtogether continually as we do now. "

Was there any way of reconciling these two statements? Mrs. Dennistountried and tried in vain to make them fit into each other: and yet nodoubt there was some way. 

"And perhaps another season, mother, if Phil was in a public office--itseems so strange to think of Phil having an office--you might come up, don't you think, to town for a time? Would it be a dreadful bore to youto leave the country just when it is at its best? I'm afraid it would bea dreadful bore: but we could run about together in the mornings when hewas busy, and go to see the pictures and things. How pleasant it wouldbe!"

"It would be delightful for me, Elinor. I shouldn't mind giving up thecountry, if it wouldn't interfere with your engagements, my dear. "

"Oh, my engagements! Much I should care for them if Phil was occupied. Ilike, of course, to be with him. "

"Of course, " said Mrs. Dennistoun. 

"And it is good for him, too, I think. " This was another of the littleadmissions that Elinor regretted the moment they were made. "I mean it'sa pity, isn't it, when a man likes to have his wife with him that sheshouldn't always be there, ready to go?"

"A great pity, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, and then she changed the subject. "I thought it required all sorts of examinations and things for a man toget into a public office now. "

"So it does for the ordinary grades, which would be far, far too muchroutine for Phil. But they say a minister always has things in hispower. There are still posts----"

"Sinecures, Elinor?"

"I did not mean exactly sinecures, " she said, with an embarrassed laugh, "though I think those must have been fine things; but posts where it isnot merely routine, where a man may have a chance of acting for himselfand distinguishing himself, perhaps. And to be in the service of thecountry is always better, safer, than that dreadful city. Don't youthink so?"

"I have never thought the city dreadful, Elinor. I have had many friendsconnected with the city. "

"Ah, but not in those horrid companies, mamma. Do you know that companywhich we just escaped, which Phil saved my money out of, when it was allbut invested--I believe that has ruined people right and left. He gotout of it, fortunately, just before the smash; that is, of course, henever had very much to do with it, he was only on the Board. "

"And where is your money now?"

"Oh, I can answer that question this time, " said Elinor, gayly. "He hadjust time to get it into another company which pays--beautifully! TheJew is in it, too, and the whole lot of them. Oh! I beg your pardon, mamma. I tried hard to call her by her proper name, but when one neverhears any other, one can't help getting into it!"

"I hope, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, "that Philip was not much mixed up withthis company if other people have been ruined, and he has escaped?"

"How could that be?" said Elinor, with a sort of tremulous dignity. "Youdon't suppose for a moment that he----. But of course you don't, " sheadded with a heightened colour and a momentary cloud over her eyes, "ofcourse you don't. There was a dreadful manager who destroyed the booksand then fled, so that there never could be a right winding up of theaffairs. "

"I hope Philip will take great care never to have to do with anything ofthe kind again. "

"Oh, no, he has promised me he will not. I will not have it. He has akind of ornamental directorship on this new company, just for the sakeof his name: but he has promised me he will have nothing more to do withit for my peace of mind. "

"I wonder that they should care in the city for so small a matter as apeer's younger son. "

"Oh, do you think it a small matter, mamma? I don't mean that I care, but people give a good deal of weight to it, you know. "

"I meant only in the city, Elinor. "

"Oh!" Elinor said. She was half offended with her mother's indifference. She had found that to be the Hon. Mrs. Compton was something, or so atleast she supposed: and she began timidly to give her mother a list ofher engagements, which were indeed many in number, and there were somedazzling names among a great many with which Mrs. Dennistoun wasunacquainted. But how could she know who were the fashionable peoplenowadays, a woman living so completely out of the world?

John Tatham, for his part, went through his engagements that year with aconstant expectation of seeing Elinor, which preoccupied him more than arising young barrister going everywhere ought to have been preoccupied. He thought he went everywhere, and so did his family at home, especiallyhis sister, Mary Tatham, who was his father's nurse and attendant, andnever had any chance of sharing these delights. She made all the more, as was natural, of John's privileges and social success from the fact ofher own seclusion, and was in the habit of saying that she believedthere was scarcely a party in London to which John was not invited--threeor four in a night. But it would seem with all this that there were manyparties to which he was not invited, for the Phil Comptons (how strangeand on the whole disgusting to think that this now meant Elinor!) alsowent everywhere, and yet they very seldom met. It was true that Johncould not expect to meet them at dinner at a Judge's or in the legalsociety in high places which was his especial sphere, and nothing couldbe more foolish than the tremor of expectation with which this verysteady-going man would set out to every house in which the fashionableworld met with the professional, always thinking that perhaps----But itwas rarely, very rarely, that this perhaps came to pass. When it did itwas amid the crowd of some prodigious reception to which people "lookedin" for half an hour, and where on one occasion he found Elinor alone, with that curious dignity about her, a little tragical, which comes ofneglect. He agreed with her mother, that he had never imagined Elinor'syouthful prettiness could have come to anything so near beauty. Therewas a strained, wide open look in her eyes, which was half done bylooking out for some one, and half by defying any one to think that shefelt herself alone, or was pursuing that search with any anxiety. Shestood exceedingly erect, silent, observing everything, yet endeavouringto appear as if she did not observe, altogether a singular and verystriking figure among the fashionable crowd, in which it seemedeverybody was chattering, smiling, gay or making believe to be gay, except herself. When she saw John a sudden gleam of pleasure, followedby a cloud of embarrassment, came over her face: but poor Elinor couldnot help being glad to see some one she knew, some one who more or lessbelonged to her; although it appeared she had the best of reasons forbeing alone. "I was to meet Phil here, " she said, "but somehow I musthave missed him. " "Let us walk about a little, and we'll be sure to findhim, " said John. She was so glad to take his arm, almost to cling tohim, to find herself with a friend. "I don't know many people here, "she confided to John, leaning on his arm, with the familiar sisterlydependence of old, "and I am so stupid about coming out by myself. It isbecause I have never been used to it. There has always been mamma, andthen Phil; but I suppose he has been detained somewhere to-night. Ithink I never felt so lost before, among all these strange people. Heknows everybody, of course. "

"But you have a lot of friends, Elinor. "

"Oh, yes, " she said, brightly enough; "in our own set: but this is whatPhil calls more serious than our set. I should not wonder in the leastif he had shirked it at the last, knowing I would be sure to come. "

"That is just the reason why I should have thought he would not shirkit, " said John. 

"Ah, that's because you're not married, " said Elinor, but with a laughin which there was no bitterness. "Don't you know one good of a wife isto do the man's social duties for him, to appear at the dull places andsave his credit? Oh, I don't object at all; it is quite a legitimatedivision of labour. I shall get into it in time: but I am so stupidabout coming into a room alone, and instead of looking about to see whatpeople I really do know, I just stiffen into a sort of shell. I shouldnever have known you if you had not come up to me, John. "

"You see I was looking out for you, and you were not looking out for me, that makes all the difference. "

"You were looking out for us!"

"Ever since the season began I have been looking out for you, everywhere, " said John, with a rather fierce emphasis on the pronoun, which, however, as everybody knows, is plural, and means two as much asone, though it was the reverse of this that John Tatham meant to show. 

"Ah!" said Elinor. "But then I am afraid our set is different, John. There will always be some places--like this, for instance--where I hopewe shall meet; but our set perhaps is a little frivolous, and your set alittle--serious, don't you see? You are professional and political, andall that; and Phil is--well, I don't know exactly what Phil is--morefashionable and frivolous, as I said. A race-going, ball-going, alwaysin motion set. "

"Most people, " said John, "go more or less to races and balls. "

"More or less, that makes the whole difference. We go to them all. Nowyou see the distinction, John. You go to Ascot perhaps on the cup day;we go all the days and all the other days, at the other places. "

"How knowing you have become!"

"Haven't I?" she said, with a smile that was half a sigh. 

"But I shouldn't have thought that would have suited you, Elinor. "

"Oh, yes, it does, " she said, and then she eyed him with something ofthe defiance that had been in her look when she was standing alone. Shedid not avoid his look as a less brave woman might have done. "I likethe fun of it, " she said. 

And then there was a pause, for he did not know what to reply. 

"We have been through all the rooms, " she said at last, "and we have notseen a ghost of Phil. He cannot be coming now. What o'clock is it? Oh, just the time he will be due at---- I'm sure he can't come now. Do youthink you could get my carriage for me? It's only a brougham that wehire, " she said, with a smile, "but the man is such a nice, kind man. Ifhe had been an old family coachman he couldn't take more care of me. "

"That looks as if he had to take care of you often, Elinor. "

"Well, " she said, looking him full in the face again, "you don't supposemy husband goes out with me in the morning shopping? I hope he hassomething better to do. "

"Shouldn't you like to have your mother with you for the shopping, etc. ?"

"Ah, dearly!" then with a little quick change of manner, "anothertime--not this season, but next, if I can persuade her to come; for nextyear I hope we shall be more settled, perhaps in a house of our own, ifPhil gets the appointment he is after. "

"Oh, he is after an appointment?"

"Yes, John; Phil is not so lucky as to have a profession like you. "

This was a new way of looking at the matter, and John Tatham foundnothing to say. It seemed to him, who had worked very hard for it, alittle droll to describe his possession of a profession as luck. But hemade no remark. He took Elinor down-stairs and found her brougham forher, and the kind old coachman on the box, who was well used to takingcare of her, though only hired from the livery stables for theseason--John thought the old man looked suspiciously at him, and wouldhave stopped him from accompanying her, had he designed any suchproceeding. Poor little Nelly, to be watched over by the paternalfly-man on the box! she who might have had---- but he stopped himselfthere, though his heart felt as heavy as a stone to see her go awaythus, alone from the smart party where she had been doing duty for herhusband. John could not take upon himself to finish his sentence--shewho might have had love and care of a very different kind. No, he hadnever offered her that love and care. Had Phil Compton never come in herway it is possible that John Tatham might never have offered it toher--not, at least, for a long time. He could never have had any rightto be a dog in the manger, neither would he venture to pretend now thatit was her own fault if she had chosen the wrong man; was it his faultthen, who had never put a better man within her choice? but John, whowas no coxcomb, blushed in the dark to himself as this question flittedthrough his mind. He had no reason to suppose that Elinor would havebeen willing to change the brotherly tie between them into any other. Thank heaven for that brotherly tie! He would always be able to befriendher, to stand by her, to help her as much as any one could help a womanwho was married, and thus outside of all ordinary succour. And as forthat blackguard, that _dis_-Honourable Phil---- But here John, who was aman of just mind, paused again. For a man to let his wife go to a partyby herself was not after all so dreadful a thing. Many men did so, andthe women did not complain; to be sure they were generally older, moreaccustomed to manage for themselves than Elinor: but still, a man neednot be a blackguard because he did that. So John stopped his own readyjudgment, but still I am afraid in his heart pronounced Phil Compton'ssentence all the same. He did not say a word about this encounter toMrs. Dennistoun; at least, he did tell her that he had met Elinor at theSo-and-So's, which, as it was one of the best houses in London, waspleasing to a mother to hear. 

"And how was she looking?" Mrs. Dennistoun cried. 

"She was looking--beautiful----" said John. "I don't flatter, and Inever thought her so in the old times--but it is the only word I canuse----"

"Didn't I tell you so?" said the mother, pleased. "She is quiteembellished and improved--therefore she must be happy. "

"It is certainly the very best evidence----"

"Isn't it? But it so often happens otherwise, even in happy marriages. Agirl feels strange, awkward, out of it, in her new life. Elinor musthave entirely accustomed herself, adapted herself to it, and to them, orshe would not look so well. That is the greatest comfort I can have. "

And John kept his own counsel about Elinor's majestic solitude and thewatchful old coachman in the hired brougham. Her husband might still befull of love and tenderness all the same. It was a great effort of thenatural integrity of his character to pronounce like this; but he did itin the interests of justice, and for Elinor's sake and her mother's saidnothing of the circumstances at all. 

It may be supposed that when Elinor paid the last of her sudden visitsat the cottage it was a heavy moment both for mother and daughter. Itwas the time when fashionable people finish the season by going toGoodwood--and to Goodwood Elinor was going with a party, Lady Mariamneand a number of the "set. " She told her mother, to amuse her, of the newdresses she had got for this important occasion. "Phil says one may goin sackcloth and ashes the remainder of the year, but we must be finefor Goodwood, " she said. "I wanted him to believe that I had too manyclothes already, but he was inexorable. It is not often, is it, thatone's husband is more anxious than one's self about one's dress?"

"He wants you to do him credit, Elinor. "

"Well, mamma, there is no harm in that. But more than that--he wants meto look nice, for myself. He thinks me still a little shy--though Inever was shy, was I?--and he thinks nothing gives you courage likefeeling yourself well dressed--but he takes the greatest interest ineverything I wear. "

"And where do you go after Goodwood, Elinor?"

"Oh, mamma, on such a round of visits!--here and there and everywhere. Idon't know, " and the tears sprang into Elinor's eyes, "when I may seeyou again. "

"You are not coming back to London, " said the mother, with the heartsinking in her breast. 

"Not now--they all say London is insupportable--it is one of the thingsthat everybody says, and I believe that Phil will not set foot in itagain for many months. Perhaps I might get a moment, when he isshooting, or something, to run back to you; but it is a long way fromScotland--and he must be there, you know, for the 12th. He would thinkthe world was coming to an end if he did not get a shot at the grouseon that day. "

"But I thought he was looking for an appointment, Elinor?"

A cloud passed over Elinor's face. "The season is over, " she said, "andall the opportunities are exhausted--and we don't speak of that anymore. "

She gave her mother a very close hug at the railway, and sat with herhead partly out of the window watching her as she stood on the platform, until the train turned round the corner. No relief on her dear face now, but an anxious strain in her eyes to see her mother as long as possible. Mrs. Dennistoun, as she walked again slowly up the hills that the ponymight not suffer, said to herself, with a chill at her heart, that shewould rather have seen her child sinking back in the corner, pleasedthat it was over, as on the first day. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

The next winter was more dreary still and solitary than the first atWindyhill. The first had been, though it looked so long and dreary as itpassed, full of hope of the coming summer, which must, it seemed, bringElinor back. But now Mrs. Dennistoun knew exactly what Elinor's comingback meant, and the prospect was less cheering. Three days in the wholelong season--three little escapades, giving so very little hope of moresustained intercourse to come. Mrs. Dennistoun, going over all thecircumstances--she had so little else to do but to go over them in herlong solitary evenings--came to the conclusion that whatever mighthappen, she herself would go to town when summer came again. She amusedherself with thinking how she would find a little house--quite a smallhouse, as there are so many--in a good situation, where even the mostfashionable need not be ashamed to come, and where there would be roomenough for Elinor and her husband if they chose to establish themselvesthere. Mrs. Dennistoun was of opinion, already expressed, that ifmothers-in-law are obnoxious to men, sons-in-law are very frequently soto women, which is a point of view not popularly perceived. And PhilipCompton was not sympathetic to her in any point of view. But still shemade up her mind to endure him, and even his family, for the sake ofElinor. She planned it all out--it gave a little occupation to thevacant time--how they should have their separate rooms and even meals ifthat turned out most convenient; how she would interfere with none oftheir ways: only to have her Elinor under her roof, to have her when thehusband was occupied--in the evenings, if there were any evenings thatshe spent alone; in the mornings, when perhaps Phil got up late, or hadengagements of his own; for the moment's freedom when her child shouldbe free. She made up her mind that she would ask no questions, wouldnever interfere with any of their habits, or oppose or put herselfbetween them--only just to have a little of Elinor every day. 

"For it will not be the same thing this year, " she said to John, apologetically. "They have quite settled down into each other's ways. Philip must see I have no intention of interfering. For the mostobdurate opponent of mothers-in-law could not think--could he, John?--that I had any desire to put myself between them, or make myselftroublesome now. "

"There is no telling, " said John, "what such asses might think. "

"But Philip is not an ass; and don't you think I have behaved very well, and may give myself this indulgence the second year?"

"I certainly think you will be quite right to come to town: but I shouldnot have them to live with you, if I were you. "

"Shouldn't you? It might be a risk: but then I shouldn't do it unlessthere was room enough to leave them quite free. The thing I am afraid ofis that they wouldn't accept. "

"Oh, Phil Compton will accept, " said John, hurriedly. 

"Why are you so sure? I think often you know more about him than youever say. "

"I don't know much about him, but I know that a man of uncertain incomeand not very delicate feelings is generally glad enough to have theexpenses of the season taken off him: and even get all the more pleasureout of it when he has his living free. "

"That's not a very elevated view to take of the transaction, John. "

"My dear aunt, I did not think you expected anything very elevated fromthe Comptons. They are not the sort of family from which oneexpects----"

"And yet it is the family that my Elinor belongs to: she is a Compton. "

"I did not think of that, " said John, a little disconcerted. Then headded, "There is no very elevated standard in such matters. Want ofmoney has no law: and of course there are better things involved, for hemight be very glad that Elinor should have her mother to go out withher, to stand by when--a man might have other engagements. "

Mrs. Dennistoun looked at him closely and shook her head. She was notvery much reassured by this view of the case. "At all events I shall tryit, " she said. 

Quite early in the year, when she was expecting no such pleasure, shewas rewarded for her patience by another flying visit from her child, who this time telegraphed to say she was coming, so that her mothercould go and meet her at the station, and thus lose no moment of hervisit. Elinor, however, was not in good spirits on this occasion, norwas she in good looks. She told her mother hurriedly that Phil had comeup upon business; that he was very much engaged with the new company, getting far more into it than satisfied her. "I am terrified thatanother catastrophe may come, and that he might share the blame ifthings were to go wrong"--which was by no means a good preface for themission with which it afterwards appeared Elinor herself was charged. 

"Phil told me to say to you, mamma, that if you were not satisfied withany of your investments, he could help you to a good six or seven percent. ----"

She said this with her head turned away, gazing out of the window, contemplating the wintry aspect of the combe with a countenance ascloudy and as little cheerful as itself. 

There was an outcry on Mrs. Dennistoun's lips, but fortunately hersympathy with her child was so strong that she felt Elinor's sentimentsalmost more forcibly than her own, and she managed to answer in a quiet, untroubled voice. 

"Philip is very kind, my dear: but you know my investments are allsettled for me and I have no will of my own. I get less interest, butthen I have less responsibility. Don't you know I belong to the time inwhich women were not supposed to be good for anything, and consequentlyI am in the hands of my trustees. "

"I think he foresaw that, mother, " said Elinor, still with her headaverted and her eyes far away; "but he thought you might represent tothe trustees that not only would it give you more money, but it would bebetter in the end for me. Oh, how I hate to have to say this to you, mamma!"

How steadily Mrs. Dennistoun kept her countenance, though her daughternow flung herself upon her shoulder with uncontrollable tears!

"My darling, it is quite natural you should say it. You must tell Philipthat I fear I am powerless. I will try, but I don't think anything willcome of it. I have been glad to be free of responsibility, and I havenever attempted to interfere. "

"Mother, I am so thankful. I oughtn't to go against him, ought I? But Iwould not have you take his advice. It is so dreadful not to appear----"

"My dear, you must try to think that he understands better than you do:men generally do: you are only a girl, and they are trained more or lessto business. "

"Not Phil! not Phil!"

"Well, he must have some capacity for it, some understanding, or theywould not want him on those boards; and you cannot have, Elinor, for youknow nothing about it. To hear you speak of per cents. Makes me laugh. "It was a somewhat forlorn kind of laugh, yet the mother executed itfinely: and by and by the subject dropped, and Elinor was turned to talkof other things--other things of which there was a great deal to say, and over which they cried and laughed together as nature bade. 

In the same evening, the precious evening of which she did not like towaste a moment, Mrs. Dennistoun unfolded her plan for the season. "Ifeel that I know exactly the kind of house I want; it will probably bein some quiet insignificant place, a Chapel Street, or a Queen Street, or a Park Street somewhere, but in a good situation. You shall have thefirst floor all to yourself to receive your visitors, and if you thinkthat Philip would prefer a separate table----"

"Oh, mamma, mamma!" cried Elinor, clinging to her, kissing passionatelyher mother's cheek, which was still as soft as a child's. 

"It is not anything you have told me now that has put this into my head, my darling. I had made it all up in my own mind. Then, you know, whenyour husband is engaged with those business affairs--in the city--orwith his own friends--you would have your mother to fall back upon, Elinor. I should have just the _moments perdus_, don't you see, when youwere doing nothing else, when you were wanted for nothing else. Ipromise you, my darling, I should never be _de trop_, and would neverinterfere. "

"Oh, mamma, mamma!" Elinor cried again as if words failed her; and sothey did, for she said scarcely anything more, and evaded any answer. Itwent to her mother's heart, yet she made her usual excuses for it. Poorchild, once so ready to decide, accepting or rejecting with thecertainty that no opposition would be made to her will, but now afraidto commit herself, to say anything that her husband would not approve!Well! Mrs. Dennistoun said to herself, many a young wife is like that, and yet is happy enough. It depends so much on the man. Many a manadores his wife and is very good to her, and yet cannot bear that sheshould seem to settle anything without consulting his whim. And PhilipCompton had never been what might be called an easy-going man. It wasright of Elinor to give no answer till she knew what he would like. Thedreadful thing was that she expressed no pleasure in her mother'sproposal, scarcely looked as if she herself would like it, which was athing which did give an unquestionable wound. 

"Mamma, " she said, as they were driving to the station, not in the ponycarriage this time, but in the fly, for the weather was bad, "don't bevexed that I don't say more about your wonderful, your more than kindoffer. "

"Kind is scarcely a word to use, Elinor, between you and me. "

"I know, I know, mamma--and I as good as refuse it, saying nothing. Oh, if I could tell you without telling you! I am so frightened--how can Isay it?--that you should see things you would not approve!"

"My dear, I am of one generation and you are of another. I am an oldwoman, and your husband is a young man. But what does that matter? Wecan agree to differ. I will never thrust myself into his privateaffairs, and he----"

"Oh, mother, mother darling, it is not that, " Elinor said. And shewent away without any decision. But in a few days there came to Mrs. Dennistoun a letter from Philip himself, most nobly expressed, sayingthat Elinor had told him of her mother's kind offer, and that hehastened to accept it with the utmost gratitude and devotion. He hadjust been wondering, he wrote, how he was to muster all things necessaryfor Elinor, with the business engagements which were growing uponhimself. Nobody could understand better than Nell's good mother hownecessary it was that he should neglect no means of securing theirposition, and he had found that often he would have to leave his darlingby herself: but this magnificent, this magnanimous offer on her partwould make everything right. Need he say how gratefully he accepted it?Nell and he being on the spot would immediately begin looking out forthe house, and when they had a list of three or four to look at he hopedshe would come up to their rooms and select what she liked best. Thisresponse took away Mrs. Dennistoun's breath, for, to tell the truth, shehad her own notions as to the house she wanted and as to the time to bespent in town, and would certainly have preferred to manage everythingherself. But in this she had to yield, with thankfulness that in themain point she was to have her way. 

Did she have her way? It is very much to be doubted whether in such asituation of affairs it would have been possible. The house that wasdecided upon was not one which she would have chosen for herself, neither would she have taken it from Easter to July. She had meant aless expensive place and a shorter season; but after all, what did thatmatter for once if it pleased Elinor? The worst of it was that she couldnot at all satisfy herself that it pleased Elinor. It pleased Philip, there was no doubt, but then it had not been intended except in a verysecondary way to please him. And when the racket of the season beganMrs. Dennistoun had a good deal to bear. Philip, though he was supposedto be a man of business and employed in the city, got up about noon, which was dreadful to all her orderly country habits; the whole afternoonthrough there was a perpetual tumult of visitors, who, when by chanceshe encountered them in the hall or on the stairs, looked at hersuperciliously as if she were the landlady. The man who opened the door, and brushed Philip Compton's clothes, and was in his service, lookedsuperciliously at her too, and declined to have anything to say to "thevisitors for down-stairs. " A noise of laughter and loud talk was(distinctly) in her ears from noon till late at night. When Philip camehome, always much later than his wife, he was in the habit of bringingmen with him, whose voices rang through the house after everybody wasin bed. To be sure, there were compensations. She had Elinor often foran hour or two in the morning before her husband was up. She had her inthe evenings when they were not going out, but these were few. As forPhilip, he never dined at home. When he had no engagements he dined athis club, leaving Elinor with her mother. He gave Mrs. Dennistoun verylittle of his company, and when they did meet there was in his mannertoo a sort of reflection of the superciliousness of the "smart" visitorsand the "smart" servant. She was to him, too, in some degree thelandlady, the old lady down-stairs. Elinor, as was natural, redoubledher demonstrations of affection, her excuses and sweet words to make upfor this neglect: but all the time there was in her mother's mind thatdreadful doubt which assails us when we have committed ourselves to oneact or another, "Was it wise? Would it not have been better to havedenied herself and stayed away?" So far as self-denial went, it was moreexercised in Curzon Street than it would have been at the Cottage. Forshe had to see many things that displeased her and to say no word; toguess at the tears, carefully washed away from Elinor's eyes, and to askno questions, and to see what she could not but feel was the violentcareer downward, the rush that must lead to a catastrophe, but make nosign. There was one evening when Elinor, not looking well or feelingwell, had stayed at home, Philip having a whole long list of engagementsin hand; men's engagements, his wife explained, a stockbroking dinner, an adjournment to somebody's chambers, a prolonged sitting, which meantplay, and a great deal of wine, and other attendant circumstances intowhich she did not enter. Elinor had no engagement for that night, andwas free to be petted and fêted by her mother. She was put at her easein a soft and rich dressing-gown, and the prettiest little dinnerserved, and the room filled with flowers, and everything done that usedto be done when she was recovering from some little mock illness, somechild's malady, just enough to show how dear above everything was thechild to the mother, and with what tender ingenuity the mother couldinvent new delights for the child. These delights, alas! did nottransport Elinor now as they once had done, and yet the repose wassweet, and the comfort of this nearest and dearest friend to lean uponsomething more than words could say. 

On this evening, however, in the quiet of those still hours, poorElinor's heart was opened, or rather her mouth, which on most occasionswas closed so firmly. She said suddenly, in the midst of something quitedifferent, "Oh, I wish Phil was not so much engaged with those dreadfulcity men. "

"My dear!" said Mrs. Dennistoun, who was thinking of far other things;and then she said, "there surely cannot be much to fear in that respect. He is never in the city--he is never up, my dear, when the city men aredoing their work. "

"Ah, " said Elinor, "I don't think that matters; he is in with them allthe same. "

"Well, Elinor, there is no reason that there should be any harm in it. Iwould much rather he had some real business in hand than be merely abutterfly of fashion. You must not entertain that horror of city men. "

"The kind he knows are different from the kind you know, mamma. "

"I suppose everything is different from what it was in my time: but itneed not be any worse for that----"

"Oh, mother! you are obstinate in thinking well of everything; butsometimes I am so frightened, I feel as if I must do something dreadfulmyself--to precipitate the ruin which nothing I can do will stop----"

"Elinor, Elinor, this is far too strong language----"

"Mamma, he wants me to speak to you again. He wants you to give yourmoney----"

"But I have told you already I cannot give it, Elinor. "

"Heaven be praised for that! But he will speak to you himself, he willperhaps try to--bully you, mamma. "

"Elinor!"

"It is horrible, what I say; yes, it is horrible, but I want to warnyou. He says things----"

"Nothing that he can say will make me forget that he is your husband, Elinor. "

"Ah, but don't think too much of that, mamma. Think that he doesn't knowwhat he is doing--poor Phil, oh, poor Phil! He is hurried on by thesepeople; and then it will break up, and the poor people will be ruined, and they will upbraid him, and yet he will not be a whit the better. Hedoes not get any of the profit. I can see it all as clear---- And thereare so many other things. "

Mrs. Dennistoun's heart sank in her breast, for she too knew what werethe other things. "We must have patience, " she said; "he is in hishey-day, full of--high spirits, and thinking everything he touches mustgo right. He will steady down in time. "

"Oh, I am not complaining, " cried Elinor, hurriedly dashing her tearsaway; "if you were not a dreadfully good mamma, if you would grumblesometimes and find fault, that I might defend him! It is the sight ofyou there, seeing everything and not saying a word that is too much forme. "

"Then I will grumble, Elinor. I will even say something to him for ourown credit. He should not come in so late--at least when he comes in heshould come in to rest and not bring men with him to make a noise. Yousee I can find fault as much as heart could desire. I am dreadfullyselfish. I don't mind when he goes out now and then without you, forthen I have you; but he should not bring noisy men with him to disturbthe house in the middle of the night. I think I will speak to him----"

"No, " said Elinor, with a clutch upon her mother's arm; "no, don't dothat. He does not like to be found fault with. Unless in the case--ifyou were giving him that money, mother. "

"Which I cannot do: and Elinor, my darling, which I would not do if Icould. It is all you will have to rely upon, you and----"

"It would have been the only chance, " said Elinor. "I don't say it wouldhave been much of a chance. But he might have listened, if---- Oh, no, dear mother, no. I would not in my sober senses wish that you shouldgive him a penny. It would do no good, but only harm. And yet if you haddone it, you might have said---- and he might have listened to you foronce----"

CHAPTER XX. 

A few days after this Philip Compton came in, in the afternoon, to thelittle room down-stairs which Mrs. Dennistoun had made into asitting-room for herself. Elinor had gone out with her sister-in-law, and her mother was alone. It was a very rare thing indeed for Mrs. Dennistoun's guest--who, indeed, was to all intents and purposes themaster of the house, and had probably quite forgotten by this time thathe was not in reality so--to pay a visit "down-stairs. " "Down-stairs"had a distinct meaning in the Compton vocabulary. It was spoken of withsignificance, and with a laugh, as something half hostile, halfridiculous. It meant a sort of absurd criticism and inspection, as of some old crone sitting vigilant, spying upon everything--amother-in-law. Phil's cronies thought it was the most absurd weakness onhis part to let such an intruder get footing in his house. "You willnever get rid of her, " they said. And Phil, though he was generallyquite civil to his wife's mother (being actually and at his heart more agentleman than he had the least idea he was), did not certainly in anyway seek her society. He scarcely ever dined at home, as has been said;when he had not an engagement--and he had a great many engagements--hefound that he was obliged to dine at his club on the evenings when hemight have been free; and as this was the only meal which was supposedto be common, it may be perceived that Phil had little means of meetinghis mother-in-law; and that he should come to see her of his own freewill was unprecedented. Phil Compton had not improved since hismarriage. His nocturnal enjoyments, the noisy parties up-stairs in themiddle of the night, had not helped to dissipate the effect of theanxieties of the city, which his wife so deplored. Mrs. Dennistoun thatvery day, when she came down-stairs in the fresh summer morning to herearly breakfast, had seen through an open door the room up-stairs whichwas appropriated to Phil, with a lamp still burning in the daylight, cards lying strewn about the floor, and all in that direful disorderwhich a room so occupied overnight shows in the clear eye of the day. The aspect of the room had given her a shock almost more startling thanany moral certainty, as was natural to a woman used to all the decorumsand delicacies of a well-ordered life. There is no sin in going late tobed, or even letting a lamp burn into the day; but the impression thatsuch a sight makes even upon the careless is always greater than anymere apprehension by the mind of the midnight sitting, the eager game, the chances of loss and ruin. She had not been able to get that sightout of her eyes. Though on ordinary occasions she never entered Phil'srooms, on this she had stolen in to put out the lamp, with the sensationin her mind of destroying some evidence against him, which someone lessinterested than she might have used to his disadvantage. And she hadsent up the housemaid to "do" the room, with an admonition. "I cannothave Mr. Compton's rooms neglected, " she said. "The gentlemen is alwaysso late, " the housemaid said in self-defence. "I hears them letthemselves out sometimes after we're all up down-stairs. " "I don't wantto hear anything about the gentlemen. Do your work at the proper time;that is all that is asked of you. " Phil's servant appeared at the momentpulling on his coat, with the air of a man who has been up half thenight--which, indeed, was the case, for "the gentlemen" when they camein had various wants that had to be supplied. "What's up now?" he saidto the housemaid, within hearing of her mistress, casting an insolentlook at the old lady, who belonged to "down-stairs. " "She've been pryingand spying about like they all do----" Mrs. Dennistoun had retreatedwithin the shelter of her room to escape the end of this sentence, whichstill she heard, with the usual quickness of our faculties in suchcases. She swallowed her simple breakfast with what appetite she might, and her stout spirit for the moment broke down before this insult whichwas ridiculous, she said to herself, from a saucy servant-man. What didit matter to her what Johnson did or said? But it was like the lampburning in the sunshine: it gave a moral shock more sharp than many athing of much more importance would have been capable of doing, and shehad not been able to get over it all day. 

It may be supposed, therefore, that it was an unfortunate moment forPhil Compton's visit. Mrs. Dennistoun had scarcely seen them that day, and she was sitting by herself, somewhat sick at heart, wondering ifanything would break the routine into which their life was falling; orif this was what Elinor must address herself to as its usual tenor. Itwould be better in the country, she said to herself. It was only in thebustle of the season, when everybody of his kind was congregated intown, that it would be like this. In their rounds of visits, or when thewhole day was occupied with sport, such nocturnal sittings would beimpossible--and she comforted herself by thinking that they would not beconsistent with any serious business in the city such as Elinor feared. The one danger must push away the other. He could not gamble at night inthat way, and gamble in the other among the stockbrokers. They were bothruinous, no doubt, but they could not both be carried on at the sametime--or so, at least, this innocent woman thought. There was enough tobe anxious and alarmed about without taking two impossible dangers intoher mind together. 

And just then Phil knocked at her door. He came in smiling and gracious, and with that look of high breeding and _savoir faire_ which hadconciliated her before and which she felt the influence of now, althoughshe was aware how many drawbacks there were, and knew that the respectwhich her son-in-law showed was far from genuine. "I never see you tohave a chat, " he said; "I thought I would take the opportunity to-day, when Elinor was out. I want you to tell me how you think she is. "

"I think she is wonderfully well, " said Mrs. Dennistoun. 

"_Wonderfully_ well--you mean considering--that there is too much racketin her life?"

"Partly, I mean that--but, indeed, I meant it without condition; she iswonderfully well. I am surprised, often----"

"It is rather a racket of a life, " said Phil. 

"Too much, indeed--it is too much--for a woman who is beginning herserious life--but if you think that, it is a great thing gained, for youcan put a stop to it, or moderate--'the pace' don't you call it?" shesaid, with a smile. 

"Well, yes. I suppose we could moderate the pace--but that would mean agreat deal for me. You see, when a man's launched it isn't always soeasy to stop. Nell, of course, if you thought she wanted it--might go tothe country with you. "

Mrs. Dennistoun's heart gave a leap. "Might go to the country with you!"It seemed a glimpse of Paradise that burst upon her. But then she shookher head. "You know Elinor would not leave you, Philip. "

"Well! she has a ridiculous partiality, " he said, with a laugh, "though, of course, I'd make her--if it was really for her advantage, " he added, after a moment; "you don't think I'd let that stand in her way. "

"In the meantime, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, with hesitation, "withoutproceeding to any such stringent measures--if you could manage to be alittle less late at night. "

"Oh, you listen for my coming in at night?"

His face took a sombre look, as if a cloud had come over it. 

"I do not listen--for happily for me I have been asleep for hours. Igenerally jump up thinking the house is on fire at the sound of voices, which make listening quite unnecessary, Philip. "

"Ah, yes, the fellows are rather noisy, " he said, carelessly, "but Nellsleeps like a top, and pays no attention--which is the best thing shecan do. "

"I would not be too sure she slept like a top. "

"It's true; women are all hypocrites alike. You never know when you havethem, " Phil said. 

And then there was a pause; for she feared to say anything more lest sheshould go too far; and he for once in his life was embarrassed, and didnot know how to begin what he had to say. 

"Well, " he said, quickly, getting up, "I must be going. I have businessin the city. And now that I find you're satisfied about Nell'shealth---- By the way, you never show in our rooms; though Nell spendsevery minute she has to spare here. "

"I am a little old perhaps for your friends, Philip, and the room is nottoo large. "

"Well, no, " he said, "they are wretched little rooms. Good-by, then; I'mglad you think Nell is all right. "

Was this all he meant to say? There was, however, an uncertainty abouthis step, and by the time he had opened the door he came to a pause, half closed it again, and said, "Oh, by the bye!"

"What is it?" said Mrs. Dennistoun. 

He closed the door again and came back half a step. "I almost forgot, Imeant to tell you: if you have any money to invest, I could help youto---- The best thing I've heard of for many a day!"

"You are very kind, Philip; but you know everything I have is in thehands of trustees. "

"Oh, bother trustees. The only thing they do is to keep your dividendsdown to the lowest amount possible and cut short your income. Come, you're quite old enough to judge for yourself. You might give them ajog. At your time of life they ought to take a hint from you. "

"I have never done it, Philip, and they would pay no attention to me. "

"Oh, nonsense, mamma. Why, except you, who has a right to be consultedexcept Nell? and if I, her husband, am your adviser----"

"I know they would do nothing but mock at me. "

"Rubbish! I'd like to see who would mock at you. Just you send them tome, that is all. "

"Philip, will you not believe me when I say that it is impossible? Ihave never interfered. They would ask what made me think of such a thingnow. "

"And you could tell them a jolly good opportunity, as safe as the bank, and paying six or seven per cent. --none of your fabulous risky ten ortwelve businesses, but a solid steady---- How could it be to my interestto mislead you? It would be Nell who would be the loser. I should besimply cutting off my own head. "

"That is true, no doubt----"

"And, " he said, scarcely waiting for her reply, "Nell is really theperson who should be consulted: for if there was loss eventually itwould come upon her--and so upon me. I mean taking into considerationall the chances of the future: for it is perfectly safe for your time, you may be quite sure of that. "

No one, though he might be ninety, likes to have his time limited, andhis heir's prospects dwelt upon as the only things of any importance, and Mrs. Dennistoun was a very long way from ninety. She would havesacrificed everything she had to make her child happy, but she did notlike, all the same, to be set down as unimportant so far as her ownproperty was concerned. 

"I am afraid, " she said, with a slight quaver in her voice, "that mytrustees would not take Elinor's wishes into consideration in the firstplace, nor yours either, Philip. They think of me, and I suppose that isreally their duty. If I had anything of my own----"

"Do you mean to say, " he said, bluntly, "that with a good income andliving in the country in a hole, in the most obscure way, you havesaved nothing all these years?"

"If I had, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, roused by his persistent attack, "Ishould be very sorry to fling it away. "

"Oh, that is what you think?" he said. "Now we're at the bottom of it. You think that to put it in my hands would be to throw it away! Ithought there must be something at the bottom of all this prettyignorance of business and so forth. Good gracious! that may be wellenough for a girl; but when a grandmother pretends not to know, not tointerfere, etc. , that's too much. So this is what you meant all thetime! To put it into my hands would be throwing it away!"

"I did not mean to say so, Philip--I spoke hastily, but I must remindyou that I am not accustomed to this tone----"

"Oh, no, not at all accustomed to it, you all say that--that's Nell'sdodge--never was used to anything of the kind, never had a rough wordsaid to her, and so forth and so forth. "

"Philip--I hope you don't say rough words to my Elinor. "

"Oh!" he said, "I have got you there, have I. _Your_ Elinor--no moreyours than she is--Johnson's. She is my Nell, and what's more, she'llcling to me, whatever rough words I may say, or however you may coax orwheedle. Do you ever think when you refuse to make a sacrifice of onescrap of your hoards for her, that if I were not a husband in a hundredI might take it out of her and make her pay?"

"For what?" said Mrs. Dennistoun, standing up and confronting him, herface pale, her head very erect--"for what would you make her pay?"

He stood staring at her for a moment and then he broke out into a laugh. "We needn't face each other as if we were going to have a stand-upfight, " he said. "And it wouldn't be fair, mamma, we're not equallymatched, the knowing ones would all lay their money on you. So you won'ttake my advice about investing your spare cash? Well, if you won't youwon't, and there's an end of it: only stand up fair and don't bother mewith nonsense about trustees. "

"It is no nonsense, " she said. 

His eyes flashed, but he controlled himself and turned away, waving hishand. "I'll not beat Nell for it when I come home to-night, " he said. 

Once more Phil dined at his club that evening and Elinor with hermother. She was in an eager and excited state, looking anxiously in Mrs. Dennistoun's eyes, but it was not till late in the evening that she madeany remark. At last, just before they parted for the night, she threwherself upon her mother with a little cry--"Oh, mamma, I know you areright, I know you are quite right. But if you could have done it, itwould have given you an influence! I don't blame you--not for amoment--but it might have given you an opening to speak. It mighthave--given you a little hold on him. "

"My darling, my darling!" said Mrs. Dennistoun. 

"No, " said Elinor, "there's nothing to pity me about, nothing atall--Phil is always kind and good to me--but you would have had astanding ground. It might have given you a right to speak--about thosedreadful, dreadful city complications, mamma. "

Mrs. Dennistoun went to bed that night a troubled woman, and lay awakewatching and expecting when the usual midnight tumult should arise. Butthat evening there was none. No sound but the key in the latch, theshutting of a door or two, and all quiet. Compunctions filled themother's heart. What was the wrong if, perhaps, she could satisfyElinor, perhaps get at the heart of Phil, who had a heart, though itwas getting strangled in all those intricacies of gambling and wretchedbusiness. She turned over and over in her mind all that she had, and allthat she had any power over. And she remembered a small sum she had in amortgage, which was after all in her own power. No doubt it would be tothrow the money away, which would be so much gone from the futureprovision of Elinor--but if by that means she could acquire an influenceas Elinor said--be allowed to speak--to protest or perhaps even insistupon a change of course? Thinking over such a question for a wholesleepless night, and feeling beneath all that at least, at worst, thissacrifice would give pleasure to Elinor, which was really the one andsole motive, the only thing that could give her any warrant for such aproceeding--is not a process which is likely to strengthen the mind. Inthe morning, as soon as she knew he was up, which was not till lateenough, she sent to ask if Phil would give her five minutes before hewent out. He appeared after a while, extremely correct and _pointdevice_, grave but polite. "I must ask you to excuse me, " he said, "if Iam hurried, for to-day is one of my Board days. "

"It was only to say, Philip--you spoke to me yesterday of money--to beinvested. "

"Yes?" he said politely, without moving a muscle. 

"I have been thinking it all over, and I remember that there is athousand pounds or two which John Tatham placed for me in a mortgage, and which is in my own power. "

"Ah!" he said, "a thousand pounds or two, " with a shrug of hisshoulders; "it is scarcely worth while, is it, changing an investmentfor so small a matter as a thousand pounds?"

"If you think so, Philip--it is all I can think of that is in my ownpower. "

"It is really not worth the trouble, " he said, "and I am in a hurry. " Hemade a step towards the door and then turned round again. "Well, " hesaid, "just to show there is no ill-feeling, I'll find you something, perhaps, to put your tuppenceha'penny in to-day. "

And then there was John Tatham to face after that!

CHAPTER XXI. 

It cost Mrs. Dennistoun a struggle to yield to her daughter and herdaughter's husband, and with her eyes open and no delusion on thesubject to throw away her two thousand pounds. Two thousand pounds is abig thing to throw away. There are many people much richer than Mrs. Dennistoun who would have thought it a wicked thing to do, and some whowould have quarrelled with both daughter and son-in-law rather than doso foolish a thing. For it was not merely making a present, so to speak, of the money, it was throwing it away. To have given it to Elinor wouldhave been nothing, it would have been a pleasure; but in Phil'sinvestment Mrs. Dennistoun had no confidence. It was throwing her moneyafter Elinor's money into that hungry sea which swallows up everythingand gives nothing again. 

But if that had been difficult for her, it may be imagined with whatfeelings she contemplated her necessary meeting with John Tatham. Sheknew everything he would say--more, she knew what he would look: hisastonishment, his indignation, the amazement with which he would regardit. John was far from being incapable of a sacrifice. Mrs. Dennistoun, indeed, did him more than justice in that respect, for she believed thathe had himself been on the eve of asking Elinor to marry him when shewas snatched up by, oh, so much less satisfactory a man! which thereader knows is not quite the case, though perhaps it required quite asmuch self-denial on John's part to stand by Elinor and maintain hercause under her altered circumstances as if it had been the case. Butnotwithstanding this, she knew that John would be angry with what shehad done or promised to do, and would put every possible impediment inher way: and when she sent for him, in order that she might carry outher promise, it was with a heart as sick with fright and as muchdisturbed by the idea of a scolding as ever child's was. 

John had been very little to the house at Curzon Street. He had dinedtwo or three times with Mrs. Dennistoun alone, and once or twice Elinorhad been of the party; but the Comptons had never any guests at thathouse, and the fact already mentioned that Philip Compton never dined athome made it a difficult matter for Mrs. Dennistoun to ask any but heroldest friends to the curious little divided house, which was neitherhers nor theirs. Thus Cousin John had met, but no more, Elinor'shusband, and neither of the gentlemen had shown the least desire tocultivate the acquaintance. John had not expressed his sentimentson the subject to any one, but Phil, as was natural, had been moredemonstrative. "I don't think much of your relations, Nell, " he said, "if that's a specimen: a prig if ever there was one--and that old sheepthat was at the wedding, the father of him, I suppose----"

"As they are my relations, Phil, you might speak of them a little morerespectfully. "

"Oh, respectfully! Bless us all! I have no respect for my own, and why Ishould have for yours, my little dear, I confess I can't see. Oh, by theway, this is Cousin John, who I used to think by your blushing and allthat----"

"Phil, I think you are trying to make me angry. Cousin John is the bestman in the world; but I never blushed--how ridiculous! I might as wellhave blushed to speak of my brother. "

"I put no confidence in brothers, unless they're real ones, " said Phil;"but I'm glad I've seen him, Nell. I doubt after all that you're such afool, when you see us together--eh?" He laughed that laugh of conscioussuperiority which, when it is not perfectly well-founded, sounds sofatuous to the hearer. Elinor did not look at him. She turned her headaway and made no reply. 

John, on his part, as has been said, made no remark. If he had possesseda wife at home to whom he could have confided his sentiments, as PhilCompton had, it is possible that he might have said something notunsimilar. But then had he had a wife at home he would have been moreindifferent to Phil, and might not have cared to criticise him at all. 

Mrs. Dennistoun received him when he came in obedience to her call, as achild might do who had the power of receiving its future corrector. Sheabased herself before him, servilely choosing his favourite subjects, talking of what she thought would please him, of former times at theCottage, of Elinor, and her great affection for Cousin John, and soforth. I imagine that he had a suspicion of the cause of all thissweetness. He looked at her suspiciously, though he allowed himself tobe drawn into reminiscences, and to feel a half pleasure, half pain inthe affectionate things that Elinor had said. At length, after some timehad passed, he asked, in a pause of the conversation, "Was this all youwanted with me, aunt, to talk of old times?"

"Wasn't it a good enough pretext for the pleasure of seeing you, John?"

He laughed a little and shook his head. 

"An excellent pretext where none was wanted. It is very kind of you tothink it a pleasure: but you had something also to say?"

"It seems there is no deceiving you, John, " she said, and with manyhesitations and much difficulty, told him her story. She saw him beginto flame. She saw his eyes light up, and Mrs. Dennistoun shook in herchair. She was not a woman apt to be afraid, but she was frightened now. 

Nevertheless, when she had finished her story, John at first spoke noword: and when he did find a tongue it was only to say, "You want to get back the money you have on that mortgage. My dear aunt, why did not you tell me so at once?"

"But I have just told you, John. "

"Well, so be it. You know it will take a little time; there are someformalities that must be gone through. You cannot make a demand onpeople in that way to pay you cash at once. "

"Oh, I thought it was so easy to get money--on such very good securityand paying such a good adequate rate of interest. "

"It is easy, " he said, "perfectly easy; but it wants a little time: andpeople will naturally wonder, if it is really good security and goodinterest, why you should be in such a hurry to get out of it. "

"But surely, to say private reasons--family reasons, that will beenough. "

"Oh, there is no occasion for giving any reason at all. You wish to doit; that is reason enough. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, with diffidence, yet also a littleself-assertion, "I think it is enough. "

"Of course, of course. " But his eyes were flaming, and Mrs. Dennistounwould not allow herself to believe that she had got off. "And may Iask--not that I have any right to ask, for of course you have betteradvisers--what do you mean to put the money in, when you have got itback?"

"Oh, John, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, "you are implacable, though youpretend different. You know what I want with the money, and youdisapprove of it, and so do I. I am going to throw it away. I know thatjust as well as you do, and I am ashamed of myself: but I am going to doit all the same. "

"You are going to give it to Elinor? I don't think there is anything todisapprove of in that. It is the most natural thing in the world. "

"If I could be sure that Elinor would get any good by it, " she said. 

And then his face suddenly blazed up, so that the former flame in hiseyes was nothing. He sat for a moment staring at her, and then he said, "Yes, if--but I suppose you take the risk. " There were a great manythings on his lips to say, but he said none of them, except hurriedly, "You have a motive, I suppose----"

"I have a motive--as futile probably as my act--if I could by thatmeans, or any other, acquire an influence----"

John was very seldom, if ever, rude--it was not in his way--but at thismoment he was so bitterly exasperated that he forgot his mannersaltogether. He burst out into a loud laugh, and then he jumped up to hisfeet and said, "Forgive me. I really have a dozen engagements. I can'tstay. I'll see to having this business done for you as soon as possible. You would rather old Lynch had no hand in it? I'll get it done for youat once. "

She followed him out to the door as if they had been in the country, andthat the flowery cottage door, with the great world of down and skyoutside, instead of Curzon Street: longing to say something thatwould still, at the last moment, gain her John's approval, or hisunderstanding at least. But she could think of nothing to say. He hadpromised to manage it all for her: he had not reproached her; and yetnot content with that she wanted to extort a favourable word from himbefore he should go. But she could not find a word to say. He it wasonly who spoke. He asked when she was going to return home, with hishand upon the street door. 

"I don't know. I have not made any plans. The house is taken till July. "

"And you have enjoyed it?" he said. "It has answered?"

What a cruel, cruel question to put to her! She going so unsuspectinglywith him to the very door! Philip Compton's servant, always about whenhe was not wanted, spying about to see whom it was that "down-stairs"was letting out, came strolling into sight. Anyhow, whether that was thereason or not, she made him no reply. He caught her look--a look thatsaid more than words--and turned round quickly and held out his hand. "Idid not mean to be cruel, " he said. 

"Oh, no, no, no--you did not mean it--you were not cruel. Thereverse--you are always so kind. Yes, it has answered--I am more gladthan I can tell you--that I came. "

He it was now that looked at her anxiously, while she smiled thatwell-worn smile which is kept for people in trouble. She went inafterwards and sat silent for some time, covering her face with herhands; in which attitude Elinor found her after her afternoon visitorshad gone away. 

"What is it, mother? What is it, dear mother? Something has happened tovex you. "

"Nothing, nothing, Elinor. John Tatham has been here. He is going to dothat little piece of business for me. "

"And he--has been bullying you too? poor mamma!"

"On the contrary, he did not say a word. He considered it--quitenatural. "

Elinor gave her mother a kiss. She had nothing to say. Neither of themhad a word to say to the other. The thought that passed through boththeir minds was: "After all it is only two thousand pounds"--and then, _après_? was Elinor's thought. And then, never more, never more! waswhat passed through Mrs. Dennistoun's mind. 

Phil Compton smiled upon her that day she handed him over the money. "Itis a great pity you took the trouble, " he said. "It is a pity to changean investment for such a bagatelle as two thousand pounds. Still, ifyou insist upon it, mamma. I suppose Nell's been bragging of the biginterest, but you never will feel it on a scrap like this. If you wouldlet me double your income for you now. "

"You know, Philip, I cannot. The trustees would never consent. "

"Bother trustees. They are the ruin of women, " he said, and as he leftthe room he turned back to ask her how long she was going to stay intown. 

"How long do you stay?"

"Oh, till Goodwood always, " said Phil. "Nell's looking forward to it, and there's generally some good things just at the end when the heavypeople have gone away; but I thought you might not care to stay solong. "

"I came not for town, but for Elinor, Philip. "

"Exactly so. But don't you think Elinor has shown herself quite able totake care of herself--not to say that she has me? It's a thousand pitiesto keep you from the country which you prefer, especially as, after all, Nell can be so little with you. "

"It would be much better for her at present, Philip, to come with me, and rest at home, while you go to Goodwood. For the sake of the futureyou ought to persuade her to do it. "

"I daresay. Try yourself to persuade her to leave me. She won't, youknow. But why should you bore yourself to death staying on here? Youdon't like it, and nobody----"

"Wants me, you mean, Philip. "

"I never said anything so dashed straightforward. I am not a chap ofthat kind. But what I say is, it's a shame to keep you hanging on, disturbed in your rest and all that sort of thing. That noisy beggar, Dismar, that came in with us last night must have woke you up with hisidiotic bellowing. "

"It doesn't matter for me; but Elinor, Philip. It does matter for yourwife. If her rest is broken it will react upon her in every way. I wishyou would consent to forego those visitors in the middle of the night. "

He looked at her with a sort of satirical indifference. "Sorry I can'toblige you, " he said. "When a girl's friends fork out handsomely a manhas some reason for paying a little attention. But when there's nothing, or next to nothing, on her side, why of course he must pick up a littlewhere he can, as much for her sake as his own. "

"Pick up a little!" said Mrs. Dennistoun. 

"I wish you wouldn't repeat what I say like that. It makes a fellownervous. Yes, of course, a man that knows what he's about does pick up alittle. About your movements, however. I advise you to take my adviceand go back to your snug little house. It would kill me in a week, but Iknow it suits you. Why hang on for Nell? She's as well as can be, andthere's a few things that it would be good for us to do. "

"Which you cannot do while I am here? Is that what you mean, Philip?"

"I never saw any good in being what the French call brutal, " he said, "Ihate making a woman cry, or that sort of thing. But you're a woman ofsense, and I'm sure you must see that a young couple like Nell and me, who have our way to make in the world----"

"You know it was for her sake entirely that I came here. "

"Yes, oh, yes. To do coddling and that sort of thing--which she doesn'trequire a bit; but if I must be brutal you know there's things of muchconsequence we could do if----"

"If what, Philip?"

"Well, " he said, turning on his heel, "if we had the house toourselves. "

This was the influence Mrs. Dennistoun hoped to acquire by the sacrificeof her two thousand pounds! When he was gone, instead of covering herface as she had done when John left her, Mrs. Dennistoun stared into thevacant air for a minute and then she burst into a laugh. It was not amirthful laugh, it may be supposed, or harmonious, and it startled heras she heard it pealing into the silence. Whether it was loud enough towake Elinor up-stairs, or whether she was already close by and heard it, I cannot tell, but she came in with a little tap at the door and asmile, a somewhat anxious and forced smile, it is true, upon her face. 

"What is the joke?" she said. "I heard you laugh, and I thought I mightcome in and share the fun. Somehow, we don't have so much fun as we usedto have. What is it, mamma?"

"It is only a witticism of Philip's, who has been in to see me, " saidMrs. Dennistoun. "I won't repeat it, for probably I should lose thepoint of it--you know I always did spoil a joke in repeating it. I havebeen speaking to him, " she said, after a little pause, during which bothher laugh and Elinor's smile evaporated in the most curious way, leavingboth of them very grave--"of going away, Elinor. "

"Of going away!" Elinor suddenly assumed a startled look; but there isa difference between doing that and being really startled, which hermother, alas! was quite enlightened enough to see; and surely once morethere was that mingled relief and relaxation in the lines of her facewhich Mrs. Dennistoun had seen before. 

"Yes, my darling, " she said, "it is June, and everything at the Cottagewill be in full beauty. And, perhaps, it would do you more good to comedown there for a day or two when there is nothing doing than to have mehere, which, after all, has not been of very much use to you. "

"Oh, don't say that, mamma. Use!--it has been of comfort unspeakable. But, " Elinor added, hurriedly, "I see the force of all you say. Toremain in London at this time of the year must be a far greatersacrifice than I have any right to ask of you, mamma. "

Oh, the furtive, hurried, unreal words! which were such pain and horrorto say with the consciousness of the true sentiment lying underneath;which made Elinor's heart sink, yet were brought forth with a sort ofhateful fervour, to imitate truth. 

Mrs. Dennistoun saw it all. There are times when the understanding ofsuch a woman is almost equal to those "larger other eyes" with which itis our fond hope those who have left us for a better country see, ifthey are permitted to see, our petty doings, knowing, better than weknow ourselves, what excuses, what explanations, they are capable of. "As for the sacrifice, " she said, "we will say nothing of that, Elinor. It is a vain thing to say that if my life would do you any pleasure--foryou don't want to take my life, and probably the best thing I can dofor you is to go on as long as I can. But in the meantime there's noquestion at all of sacrifice--and if you can come down now and then fora day, and sleep in the fresh air----"

"I will, I will, mamma, " said Elinor, hiding her face on her mother'sshoulder; and they would have been something more than women if they hadnot cried together as they held each other in that embrace--in whichthere was so much more than met either eye or ear. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

It was about the 10th of June when Mrs. Dennistoun left London. She hadbeen in town for about five weeks, which looked like as many months, andit was with a mingled sense of relief, and of that feeling which is likedeath in the heart, the sense of nothing further to be done, of the endof opportunity, the conclusion of all power to help, which sometimescomes over an anxious mind, without in any respect diminishing theanxiety, giving it indeed a depth and pang beyond any other feeling thatis known to the heart of man. What could she do more for her child?Nothing. It was her only policy to remain away, not to see, certainlynot to remark anything that was happening, to wait if perhaps the momentmight come when she would be of use, and to hope that perhaps thatmoment might never need to come, that by some wonderful turn of affairsall might yet go well. She went back to Windyhill with the promise of avisit "soon, " Philip himself had said--in the pleasure of getting thehouse, which was her house, which she had paid for and provisioned, tohimself for his own uses. Mrs. Dennistoun could not help hearing throughher maid something of the festivities which were in prospect after shewas gone, the dinners and gay receptions at which she would have been_de trop_. She did not wish to hear of them, but these are things thatwill make themselves known, and Mrs. Dennistoun had to face the factthat Elinor was more or less consenting to the certainty of her motherbeing _de trop_, which gave her a momentary pang. But after all, whatdid it matter? It was not her fault, poor child. I have known a lovingdaughter in whose mind there was a sentiment almost of relief amid herdeep grief when her tender mother died. Could such a thing be possible?It was; because after then, however miserable she might be, there was noconflict over her, no rending of the strained heart both ways. A womanwho has known life learns to understand and forgive a great many things;and Mrs. Dennistoun forgave her Elinor, her only child, for whosehappiness she had lived, in that she was almost glad when her motherwent away. 

Such things, however, do not make a lonely little house in the countrymore cheerful, or tend to make it easier to content one's self with theRector's family, and the good old, simple-minded, retired people, withtheir little complaints, yet general peacefulness, and incompetence tounderstand what tragedy was. They thought on the whole their neighbourat the Cottage ought to be very thankful that she had got her daughterwell, or, if not very well, at least fashionably, married, with goodconnections and all that, which are always of use in the long run. Itwas better than marrying a poor curate, which was almost the only chancea girl had on Windyhill. 

It was a little hard upon Mrs. Dennistoun, however, that she lost notonly Elinor, but John, who had been so good about coming down when shewas all alone at first. Of course, during the season, a young risingman, with engagements growing upon him every day, was very unlikely tohave his Saturdays to Mondays free. So many people live out of townnowadays, or, at least, have a little house somewhere to which they gofrom Saturday to Monday, taking their friends with them. This was nodoubt the reason why John never came; and yet the poor lady suspectedanother reason, and though she no longer laughed as she had done onthat occasion when the Honourable Phil gave her her dismissal, a smilewould come over her face sometimes when she reflected that with her twothousand pounds she had purchased the hostility of both Philip and John. 

John Tatham was indeed exceedingly angry with her for the weakness withwhich she had yielded to Phil Compton's arguments, though indeed he knewnothing of Phil Compton's arguments, nor whether they had been exercisedat all on the woman who was first of all Elinor's mother and ready tosacrifice everything to her comfort. When he found that this foolishstep on her part had been followed by her retirement from London, he wasgreatly mystified and quite unable to understand. He met Elinor sometime after at one of those assemblies to which "everybody" goes. It was, I think, the soirée at the Royal Academy--where amid the persistentcrowd in the great room there was a whirling crowd, twisting in and outamong the others, bound for heaven knows how many other places, andpausing here and there on tiptoe to greet an acquaintance, at the tailof which, carried along by its impetus, was Elinor. She was not lookingeither well or happy, but she was responding more or less to the impulseof her set, exchanging greetings and banal words with dozens of people, and sometimes turning a wistful and weary gaze towards the pictures onthe walls, as if she would gladly escape from the mob of her companionsto them, or anywhere. It was no impulse of taste or artistic feeling, however, it is to be feared, but solely the weariness of her mind. Johnwatched her for some time before he approached her. Phil was not of theparty, which was nothing extraordinary, for little serious as thatassembly is, it was still of much too serious a kind for Phil; but LadyMariamne was there, and other ladies with whom Elinor was in the habitof pursuing that gregarious hunt after pleasure which carries the trainof votaries along at so breakneck a pace, and with so little time toenjoy the pleasure they are pursuing. When he saw indications that thestream was setting backwards to the entrance, again to separate andtake its various ways to other entertainments, he broke into the throngand called Elinor's attention to himself. For a moment she smiled withgenuine pleasure at the sight of him, but then changed her aspect almostimperceptibly. "Oh, John!" she said with that smile: but immediatelylooked towards Lady Mariamne, as if undecided what to do. 

"You need not look--as if I would try to detain you, Elinor. "

"Do you think I am afraid of your detaining me? I thought I should besure to meet you to-night, and was on the outlook. How is it that wenever see you now?"

He refused the natural retort that she had never asked to see him, andonly said, with a smile, "I hear my aunt is gone. "

"Do you mean to say that you only came for her? That is an unkindspeech. Yes, she has gone. It was cruel to keep her in town for the bestpart of the year. "

"But she intended to stay till July, Elinor. "

"Did she? I think you are mistaken, John. She intended to watch overme--dear mamma, she thinks too much of me--but when she saw that I wasquite well----"

"You don't look to me so extraordinarily well. "

"Don't I? I must be a fraud then. Nobody could be stronger. I'm going toa multitude of places to-night. Wherever my Hebrew leader goes I go, "said Elinor, with a laugh. "I have given myself up for to-night, and sheis never satisfied with less than a dozen. "

"Ten minutes to each. "

"Oh, half an hour at least: and with having our carriage found for us atevery place, and the risk of getting into a _queue_, and all the delaysof coming and going, it cannot be much less than three-quarters of anhour. This is the third. I think three more will weary even the Jew. "

"You are with Lady Mariamne then, Elinor?"

"Yes--oh, you need not make that face. She is as good as the rest, andpretends to nothing, at least. I have no carriage, you know, and Philtook fright at my dear old fly. He thought a hired brougham was not goodwhen I was alone. "

"That was quite true. Nevertheless, I should like above all things tokeep you here a little longer to look at some of the pictures, and takeyou home in a hansom after. "

She laughed. "Oh, so should I--fancy, I have not seen the pictures, notat all. We came in a mob to the private view; and then one day I wascoming with mamma, but was stopped by something, and now---- Alwayspeople, people--nothing else. 'Did you see So-and-so? There's some onebowing to you, Nell. Be sure you speak a word to the Thises or theThats'--while I don't care for one of them. But I fear the hansom wouldnot do, John. "

"It would have done very well in the old days. Your mother would nothave been displeased. "

"The old days are gone and will never return, " she said, half sad, halfsmiling, shaking her head. "So far as I can see, nothing ever returns. You have your day, and if you do not make the best of that----"

She stopped, shaking her head again with a laugh, and there were variousways in which that speech might be interpreted. John for one knew asense of it which he believed had never entered Elinor's head. He toomight have had his day and let it slip. "So you are making the most ofyours, " he said. "I hear that you are very gay. "

Elinor coloured high under his look. "I don't know who can have told youthat. We have had a few little dinners since mamma left us, chieflyPhil's business friends. I would not have them while she was withus--that is to say, to be honest, " cried Elinor, "while we were withher: which of course was the real state of the case. I myself don't likethose people, John, but they would have been insupportable to mamma. Itwas for her sake----"

"I understand, " he said. 

"Oh, but you must not say 'I understand' with that air of knowing agreat deal more than there is to understand, " she said, with heat. "Mamma said it would do me much more good to go--home for a night nowand then and sleep in the fresh air than for her to stay; and though Ithink she is a little insane on the subject of my health, still it wascertainly better than that she should stay here, making herselfwretched, her rest broken, and all that. You know we keep such latehours. "

"I should not have thought she would have minded that. "

"But what would you have thought of me if I did not mind it for her?There, John, do you see they are all going? Ah, the pictures! I wish Icould have stayed with you and gone round the rooms. But it must not beto-night. Come and see me!" she said, turning round to him with a smile, and holding out her hand. 

"I would gladly, Elinor--but should not I find myself in the way of yourfine friends like----"

He had not the heart to finish the sentence when he met her eyesbrimming full of tears. 

"Not my fine friends, but my coarse friends, " she said; "not friends atall, our worst enemies, I am sure. "

"Nell!" cried Lady Mariamne, in her shrill voice. 

"You will come and see me, John?"

"Yes, " he said, "and in the meantime I will take you down-stairs, letyour companions think as they please. "

It proved when he did so that John had to escort both ladies to thecarriage, which it was not very easy to find, no other cavalier being athand for the moment; and that Lady Mariamne invited him to accompanythem to their next stage. "You know the Durfords, of course. You aregoing there? What luck for us, Nell! Jump in, Mr. Tatham, we will takeyou on. "

"Unfortunately Lady Durford has not taken the trouble to invite me, "said John. 

"What does that matter? Jump in, all the same, she'll be delighted tosee you, and as for not asking you, when you are with me and Nell----"

But John turned a deaf ear to this siren's song. 

He went to Curzon Street a little while after to call, as he had beeninvited to do, and went late to avoid the bustle of the tea-table, andthe usual rabble of that no longer intimate but wildly gregarious house. And he was not without his reward. Perhaps a habit he had lately formedof passing by Curzon Street in the late afternoon, when he was on hisway to his club, after work was over, had something to do with hischoice of this hour. He found Elinor, as he had hoped, alone. She wassitting so close to the window that her white dress mingled with thewhite curtains, so that he did not at first perceive her, and so muchabstracted in her own thoughts that she did not pay any attention to theservant's hurried murmur of his name at the door. When she felt ratherthan saw that there was some one in the room, Elinor jumped up with ashock of alarm that seemed unnecessary in her own drawing-room; thenseeing who it was, was so much and so suddenly moved that she shed a fewtears in some sudden revulsion of feeling as she said, "Oh, it is you, John!"

"Yes, " he said, "but I am very sorry to see you so nervous. "

"Oh, it's nothing. I was always nervous"--which indeed was the purestinvention, for Elinor Dennistoun had not known what nerves meant. "Imean I was always startled by any sudden entrance--in this way, " shecried, and very gravely asked him to be seated, with a curiousassumption of dignity. Her demeanour altogether was incomprehensible toJohn. 

"I hope, " he said, "you were not displeased with me, Elinor, for goingoff the other night. I should have been too happy, you know, to go withyou anywhere; but Lady Mariamne is more than I can stand. "

"I was very glad you did not come, " she said with a sigh; then smilingfaintly, "But you were ungrateful, for Mariamne formed a most favourableopinion of you. She said, 'Why didn't you tell me, Nell, you had acousin so presentable as that?'"

"I am deeply obliged, Elinor; but it seems that what was a compliment tome personally involved something the reverse for your other relations. "

"It is one of their jokes, " said Elinor, with a voice that faltered alittle, "to represent my relations as--not in a complimentary way. I amsupposed not to mind, and it's all a joke, or so they tell me; but it isnot a joke I like, " she said, with a flash from her eyes. 

"All families have jokes of that description, " said John; "but tell me, Nelly, are you really going down to the cottage, to your mother?"

Her eyes thanked him with a gleam of pleasure for the old familiar name, and then the light went out of them. "I don't know, " she said, abruptly. "Phil was to come; if he will not, I think I will not either. But I willsay nothing till I make sure. "

"Of course your first duty is to him, " said John; "but a day now or aday then interferes with nothing, and the country would be good for you, Elinor. Doesn't your husband see it? You are not looking like yourself. "

"Not like myself? I might easily look better than myself. I wish Icould. I am not so bigoted about myself. "

"Your friends are, however, " he said: "no one who cares for you wants tochange you, even for another Elinor. Come, you are nervous altogetherto-night, not like yourself, as I told you. You always so courageous andbright! This depressed state is not one of your moods. London is toomuch for you, my little Nelly. "

"Your little Nellie has gone away somewhere John. I doubt if she'll evercome back. Yes, London is rather too much for me, I think. It's such aracket, as Phil says. But then he's used to it, you know. He was broughtup to it, whereas I--I think I hate a racket, John--and they all like itso. They prefer never having a moment to themselves. I daresay onewould end by being just the same. It keeps you from thinking, that isone very good thing. "

"You used not to think so, Elinor. "

"No, " she said, "not at the Cottage among the flowers, where nothingever happened from one year's end to another. I should die of it now ina week--at least if not I, those who belong to me. So on the wholeperhaps London is the safest--unless Phil will go. "

"I can only hope you will be able to persuade him, " said John, rising togo away, "for whatever you may think, you are a country bird, and youwant the fresh air. "

"Are you going, John? Well, perhaps it is better. Good-by. Don't troubleyour mind about me whether I go or stay. "

"Do you mean I am not to come again, Elinor?"

"Oh, why should I mean that?" she said. "You are so hard upon me in yourthoughts;" but she did not say that he was wrong, and John went out fromthe door saying to himself that he would not go again. He saw throughthe open door of the dining-room that the table was prepared sumptuouslyfor a dinner-party. It was shining with silver and crystal, the silverMrs. Dennistoun's old service, which she had brought up with her fromWindyhill, and which as a matter of convenience she had left behind withher daughter. Would it ever, he wondered, see Windyhill again?

He went on to his club, and there some one began to amuse him with anaccount of Lady Durford's ball, to which Lady Mariamne had wished totake him. "Are not those Comptons relations of yours, Tatham?" he said. 

"Connections, " said John, "by marriage. "

"I'm very glad that's all. They are a queer lot. Phil Compton youknow--the dis-Honourable Phil, as he used to be called--but I hear he'sturned over a new leaf----"

"What of him?" said John. 

"Oh, nothing much: only that he was flirting desperately all the eveningwith a Mrs. Harris, an American widow. I believe he came with her--andhis own wife there--much younger, much prettier, a beautiful youngcreature--looking on with astonishment. You could see her eyes growingbigger and bigger. If it had not been kind of amusing to a looker-on, itwould be the most pitiful sight in the world. "

"I advise you not to let yourself be amused by such trifles, " said JohnTatham, with a look of fire and flame. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

As a matter of fact, Elinor did not go to the Cottage for the fresh airor anything else. She made one hurried run in the afternoon to bid hermother good-by, alone, which was not a visit, but the mere pretence of avisit, hurried and breathless, in which there was no time to talk ofanything. She gave Mrs. Dennistoun an account of the usual lists ofvisits that her husband and she were to make in the autumn, which themother, with the usual instinct of mothers, thought too much. "You willwear yourself to death, Elinor. "

"Oh, no, " she said, "it is not that sort of thing that wears one todeath. I shall--enjoy it, I suppose, as other people do----"

"I don't know about enjoyment, Elinor, but I am sure it would be muchbetter for you to come and stay here quietly with me. "

"Oh, don't talk to me of any paradises, mamma. We are in the working-dayworld, and we must make out our life as we can. "

"But you might let Philip go by himself and come and stay quietly herefor a little, for the sake of your health, Elinor. "

"Not for the world, not for the world, " she cried. "I cannot leavePhil:" and then with a laugh that was full of a nervous thrill, "Youare always thinking of my health, mamma, when my health is perfect:better, far better, than almost anybody's. The most of them haveheadaches and that sort of thing, and they stay in bed for a day or twoconstantly, but I never need anything of the kind. "

"My darling, it would not be leaving Philip to take, say, a singleweek's rest. "

"While he went off without me I should not know where, " she said, sullenly; then gave her mother a guilty look and laughed again. "No, no, mamma; he would not like it. A man does not like his wife to be anincapable, to have to leave him and be nursed up by her mother. Besides, it is to the country we are going, you know, to Scotland, the finestair; better even, if that were possible, than Windyhill. "

This was all that was said, and there was indeed time for little more;for as the visit was unexpected the Hudsons, by bad luck, appeared totake tea with Mrs. Dennistoun by way of cheering her in her loneliness, and were of course enchanted to see Elinor, and to hear, as Mrs. Hudsonsaid, of all her doings in the great world. "We always look out for yourname at all the parties. It gives one quite an interest in fashionablelife, " said the Rector's wife, nodding her head, "and Alice was eager tohear what the last month's novelties were in the fashions, and if Elinorhad any nice new patterns, especially for under-things. But what shouldyou want with new under-things, with such a trousseau as you had?" sheadded, regretfully. Elinor in fact was quite taken from her mother forthat hour. Was it not, perhaps, better so? Her mother herself was halfinclined to think that it was, though with an ache in her heart, andthere could be no doubt that Elinor herself was thankful that it sohappened. When there are many questions on one side that must be asked, and very little answer possible on the other, is it a good thing whenthe foolish outside world breaks in with its _banal_ interest andprevents this dangerous interchange?

So short time did Elinor stay that she had kept the fly waiting whichbrought her from the station: and she took leave of her mother with asort of determination, not allowing it even to be suggested that sheshould accompany her. "I like to bid you good-by here, " she said, "atour own door, where you have always come all my life to see me off, evenwhen I was only going to tea at the Rectory. Good-by, good-by, motherdear. " She drove off waving her hand, and Mrs. Dennistoun sat out in thegarden a long time till she saw the fly go round the turn of the road, the white line which came suddenly in sight from among the trees and assuddenly disappeared again round the side of the hill. Elinor waved herhandkerchief from the window and her mother answered--and then she wasgone like a dream, and the loneliness closed down more overwhelming thanever before. 

Elinor was at Goodwood, her name in all the society papers, and even adescription of one of her dresses, which delighted and made proud thewhole population of Windyhill. The paper which contained it, and which, I believe, belonged originally to Miss Dale, passed from hand to handthrough almost the entire community; the servants getting it at last, and handing it round among the humbler friends, who read it, half adozen women together round a cottage door, wiping their hands upon theiraprons before they would touch the paper, with many an exclamation andadmiring outcry. And then her name appeared among the lists of smartpeople who were going to the North--now here, now there--in company withmany other fine names. It gave the Windyhill people a great deal ofamusement, and if Mrs. Dennistoun did not quite share this feeling itwas a thing for which her friends blamed her gently. "For only thinkwhat a fine thing for Elinor to go everywhere among the best people, andsee life like that!" "My dear friend, " said the Rector, "you know wecannot hope to keep our children always with us. They must go out intothe world while we old birds stay at home; and we must not--we reallymust not--grudge them their good times, as the Americans say. " It wasmore wonderful than words could tell to Mrs. Dennistoun that it shouldbe imagined she was grudging Elinor her "good time!"

The autumn went on, with those occasional public means of following herfootsteps which, indeed, made even John Tatham--who was not in anordinary way addicted to the _Morning Post_, being after his fashion aLiberal in politics and far from aristocratical in his sentimentsgenerally--study that paper, and also other papers less worthy: andwith, of course, many letters from Elinor, which gave more trustworthyaccounts of her proceedings. These letters, however, were far less long, far less detailed, than they had once been; often written in a hurry, and short, containing notes of where she was going, and of a continualchange of address, rather than of anything that could be calledinformation about herself. John, I think, went only once to the Cottageduring the interval which followed. He went abroad as usual inthe Long Vacation, and then he had this on his mind--that he hadhalf-surreptitiously obtained a new light upon the position of Elinor, which he had every desire to keep from her mother; for Mrs. Dennistoun, though she felt that her child was not happy, attributed that toany reason rather than a failure in her husband's love. Elinor'shot rejection of the very idea of leaving Phil, her dislike of anysuggestion to that effect, even for a week, even for a day, seemed toher mother a proof that her husband, at all events, remained as dear toher as ever; and John would rather have cut his tongue out than betrayany chance rumour he heard--and he heard many--to this effect. He was ofopinion, indeed, that in London, and especially at a London club, notonly is everything known that is to be known, but much is known that hasnever existed, and never will exist if not blown into being by thosewhose office it is to invent the grief to come; therefore he thought itwisest to keep away, lest by any chance something might drop from himwhich would awaken a new crowd of disquietudes in Mrs. Dennistoun'sheart. Another incident, even more disquieting than gossip, had indeedoccurred to John. It had happened to him to meet Lady Mariamne at agreat _omnium gatherum_ of a country house, where all sorts of peoplewere invited, and where that lady claimed his acquaintance as oneof the least alarming of the grave "set. " She not only claimed hisacquaintance, but set up a sort of friendship on the ground of hisrelationship to Elinor, and in an unoccupied moment after dinner one daypoured a great many confidences into his ear. 

"Isn't it such a pity, " she said, "that Phil and she do not get on? Oh, they did at first, like a house on fire! And if she had only minded herways they might still have been as thick---- But these little countrygirls, however they may disguise it at first, they all turn like that. The horridest little puritan! Phil does no more than a hundred men--thanalmost all men do: amuse himself with anything that throws itself in hisway, don't you know. And sometimes, perhaps, he does go rather far. Ithink myself he sometimes goes a little too far--for good taste youknow, and that sort of thing. "

It was more amazing to hear Lady Mariamne talk of good taste thananything that had ever come in John Tatham's way before, but he was toohorribly, desperately interested to see the fun. 

"She will go following him about wherever he goes. She oughtn't to dothat, don't you know. She should let him take his swing, and the chancesare it will bring him back all right. I've told her so a dozen times, but she pays no attention to me. You're a great pal of hers. Why don'tyou give her a hint? Phil's not the sort of man to be kept in order likethat. She ought to give him his head. "

"I'm afraid, " said John, "it's not a matter in which I can interfere. "

"Well, some of her friends should, anyhow, and teach her a little sense. You're a cautious man, I see, " said Lady Mariamne. "You think it's toodelicate to advise a woman who thinks herself an injured wife. I didn'tsay to console her, mind you, " she said with a shriek of a laugh. 

It may be supposed that after this John was still more unwilling to goto the Cottage, to run the risk of betraying himself. He did write toElinor, telling her that he had heard of her from her sister-in-law; butwhen he tried to take Lady Mariamne's advice and "give her a hint, "John felt his lips sealed. How could he breathe a word even of such asuspicion to Elinor? How could he let her know that he thought such athing possible?--or presume to advise her, to take her condition forgranted? It was impossible. He ended by some aimless wish that he mightmeet her at the Cottage for Christmas; "you and Mr. Compton, " hesaid--whom he did not wish to meet, the last person in the world: and ofwhom there was no question that he should go to the Cottage at Christmasor any other time. But what could John do or say? To suggest to her thathe thought her an injured wife was beyond his power. 

It was somewhere about Christmas--just before--in that dread moment forthe lonely and those who are in sorrow and distress, when all the restof the world is preparing for that family festival, or pretending toprepare, that John Tatham was told one morning in his chambers that alady wanted to see him. He was occupied, as it happened, with a clientfor whom he had stayed in town longer than he had intended to stay, andhe paid little more attention than to direct his clerk to ask the ladywhat her business was, or if she could wait. The client was long-winded, and lingered, but John's mind was not free enough nor his imaginationlively enough to rouse much curiosity in him in respect to the lady whowas waiting. It was only when she was ushered in by his clerk, as theother went away, and putting up her veil showed the pale and anxiouscountenance of Mrs. Dennistoun, that the shock as of sudden calamityreached him. "Aunt!" he cried, springing from his chair. 

"Yes, John--I couldn't come anywhere but here--you will feel for me morethan any one. "

"Elinor?" he said. 

Her lips were dry, she spoke with a little difficulty, but she noddedher head and held out to him a telegram which was in her hand. It wasdated from a remote part of Scotland, far in the north. "Ill--comeinstantly, " was all it said. 

"And I cannot get away till night, " cried Mrs. Dennistoun, with a burstof subdued sobbing. "I can't start till night. "

"Is this all? What was your last news?"

"Nothing, but that they had gone there--to somebody's shooting-box, which was lent them, I believe--at the end of the world. I wrote to begher to come to me. She is--near a moment--of great anxiety. Oh, John, support me: let me not break down. "

"You will not, " he said; "you are wanted; you must keep all your witsabout you. What were they doing there at this time of the year?"

"They have been visiting about--they were invited to Dunorban forChristmas, but she persuaded Philip, so she said, to take this littlehouse. I think he was to join the party while she--I cannot tell youwhat was the arrangement. She has written very vaguely for some time. She ought to have been with me--I told her so--but she has always saidshe could not leave Philip. "

Could not leave Philip! The mother, fortunately, had no idea why thisdetermination was. "I went so far as to write to Philip, " she said, "toask him if she might not come to me, or, at least begging him to bringher to town, or somewhere where she could have proper attention. Heanswered me very briefly that he wished her to go, but she would not: ashe had told me before I left town--that was all. It seemed to frethim--he must have known that it was not a fit place for her, in astranger's house, and so far away. And to think I cannot even get awaytill late to-night!"

John had to comfort her as well as he could, to make her eat something, to see that she had all the comforts possible for her night journey. "You were always like her brother, " the poor lady said, finding at lastrelief in tears. And then he went with her to the train, and found her acomfortable carriage, and placed her in it with all the solaces his mindcould think of. A sleeping-carriage on the Scotch lines is not such aghastly pretence of comfort as those on the Continent. The solaces Johnbrought her--the quantities of newspapers, the picture papers andothers, rugs and shawls innumerable--all that he possessed in the shapeof wraps, besides those which she had with her. What more could a mando? If she had been young he would have bought her sugar-plums. All thatthey meant were the dumb anxieties of his own breast, and the vaguelonging to do something, anything that would be a help to her on herdesolate way. 

"You will send me a word, aunt, as soon as you get there?"

"Oh, at once, John. "

"You will tell me how she is--say as much as you can--no three words, like that. I shall not leave town till I hear. "

"Oh, John, why should this keep you from your family? I could telegraphthere as easily as here. "

He made a gesture almost of anger. "Do you think I am likely to putmyself out of the way--not to be ready if you should want me?"

How should she want him?--a mother summoned to her daughter at such amoment--but she did not say so to trouble him more: for John had got tothat maddening point of anxiety when nothing but doing something, or atleast keeping ready to do something, flattering yourself that there mustbe something to do, affords any balm to the soul. 

He saw her away by that night train, crowded with people goinghome--people noisy with gayety, escaping from their daily cares to thefamily meeting, the father's house, all the associations of pleasureand warmth and consolation--cold, but happy, in their third-classcompartments--not wrapped up in every conceivable solace as she was, yetno one, perhaps, so heavy-hearted. He watched for the last glimpse ofher face just as the train plunged into the darkness, and saw her smileand wave her hand to him; then he, too, plunged into the darkness likethe train. He walked and walked through the solitary streets not knowingwhere he was going, unable to rest. Had he ever been, as people say, inlove with Elinor? He could not tell--he had never betrayed it by word orlook if he had. He had never taken any step to draw her near him, topersuade her to be his and not another's; on the contrary, he hadavoided everything that could lead to that. Neither could he say, "Shewas as my sister, " which his relationship might have warranted him indoing. It was neither the one nor the other--she was not his love norhis sister--she was simply Elinor; and perhaps she was dying; perhapsthe news he would receive next day would be the worst that the heartcan hear. He walked and walked through those dreary, semi-respectablestreets of London, the quiet, the sordid, the dismal, mile after mile, and street after street, till half the night was over and he was tiredout, and might have a hope of rest. 

But for three whole days--days which he could not reckon, which seemedof the length of years--during which he remained closeted in hischambers, the whole world having, as it seemed, melted away around him, leaving him alone, he did not have a word. He did not go home, feelingthat he must be on the spot, whatever happened. Finally, when he wasalmost mad, on the morning of the third day, he received the followingtelegram: "Saved--as by a miracle; doing well. Child--a boy. "

"Child--a boy!" Good heavens! what did he want with that? it seemed aninsult to him to tell him. What did he care for the child, if it wasa boy or not?--the wretched, undesirable brat of such parentage, bornto perpetuate a name which was dishonoured. Altogether the telegram, as so many telegrams, but lighted fresh fires of anxiety in his mind. "Saved--as by a miracle!" Then he had been right in the dreadful fanciesthat had gone through his mind. He had passed by Death in the dark; andwas it now sure that the miracle would last, that the danger would havepassed away?

CHAPTER XXIV. 

It was not till nearly three weeks after this that John received anotherbrief dispatch. "At home: come and see us. " He had indeed got a shortletter or two in the interval, saying almost nothing--a brief reportof Elinor's health, and of the baby, against whom he had taken anunreasoning disgust and repugnance. "Little beast!" he said to himself, passing over that part of the bulletin: for the letters were scarcelymore than bulletins, without a word about the circumstances whichsurrounded her. A shooting lodge in Ross-shire in the middle of thewinter! What a place for a delicate woman! John was well enough awarethat many elements of comfort were possible even in such a place; but heshut his eyes, as was natural, to anything that went against his ownpoint of view. 

And now this telegram from Windyhill--"At home: come and see us"--_us_. Was it a mistake of the telegraph people?--of course they must makemistakes. They had no doubt taken the _me_ in Mrs. Dennistoun's angularwriting for _us_--or was it possible---- John had no peace in his minduntil he had so managed matters that he could go and see. There was novery pressing business in the middle of January, when people had hardlyyet recovered the idleness of Christmas. He started one windy afternoon, when everything was grey, and arrived at Hurrymere station in the dimtwilight, still ruddy with tints of sunset. He was in a very contradictoryframe of mind, so that though his heart jumped to see Mrs. Dennistounawaiting him on the platform, there mingled in his satisfaction inseeing her and hearing what she had to tell so much sooner, a perverseconviction of cold and discomfort in the long drive up in the ponycarriage which he felt sure was before him. He was mistaken, however, onthis point, for the first thing she said was, "I have secured the fly, John. Old Pearson will take your luggage. I have so much to tell you. "There was an air of excitement in her face, but not that air of subduedand silent depression which comes with solitude. She was evidently fullof the report she had to make; but yet the first thing she did when shewas ensconced in the fly with John beside her was to cover her face withher hands, and subside into her corner in a silent passion of tears. 

"For mercy's sake tell me what is the matter. What has happened? IsElinor ill?"

He had almost asked is Elinor dead?

She uncovered her face, which had suddenly lighted up with a strangegleam of joy underneath the tears. "John, Elinor is here, " she said. 

"Here?"

"At home--safe. I have brought her back--and the child. "

"Confound the child!" John said in his excitement. "Brought her back!What do you mean?"

"Oh, John, it is a long story. I have a hundred things to tell you, andto ask your advice upon; but the main thing is that she is here. I havebrought her away from him. She will go back no more. "

"She has left her husband?" he said, with a momentary flicker ofexultation in his dismay. But the dismay, to do him justice, was thestrongest. He looked at his companion almost sternly. "Things, " he said, "must have been very serious to justify that. "

"They were more than serious--they had become impossible, " Mrs. Dennistoun said. 

And she told him her story, which was a long one. She had arrived tofind Elinor alone in the little solitary lodge in the midst of thewilds, not without attention indeed or comfort, but alone, her husbandabsent. She had been very ill, and he had been at the neighbouringcastle, where a great party was assembled, and where, the motherdiscovered at last, there was--the woman who had made Elinor's life aburden to her. "I don't know with what truth. I don't know whether thereis what people call any harm in it. It is possible he is only amusinghimself. I can't tell. But it has made Elinor miserable this wholeautumn through, that and a multitude of other things. She would not letme send for him when I got there. It had gone so far as that. She saidthat the whole business disgusted him, that he had lost all interest inher, that to hear it was over might be a relief to him, but nothingmore. Her heart has turned altogether against him, John, in every way. There have been a hundred things. You think I am almost wickedly glad tohave her home. And so I am. I cannot deny it. To have her here even inher trouble makes all the difference to me. But I am not so careless asyou think. I can look beyond to other things. I shrink as much as you dofrom such a collapse of her life. I don't want her to give up her duty, and now that there is the additional bond of the child----"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, " said John, "leave the child out of it! I wantto hear nothing of the child!"

"That is one chief point, however, that we want your advice about, John. A man, I suppose, does not understand it; but her baby is everything toElinor: and I suppose--unless he can really be proved as guilty as shethinks--he could take the child away. "

John smiled to himself a little bitterly: this was why he was sent forin such a hurry, not for the sake of his society, or from any affectionfor him, but that he might tell them what steps to take to secure themin possession of the child. He said nothing for some time, nor did Mrs. Dennistoun, whose disappointment in the coldness of his response wasconsiderable, and who waited in vain for him to speak. At length shesaid, almost tremblingly, "I am afraid you disapprove very much of thewhole business, John. "

"I hope it has not been done rashly, " he said. "The husband's mereabsence, though heartless as--as I should have expected of thefellow--would yet not be reason enough to satisfy any--court. "

"Any court! You don't think she means to bring him before any court? Shewants only to be left alone. We ask nothing from him, not a penny, notany money--surely, surely no revenge--only not to be molested. Thereshall not be a word said on our side, if he will but let her alone. "

John shook his head. "It all depends upon the view the man takes of it, "he said. 

Now this was very cold comfort to Mrs. Dennistoun, who had by this timebecome very secure in her position, feeling herself entirely justifiedin all that she had done. "The man, " she said, "the man is not thesufferer: and surely the woman has some claim to be heard. "

"Every claim, " said John. "That is not what I was thinking of. It isthis: if the man has a leg to stand upon, he will show fight. If hehasn't--why that will make the whole difference, and probably Elinor'sposition will be quite safe. But you yourself say----"

"John, don't throw back upon me what I myself said. I said that perhapsthings were not so bad as she believed. In my experience I have foundthat folly, and playing with everything that is right is more commonthan absolute wrong--and men like Philip Compton are made up of levityand disregard of everything that is serious. "

"In that case, " said John, "if you are right, he will not let her go. "

"Oh, John! oh, John! don't make me wish that he may be a worse man thanI think. He could not force her to go back to him, feeling as she does. "

"Nobody can force a woman to do that; but he could perhaps make herposition untenable; he would, perhaps, take away the child. "

"John, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, in alarm, "if you tell her that, she willfly off with him to the end of the world. She will die before she willpart with the child. "

"I suppose that's how women are made, " said John, not yet cured of hispersonal offence. 

"Yes, " she said, "that's how women are made. "

"I beg your pardon, " he said, coming to himself; "but you know, aunt, aman may be pardoned for not understanding that supreme fascination ofthe baby who cares no more for one than another, poor little animal, solong as it gets its food and is warm enough. We must await and see whatthe man will do. "

"Is that the best?--is there nothing we can do to defend ourselves inthe meantime--to make any sort of barricade against him?"

"We must wait and see what he is going to do, " said John; and they wentover and over the question, again and again, as they climbed the hills. It grew quite dark as they drove along, and when they came out upon theopen part of the road, from which the Cottage was visible, they bothlooked out across the combe to the lights in the windows with aninvoluntary movement. The Cottage was transformed; instead of the onelonely lighted window which had indicated to John in former visits whereMrs. Dennistoun sat alone, there was now a twinkle from various points, a glow of firelight, a sensation of warmth, and company. Mrs. Dennistounlooked out upon it and her face shone. It was not a happy thing thatElinor should have made shipwreck of her life, should have left herhusband and sought refuge in her mother's house. But how could it beotherwise than happy that Elinor was there--Elinor and the other littlecreature who was something more than Elinor, herself and yet another?As for John, he looked at it too, with an interest which stopped allarguments on the cause of it. She was there--wrong, perhaps, impatient;too quick to fly as she had been too quick to go--but still Elinor allthe same, whether she was right or wrong. 

The cab arrived soberly at the door, where Pearson with the ponycarriage, coming by the shorter way with the luggage, had just arrivedalso. Mrs. Dennistoun said, hurriedly, "You will find Elinor in thedrawing-room, John, " and herself went hastily through the house and upthe stairs. She was going to the baby! John guessed this with a smile ofastonishment and half contempt. How strange it was! There could not bea more sad position than that in which, in their rashness, these twowomen had placed themselves; and yet the mother, a woman of experience, who ought to have known better, got out of the carriage like a girl, without waiting to be helped or attended to, and went up-stairs likethe wind, forgetting everything else for that child--that child, theinheritor of Phil Compton's name and very likely of his qualities--fatedfrom his birth (most likely) to bring trouble to everybody connectedwith him! And yet Elinor was of less interest to her mother. Whatstrange caprices of nature! what extraordinary freaks of womankind!

The Cottage down-stairs was warm and bright with firelight andlamplight, and in the great chair by the fire was reclining, lying backwith her book laid on her lap and her face full of eager attention tothe sounds outside, a pale young woman, surrounded by cushions and warmwraps and everything an invalid could require, who raised to him eyesmore large and shining than he had ever seen before, suffused with a dewof pain and pleasure and eager welcome. Elinor, was it Elinor? He hadnever seen her in any way like an invalid before--never knew her tobe ill, or weak, or unable to walk out to the door and meet him oranyone she cared for. The sight of her ailing, weak, with those largeglistening eyes, enlarged by feebleness, went to his very heart. Fortunately he did not in any way connect this enfeebled state with thephenomenon up-stairs, which was best for all parties. He hurried up toher, taking her thin hands into his own. 

"Elinor! my poor little Nelly--can this be you!"

The water that was in her eyes rolled over in two great tears; a briefconvulsion went over her face. "Yes, John, " she said, almost in awhisper. "Strange as it may seem, this is all that is left of me. "

He sat down beside her and for a moment neither of them spoke. Pity, tenderness, wrath, surged up together in John's breast; pity, tendercompassion, most strong of all. Poor little thing; this was how she hadcome back to her home; her heart broken, her wings broken, as it were;all her soaring and swiftness and energy gone. He could scarcely lookupon her for the pity that overflowed his heart. But underneath laywrath, not only against the man who had brought her to such a pass, butagainst herself too. 

"John, " she said, after a while, "do you remember saying to me that Iwas not one to bear, to put up with things, to take the consequences ifI tried a dangerous experiment and failed?"

"Did I ever say anything so silly and so cruel?"

"Oh, no, no; it was neither silly nor unkind, but quite, quite true. Ihave thought of it so often. I used to think of it to stir up my pride, to remind myself that I ought to try to be better than my nature, not toallow you to be a true prophet. But it was so, and I couldn't change it. You can see you were right, John, for I have not been like a strongwoman, able to endure; I have only been able to run away. "

"My poor little Nelly!"

"Don't pity me, " she said, the tears running over again. "I am too welloff; I am too well taken care of. A prodigal should not be made so muchof as I am. "

"Don't call yourself a prodigal, Nelly! Perhaps things may not be as badas they appear. At least, it is but the first fall--the greatest athletegets many before he can stand against the world. "

"I'll never be an athlete, John. Besides, I'm a woman, you know, and afall of any kind is fatal to a woman, especially anything of this kind. No, I know very well it's all over; I shall never hold up my head again. But that's not the question--the question is, to be safe and as free ascan be. Mamma takes me in, you know, just as if nothing had happened. She is quite willing to take the burden of me on her shoulders--and ofbaby. She has told you that there are two of me, now, John--my baby, aswell as myself. "

John could only nod an assent; he could not speak. 

"It's a wonderful thing to come out of a wreck with a treasure in one'sarms; everything going to pieces behind one; the rafters coming down, the walls falling in and yet one's treasure in one's arms. Oh, I had notthe heart or the strength to come out of the tumbling house. My motherdid it all, dragged me out, wrapped me up in love and kindness, carriedme away. I don't want you to think I was good for anything. I shouldjust have lain there and died. One thing, I did not mind dying at all--Ihad quite made up my mind. That would not have been so disgraceful asrunning away. "

"There is nothing that is disgraceful, " said John, "for heaven's sakedon't say so, Nelly. It is unfortunate--beyond words--but that is all. Nobody can think that you are in any way disgraced. And if you areallowed just to stay quietly here in your natural home, I suppose youdesire nothing more. "

"What should I desire more, John? You don't suppose I should like to goand live in the world again, and go into society and all that? I havehad about enough of society. Oh, I want nothing but to be quiet andunmolested, and bring up my baby. They could not take my baby from me, John?"

"I do not think so, " he said, with a grave face. 

"You do not--think so? Then you are not _sure_? My mother says dreadfulthings, but I cannot believe them. They would never take an infant fromits mother to give it to--to give it to--a man--who could do nothing, nothing for it. What could a man do with a young child? a man always onthe move, who has no settled home, who has no idea what an infant wants?John, I know law is inhuman, but surely, surely not so inhuman as that. "

"My dear Nelly, " he said, "the law, you know, which, as you say, isoften inhuman, recognizes the child as belonging to the father. He isresponsible for it. For instance, they never could come upon you for itsmaintenance or education, or anything of that kind, until it had beenproved that the father----"

"May I ask, " said Elinor, with uplifted head, "of what or of whom youare talking when you say _it_?"

It was all John could do not to burst into a peal of aggrieved andindignant laughter. He who had been brought from town, from his owncomforts such as they were, to be consulted about this brat, this childwhich belonged to the dis-Honourable Phil; and Elinor, _Elinor_, of allpeople in the world, threw up her head and confronted him with disdainbecause he called the brat it, and not him or her, whichever it was. John recollected well enough that sentence at which he had been soindignant in the telegram--"child, a boy "--but he affected to himselfnot to know what it was for the indulgence of a little contumely: andthe reward he had got was contumely upon his own head. But when helooked at Elinor's pale face, the eyes so much larger than they oughtto be, with tears welling out unawares, dried up for a moment byindignation or quick hasty temper, the temper which made her sweeterwords all the more sweet he had always thought--then rising againunawares under the heavy lids, the lips so ready to quiver, the patheticlines about the mouth: when he looked at all these John's heart smotehim. He would have called the child anything, if there had been a sexsuperior to him the baby should have it. And what was there that mancould do that he would not do for the deliverance of the mother and thechild?

CHAPTER XXV. 

It cannot be said that this evening at the Cottage was an agreeable one. To think that Elinor should be there, and yet that there should be solittle pleasure in the fact that the old party, which had once been sohappy together, should be together again, was bewildering. And yet therewas one member of it who was happy with a shamefaced unacknowledged joy. To think that that which made her child miserable should make her happywas a dreadful thought to Mrs. Dennistoun, and yet how could she helpit? Elinor was there, and the baby was there, the new unthought-ofcreature which had brought with it a new anxiety, a rush of new thoughtsand wishes. Already everything else in the mind of Elinor's mother beganto yield to the desire to retain these two--the new mother and thechild. But she did not avow this desire. She was mostly silent, taking little part in the discussion, which was indeed a very curiousdiscussion, since Elinor, debating the question how she was to abandonher husband and defend herself against him, never mentioned his name. 

She did not come in to dinner, which Mrs. Dennistoun and John Tatham atesolemnly alone, saying but little, trying to talk upon indifferenttopics, with that very wretched result which is usual when people at oneof the great crises of life have to make conversation for each otherwhile servants are about and the restraints of common life are aroundthem. Whether it is the terrible flood of grief which has to be barredand kept within bounds so that the functions of life may not altogetherbe swept away, or the sharper but warmer pang of anxiety, that whichcuts like a serpent's tooth, yet is not altogether beyond the reach ofhope, what poor pretences these are at interest in ordinary subjects;what miserable gropings after something that can furnish a thread ofconversation just enough to keep the intercourse of life going! Thesetwo were not more successful than others in this dismal pursuit. Mrs. Dennistoun found a moment when the meal was over before she left John, poor pretence! to his wine. "Remember that she will not mention hisname; nothing must be said about him, " she said. "How can we discuss himand what he is likely to do without speaking of him?" said John, with alittle scorn. "I don't know, " replied the poor lady. "But you will findthat she will not have his name mentioned. You must try and humour her. Poor Elinor! For I know that you are sorry for her, John. "

Sorry for her! He sat over his glass of mild claret in the littledining-room that had once been so bright; even now it was the cosiestlittle room, the curtains all drawn, shutting out the cold wind, whichin January searches out every crevice, the firelight blazing fitfully, bringing out all the pretty warm decorations, the gleam of silver on theside-board, the pictures on the wall, the mirror over the mantelpiece. There was nothing wanted under that roof to make it the very home ofdomestic warmth and comfort. And yet--sorry for Elinor! That was notthe word. His heart was sore for her, torn away from all her moorings, drifting back a wreck to the little youthful home, where all had been sotranquil and so sweet. John had nothing in him of that petty sentimentwhich derives satisfaction from a calamity it has foreseen, nor had heeven an old lover's thrill of almost pleasure in the downfall of theclay idol that has been preferred to his gold. His pain for Elinor, theconstriction in his heart at thought of her position, were unmixed withany baser feeling. Sorry for her! He would have given all he possessedto restore her happiness--not in his way, but in the way she had chosen, even, last abnegation of all, to make the man worthy of her who hadnever been worthy. Even his own indignation and wrath against thatman were subservient in John's honest breast to the desire of somehowfinding that it might be possible to whitewash him, nay to reform him, to make him as near as possible something which she could tolerate forlife. I doubt if a woman, notwithstanding the much more ready power ofsacrifice which women possess, could have so fully desired this renewaland amendment as John did. It was scarcely too much to say that he hatedPhil Compton: yet he would have given the half of his substance at thismoment to make Phil Compton a good man; nay, even to make him a passableman--to rehabilitate him in his wife's eyes. 

John stayed a long time over "his wine, " the mild glass of claret (orperhaps it was Burgundy) which was all that was offered him--partly tothink the matter over, but also partly perhaps because he heard certainfaint gurglings, and the passage of certain steps, active and full ofenergy, past the door of the room within which he sat, going now to thedrawing-room, now up-stairs, from which he divined that the new inmateof the house was at present in possession of the drawing-room, and ofall attention there. He smiled at himself for his hostility to thechild, which, of course, was entirely innocent of all blame. Here theman was inferior to the woman in comprehension and sympathy; for he notonly could not understand how they could possibly obtain solace in theirtrouble from this unconscious little creature, but he was angry andscornful of them for doing so. Phil Compton's brat, no doubt the germ ofa thousand troubles to come, but besides that a nothing, a being withoutlove or thought, or even consciousness, a mere little animal feedingand sleeping--and yet the idol and object of all the thoughts of twointelligent women, capable of so much better things! This irritated Johnand disgusted him in the midst of all his anxious thoughts, and hisprofound compassion and deliberations how best to help: and it wasnot till the passage of certain feeble sounds outside his door, whichproceeded audibly up-stairs, little bleatings in which, if they had comefrom a lamb, or even a puppy, John would have been interested, assuredhim that the small enemy had disappeared--that he finally rose andproceeded to "join the ladies, " as if he had been holding a littleprivate debauch all by himself. 

There was a little fragrance and air of the visitor still in the room, alittle disturbance of the usual arrangements, a surreptitious, quiteunjustifiable look as of pleasure in Elinor's eyes, which were lessexpanded, and if as liquid as ever, more softly bright than before. Something white actually lay on the sofa, a small garment which Mrs. Dennistoun whisked away. They were conscious of John's critical eyeupon them, and received him with a warmth of conciliatory welcome whichbetrayed that consciousness. Mrs. Dennistoun drew a chair for him tothe other side of the fire. She took her own place in the middle at thetable with a large piece of white knitting, to which she gave her wholeattention, and thus the deliberation began. 

"Elinor wants to know, John, what you think we ought to do--to makequite sure--that there will be no risk, about the baby. "

"I must know more of the details of the question before I can give anyadvice, " said John. 

"John, " said Elinor, raising herself in her chair, "here are all thedetails that are necessary. I have come away. I have come home, findingthat life was impossible there. That is the whole matter. It may be, probably it is, my own fault. It is simply that life became impossible. You know you said that I was not one to endure, to put up with things. Iscoffed at you then, for I did not expect to have anything to put upwith; but you were quite right, and life had become impossible--that isall there is any need to say. "

"To me, yes, " said John, "but not enough, Elinor, if it ever has to comewithin the reach of the law. "

"But why should it come within the reach of the law? You, John, you area lawyer; you know the rights of everything. I thought you might havearranged it all. Couldn't you try to make a kind of a bargain? Whatbargain? Oh, am I a lawyer, do I know? But you, John, who have it all atyour fingers' ends, who know what can be done and what can't be done, and the rights that one has and that another has! Dear John! if you wereto try, don't you think that you could settle it all, simply as betweenpeople who don't want any exposure, any struggle, but only to be quietand to be let alone?"

"Elinor, I don't know what I could do with so little information as Ihave. To know that you found your life impossible is enough for me. Butyou know most people are right in their own eyes. If we have some oneopposed to us who thinks, for instance, that the fault was yours?"

"Well, " she cried, eagerly, "I am willing to accept that: say that thefault was mine! You could confirm it, that it was likely to be mine. Youcould tell them what an impatient person I was, and that you said Iwas not one to try an experiment, for I never, never could put up withanything. John, you could be a witness as well as an advocate. You couldprove that you always expected--and that I am quite, quite willing toallow that it was I----"

"Elinor, if I could only make you understand what I mean! I am told thatI am not to mention any names?"

"No, no names, no names! What is the good? We both know very well whatwe mean. "

"But I don't know very well what you mean. Don't you see that if it isyour fault--if the other party is innocent--there can be no reason inthe world why he should consent to renounce his rights. It is not a merematter of feeling. There is right in it one way or another--either onyour side or else on the other side; and if it is on the other side, whyshould a man give up what belongs to him, why should he renounce whatis--most dear to him?"

"Oh, John, John, John!" she made this appeal and outcry, clasping herhands together with a mixture of supplication and impatience. Thenturning to her mother--"Oh, tell him, " she cried, "tell him!"--alwaysclasping those impatient yet beseeching hands. 

"You see, John, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, "Elinor knows that the rightis on her side: but she will consent to say nothing about it to anyone--to give herself out as the offender rather--that is to say, as anill-disciplined person that cannot put up with anything, as you seem tohave said. "

John laughed with vexation, yet a kind of amusement. "I never said itnor thought it: still if it pleases her to think so---- The wiser thingif this separation is final----"

"If it is final!" Elinor cried. She raised herself up again in herchair, and contemplated the unfortunate John with a sort of tragicsuperiority. "Do you think that of me, " she said, "that I would takesuch a step as this and that it should not be final? Is dying final?Could one do such a thing as this and change?"

"Such things have been done, " said John. "Elinor, forgive me. I must sayit--it is all your life that is in the balance, and another life. Thereis this infant to be struggled over, perhaps rent in two by those whoshould have united to take care of him--and it's a boy, I hear. There'shis name and his after-life to think of--a child without a father, perhaps the heir of a family to which he will not belong. Elinor--tellher, aunt, you understand: is it my wish to hand her back to--to---- No, I'll speak no names. But you know I disliked it always, opposed it always. It is not out of any favour to--to the other side. But she ought to takeall these things into account. Her own position, and the position in thefuture of the child----"

Elinor had crushed her fan with her hands, and Mrs. Dennistoun let theknitting with which she had gone on in spite of all fall at last in herlap. There was a little pause. John Tatham's voice itself had began tofalter, or rather swelled in sound as when a stream swells in flood. 

"I do not go into the question about women and what they ought to put upwith, " said John, resuming. "There's many things that law can do nothingfor--and nature in many ways makes it harder for women, I acknowledge. We cannot change that. Think what her position will be--neither a wifenor with the freedom of a widow; and the boy, bearing the name of one hemust almost be taught to think badly of--for one of them must be in thewrong----"

"He shall never, never hear that name; he shall know nothing, he shallbe free of every bond; his mind shall never be cramped or twisted ortroubled by any--man--if I live. "

This Elinor said, lifting her pale face from her hands with eyes thatflashed and shone with a blaze of excitement and weakness. 

"There already, " said John, "is a tremendous condition--if you live! Whocan make sure that they will live? We must all die--some sooner, somelater--and you wearing yourself out with excitement, that never werestrong; you exposing your heart, the weakest organ----"

"John, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, grasping him by the arm, "you are talkingnonsense, you don't know what you are saying. My darling! she was neverweak nor had a feeble heart, nor--anything! She will live to bring up_his_ children, her baby's children, upon her knees. "

"And what would it matter?" said Elinor--looking at him with clear eyes, from which the tears had disappeared in the shock of this unlooked-forsuggestion--"suppose I have no more strength than that, suppose I wereto die? you shall be his guardian, John, bring him up a good man; andhis Heavenly Father will take care of him. I am not afraid. "

A man had better not deal with such subjects between two women. Whatwith Mrs. Dennistoun's indignant protest and Elinor's lofty submission, John was at his wits' end. "I did not mean to carry things to such abitter end as that, " he said. "You want to force me into a corner andmake me say things I never meant. The question is serious enough withoutthat. "

There was again a little pause, and then Elinor, with one of thosechanges which are so perplexing to sober-minded people, suddenly turnedto him, holding out both her hands. 

"John--we'll leave that in God's hands whatever is to happen to me. Butin the meantime, while I am living--and perhaps my life depends uponbeing quiet and having a little peace and rest. It is not that I carevery much for my life, " said Elinor, with that clear, open-eyed look, like the sky after rain--"I am shipwrecked, John, as you say--but mymother does, and it's of--some--consequence--to baby; and if it dependsupon whether I am left alone, you are too good a friend to leave me inthe lurch. And you said--one night--whatever happened I was to send foryou. "

John sprang up from his seat, dropping the hands which he had taken intohis own. She was like Queen Katherine, "about to weep, " and her breaststrained with the sobbing effort to keep it down. 

"For God's sake, " he cried, "don't play upon our hearts like this! Iwill do anything--everything--whatever you choose to tell me. Aunt, don't let her cry, don't let her go on like that. Why, good heavens!" hecried, bursting himself into a kind of big sob, "won't it be bad forthat little brat of a baby or something if she keeps going on in thisway?"

Thus John Tatham surrendered at discretion. What could he do more? Aman cannot be played upon like an instrument without giving out soundsof which he will, perhaps, be ashamed. And this woman appealing tohim--this girl--looking like the little Elinor he remembered, youngerand softer in her weakness and trouble than she had been in her beautyand pride--was the creature after all, though she would never know it, whom he loved best in the world. He had wanted to save her, in theone worldly way of saving her, from open shipwreck, for her own sake, against every prejudice and prepossession of his mind. But if she wouldnot have that, why it was his business to save her as she wished, to dofor her whatever she wanted; to act as her agent, her champion, whatevershe pleased. 

He was sent away presently, and accepted his dismissal with thankfulness, to smoke his cigar. This is one amusing thing in a feminine household. Aman is supposed to want all manner of little indulgences and not to beable to do without them. He is carefully left alone over "his wine"--theaforesaid glass of claret; and ways and means are provided for him tosmoke his cigar, whether he wishes it or not. He had often laughed atthese regulations of his careful relatives, but he was rather glad ofthem to-night. "I am going to get Elinor to bed, " said Mrs. Dennistoun. "It has, perhaps, been a little too much for her: but when you havefinished your cigar, John, if you will come back to the drawing-room fora few minutes you will find me here. "

John did not smoke any cigar. It is all very well to be soothed andconsoled by tobacco in your own room, at your own ease: but when you areput into a lady's dining-room, where everything is nice, and where thecurtains will probably smell of smoke next morning: and when your mindis exercised beyond even the power of the body to keep still, that isnot a time to enjoy such calm and composing delights. But he walkedabout the room in which he was shut up like a wild beast in his cage, sometimes with long strides from wall to wall, sometimes going round, with that abstract trick of his, staring at the pictures, as if he didnot know every picture in the place by heart. He forgot that he was togo back to the drawing-room again after Elinor had been taken to bed, and it was only after having waited for him a long time that Mrs. Dennistoun came, almost timidly, knocking at her own dining-room door, afraid to disturb her visitor in the evening rites which she believed inso devoutly. She did go in, however, and they stood together over thefire for a few minutes, he staring down upon the glow at his feet, shecontemplating fitfully, unconsciously, her own pale face and his in thedim mirror on the mantelpiece. They talked in low tones about Elinor andher health, and her determination which nothing would change. 

"Of course I will do it, " said John; "anything--whatever she may requireof me--there are no two words about that. There is only one thing: Iwill not compromise her by taking any initiative. Let us wait and seewhat they are going to do----"

"But, John, might it not be better to disarm him by making overtures?anything, I would do anything if he would but let her remainunmolested--and the baby. "

"Do you mean money?" he said. 

Mrs. Dennistoun gave him an abashed look, deprecatory and wistful, butdid not make any reply. 

"Phil Compton is a cad, and a brute, and a scamp of the first water, "said John, glad of some way to get rid of his excitement; "but I do notthink that even he would sell his wife and his child for money. Iwouldn't do him so much discredit as that. "

"Oh, I beg your pardon, John, " Mrs. Dennistoun said. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

John left the Cottage next morning with the full conduct of the affairsof the family placed in his hands. The ladies were both a littledoubtful if his plan was the best--they were still frightened for whatmight happen, and kept up a watch, as John perceived, fearing everystep that approached, trembling at every shadow. They remembered manystories, such as rush to the minds of persons in trouble, of similarcases, of the machinations of the bad father whose only object was toovercome and break down his wife, and who stole his child away to let itlanguish and die. There are some circumstances in which people forgetall the shades of character, and take it for granted that a man who cango wrong in one matter will act like a very demon in all. This wasdoubly strong in Mrs. Dennistoun, a woman full of toleration andexperience; but the issues were so momentous to her, and the possibleresults so terrible, that she lost her accustomed good sense. It wasmore natural, perhaps, that Elinor, who was weak in health and stillfull of the arbitrariness of youth, should entertain this fear--withoutconsidering that Phil was the very last man in the world to burdenhimself with an infant of the most helpless age--which seemed to Johnan almost quite unreasonable one. Almost--for, of course, he too wascompelled to allow, when driven into a corner, that there was nothingthat an exasperated man might not do. Elinor had come down early to seeher cousin before he left the house, bringing with her in her arms thelittle bundle of muslin and flannel upon the safety of which her verylife seemed to depend. John looked at it, and at the small pink face andunconscious flickering hands that formed the small centre to all thosewrappings, with a curious mixture of pity and repugnance. It was likeany other blind new-born kitten or puppy, he thought, but not soamusing--no, it was not blind, to be sure. At one moment, without anywarning, it suddenly opened a pair of eyes, which by a lively exerciseof fancy might be supposed like Elinor's, and seemed to look him in theface, which startled him very much, with a curious notification of thefact that the thing was not a kitten or a puppy. But then a littlequiver came over the small countenance, and the attendant said it was"the wind. " Perhaps the opening of the eyes was the wind too, or someother automatic effect. He would not hold out his finger to be claspedtight by the little flickering fist, as Elinor would have had him. Hewould none of those follies; he turned away from it not to allow himselfto be moved by the effect, quite a meretricious one, of the baby in theyoung mother's arms. That was all poetry, sentiment, the trick of thepainter, who had found the combination beautiful. Such ideas belonged, indeed, to the conventional-sacred, and he had never felt any profaneresistance of mind against the San Sisto picture or any of its kind. But Phil Compton's brat was a very different thing. What did it matterwhat became of it? If it were not for Elinor's perverse feeling onthe subject, and that perfectly imbecile prostration of her mother, a sensible woman who ought to have known better, before the littlecreature, he would himself have been rather grateful to Phil Compton fortaking it away. But when he saw the look of terror upon Elinor's facewhen an unexpected step came to the door, when he saw her turn and fly, wrapping the child in her arms, on her very heart as it seemed, bendingover it, covering it so that it disappeared altogether in her embrace, John's heart was a little touched. It was only a hawking tramp with pinsand needles, who came by mistake to the hall door, but her panic andanguish of alarm were a spectacle which he could not get out of hiseyes. 

"You see, she never feels safe for a moment. It will be hard to persuadeher that that man, though I've seen him about the roads for years, isnot an emissary--or a spy--to find out if she is here. "

"I am sure it is quite an unnecessary panic, " said John. "In the firstplace, Phil Compton's the last man to burden himself with a child; inthe second, he's not a brute nor a monster. "

"You called him a brute last night, John. "

"I did not mean in that way. I don't mean to stand by any rash word thatmay be forced from me in a moment of irritation. Aunt, get her to giveover that. She'll torture herself to death for nothing. He'll not try totake the child away--not just now, at all events, not while it is amere---- Bring her to her senses on that point. You surely can do that?"

"If I was quite sure of being in my own, " Mrs. Dennistoun said, with aforlorn smile. "I am as much frightened as she is, John. And, remember, if there is anything to be done--anything----"

"There is nothing but a little common sense wanted, " said John. But ashe drove away from the door, and saw the hawker with the needles stillabout, the ladies had so infected him that it was all he could do torestrain an inclination to take the vagrant by the collar and throw himdown the combe. 

"Who's that fellow hanging about?" he said to Pearson, who was drivinghim; "and what does he want here?"

"Bless you, sir! that's Joe, " Pearson said. "He's after no harm. He'shonest enough as long as there ain't nothing much in his way; and he'swaiting for the pieces as cook gives him once a week when he comes hisrounds. There's no harm in poor Joe. "

"I suppose not, since you say so, " said John; "but you know the ladiesare rather nervous, Pearson. You must keep a look-out that nosuspicious-looking person hangs about the house. "

"Bless us! Mr. John, " said Pearson, "what are they nervous about?--thebaby? But nobody wants to steal a baby, bless your soul!"

"I quite agree with you, " said John, much relieved (though he consideredPearson an old fool, in a general way) to have his own opinion confirmed. "But, all the same, I wish you would be doubly particular not to admitanybody you don't know; and if any man should appear to bother them sendfor me on the moment. Do you hear?"

"What do you call any man, sir?" said Pearson, smartly. He had ideas ofhis own, though he might be a fool. 

"I mean what I say, " said John, more sharply still. "Any one thatmolests or alarms them. Send me off a telegram at once--'You're wanted!'That will be quite enough. But don't go with it to the office yourself;send somebody--there's always your boy about the place--and keep aboutlike a dragon yourself. "

"I'll do my best, sir, " said Pearson, "though I don't know what a dragonis, except it's the one in the Bible; and that's not a thing anybodywould want about the place. "

It was a comfort to John, after all his troubles, to be able to laugh, which he did with a heartiness which surprised Pearson, who was quiteunaware that he had made any joke. 

These fears, however, which were imposed upon him by the contagionof the terrors of the others, soon passed from John's mind. He wasconvinced that Phil Compton would take no such step; and that, howevermuch he might wish his wife to return, the possession of the baby wasnot a thing which he would struggle over. It cannot be denied, however, that he was anxious, and eagerly inspected his letters in the morning, and looked out for telegrams during the day. Fortunately, however, noevil tidings came. Mrs. Dennistoun reported unbroken peace in theCottage and increasing strength on the part of Elinor; and, in aparenthesis with a sort of apology, of the baby. Nobody had come nearthem to trouble them. Elinor had received no letters. The tie betweenher and her husband seemed to be cut as with a knife. "We cannot ofcourse, " she said, "expect this tranquillity to last. "

And it came to be a very curious thought with John, as week after weekpassed, whether it was to last--whether Phil Compton, who had never beensupposed wanting in courage, intended to let his wife and child dropoff from him as if they had never been. This seemed a thing impossibleto conceive: but John said to himself with much internal contempt thathe knew nothing of the workings of the mind of such a man, and that itmight for aught he knew be a common incident in life with the PhilComptons thus to shake off their belongings when they got tired of them. The fool! the booby! to get tired of Elinor! That rumour which fliesabout the world so strangely and communicates information abouteverybody to the vacant ear, to be retailed to those whom it mayconcern, provided him, as the days went by, with many particulars whichhe had not been able to obtain from Elinor. Phil, it appeared, had goneto Glenorban--the great house to which he had been invited--alone, withan excuse for his wife, whose state of health was not appropriate to alarge party, and had stayed there spending Christmas with a brillianthouseful of guests, among whom was the American lady who had captivatedhim. Phil had paid one visit to the lodge to see Elinor, by her mother'ssummons, at the crisis of her illness, but had not hesitated to go awayagain when informed that the crisis was over. Mrs. Dennistoun never toldwhat had passed between them on that occasion, but the gossips of theclub were credibly informed that she had bullied and stormed at Phil, after the fashion of mothers-in-law, till she had driven him away. Uponwhich he had returned to his party and flirted with Mrs. Harris morethan ever. John discovered also that the party having dispersed sometime ago, Phil had gone abroad. Whether in ignorance of his wife'sflight or not he could not discover; but it was almost impossible tobelieve that he would have gone to Monte Carlo without finding outsomething about Elinor--how and where she was. But whether this was thecause of his utter silence, or whether it was the habit of men of hisclass to treat such tremendous incidents in domestic life with levity, John Tatham could not make out. He was congratulating himself, however, upon keeping perfectly quiet, and leaving the conduct of the matter tothe other party, when the silence was disturbed in what seemed to himthe most curious way. 

One afternoon when he returned from the court he was aware, when heentered the outer office in which his clerk abode, of what he describedafterwards as a smell fit to knock you down. It would have beendescribed more appropriately in a French novel as the special perfume, subtle and exquisite, by which a beautiful woman may be recognisedwherever she goes. It was, indeed, neither more nor less than theparticular scent used by Lady Mariamne, who came forward with a sweepand rustle of her draperies, and the most ingratiating of her smiles. 

"It appears to be fated that I am to wait for you, " she said. "How doyou do, Mr. Tatham? Take me out of this horrible dirty place. I am quitesure you have some nice rooms in there. " She pointed as she spoke tothe inner door, and moved towards it with the air of a person who knewwhere she was going, and was fully purposed to be admitted. John saidafterwards, that to think of this woman's abominable scent being left inhis room in which he lived (though he also received his clients in it)was almost more than he could bear. But, in the meantime, he could donothing but open the door to her, and offer her his most comfortablechair. 

She seated herself with all those little tricks of movement which arealso part of the stock-in-trade of the pretty woman. Lady Mariamne'sprettiness was not of a kind which had the slightest effect upon John, but still it was a kind which received credit in society, being theproduct of a great deal of pains and care and exquisite arrangement andcombination. She threw her fur cloak back a little, arranged the stringsof her bonnet under her chin, which threw up the daintiness and rosinessof a complexion about which there were many questions among her closestfriends. She shook up, with what had often been commented upon as theprettiest gesture, the bracelets from her wrists. She arranged the veil, which just came over the tip of her delicate nose, she put out her footas if searching for a footstool--which John made haste to supply, thoughhe remained unaffected otherwise by all these pretty preliminaries. 

"Sit down, Mr. Tatham, " then said Lady Mariamne. "It makes me wretchedlyuncomfortable, as if you were some dreadful man waiting to be paid orsomething, to see you standing there. "

Though John's first impulse was that of wrath to be thus requested tosit down in his own chambers, the position was amusing as well asdisagreeable, and he laughed and drew a chair towards his writing-table, which was as crowded and untidy as the writing-table of a busy manusually is, and placed himself in an attitude of attention, thoughwithout asking any question. 

"Well, " said Lady Mariamne, slowly drawing off her glove; "you know, ofcourse, why I have come, Mr. Tatham--to talk over with you, as a man whoknows the world, this deplorable business. You see it has come aboutexactly as I said. I knew what would happen: and though I am not one ofthose people who always insist upon being proved right, you rememberwhat I said----"

"I remember that you said something--to which, perhaps, had I thought Ishould have been called upon to give evidence as to its correctness--Ishould have paid more attention, Lady Mariamne. "

"How rude you are!" she said, with her whole interest concentrated uponthe slow removal of her glove. Then she smoothed a little, softly, thepretty hand which was thus uncovered, and said, "How red one's handsget in this weather, " and then laughed. "You don't mean to tell me, Mr. Tatham, " she said, suddenly raising her eyes to his, "that, consideringwhat a very particular person we were discussing, you can't rememberwhat I said?"

John was obliged to confess that he remembered more or less the gist ofher discourse, and Lady Mariamne nodded her head many times inacceptance of his confession. 

"Well, " she said, "you see what it has come to. An open scandal, aseparation, and everything broken up. For one thing, I knew if she didnot give him his head a little that's what would happen. I don't believehe cares a brass farthing for that other woman. She makes fun ofeverybody, and that amused him. And it amused him to put Nell in astate--that as much as anything. Why couldn't she see that and learn to_prendre son parti_ like other people? She was free to say, 'You go yourway and I'll go mine:' the most of us do that sooner or later: but tomake a vulgar open rupture, and go off--like this. "

"I fail to see the vulgarity in it, " said John. 

"Oh, of course; everything she does is perfect to you. But just think, if it had been your own case--followed about and bullied by a jealouswoman, in a state of health that of itself disgusts a man----"

"Lady Mariamne, you must pardon me if I refuse to listen to anythingmore of this kind, " said John, starting to his feet. 

"Oh, I warn you, you'll be compelled to listen to a great deal more ifyou're her agent as I hear! Phil will find means of compelling you tohear if you don't like to take your information from me. "

"I should like to know how Mr. Phil Compton will succeed in compellingme--to anything I don't choose to do. "

"You think, perhaps, because there's no duelling in this country hecan't do anything. But there is, all the same. He would shame you intoit--he could say you were--sheltering yourself----"

"I am not a man to fight duels, " said John, very angry, but smiling, "inany circumstances, even were such a thing not utterly ridiculous; buteven a fighting man might feel that to put himself on a level with thedis-Hon----"

He stopped himself as he said it. How mean it was--to awoman!--descending to their own methods. But Lady Mariamne was too quickfor him. 

"Oh, " she said; "so you've heard of that, a nickname that nogentleman----" then she too paused and looked at him, with a momentaryflush. He was going to apologize abjectly, when with a slight laugh sheturned the subject aside. 

"Pretty fools we are, both of us, to talk such nonsense. I didn't comehere carrying Phil on my shoulders, to spring at your throat if youexpressed your opinion. Look here--tell me, don't let us go beatingabout the bush, Mr. Tatham--I suppose you have seen Nell?"

"I know my cousin's mind, at least, " he said. 

"Well, then, just tell me as between friends--there's no need we shouldquarrel because they have done so. Tell me this, is she going to get upa divorce case----"

"A divorce----!"

"Because, " said Lady Mariamne, "she'll find it precious difficult toprove anything. I know she will. She may prove the flirting and soforth--but what's that? You can tell her from me, it wants somebody farbetter up to things than she is to prove anything. I warn her as afriend she'll not get much good by that move. "

"I am not aware, " said John, "whether Mrs. Compton has made up her mindabout the further steps----"

"Then just you advise her not, " cried Lady Mariamne. "It doesn't matterto me: I shall be none the worse whatever she does: but if you are hertrue friend you will advise her not. She might tell what she thinks, butthat's no proof. Mr. Tatham, I know you have great influence with Nell. "

"Not in a matter like this, " said John, with great gravity. "Of courseshe alone can be the judge. "

"What nonsense you talk, you men! Of course she is not the least thejudge, and of course she will be guided by you. "

"You may be sure she shall have the best advice that I can give, " Johnsaid with a bow. 

"You want me to go, I see, " said Lady Mariamne; "you are dreadfullyrude, standing up all the time to show me I had better go. " Hereupon sherecommenced her little _manège_, drawing on her glove, letting herbracelets drop again, fastening the fur round her throat. "Well, Mr. Tatham, " she said, "I hope you mean to have the civility to see after mycarriage. I can't go roaming about hailing it as if it were a hansomcab--in this queer place. "

CHAPTER XXVII. 

John went down to Windyhill that evening. His appearance alarmed thelittle household more than words could say. As he was admitted at onceby the servants, delighted to see him, he walked in suddenly into themidst of a truly domestic scene. The baby lay on Elinor's knee in themidst of a mass of white wrappings, kicking out a pair of pink littlelegs in the front of the fire. Elinor herself was seated on a very lowchair, and illuminated by the cheerful blaze, which threw a glare uponher countenance, and called out unthought-of lights in her hair, therewas no appearance in her looks of anxiety or trouble. She was altogethergiven up to the baby and the joy of its new life. The little kickinglimbs, the pleasure of the little creature in the warmth, the curlingof its rosy little toes in the agreeable sensation of the heat, weremore to Elinor and to her mother, who was kneeling beside her on thehearth-rug, than the most refined and lofty pleasures in the world. Themost lofty of us have to come down to those primitive sources of bliss, if we are happy enough to have them placed in our way. The greatest poetby her side, the music of the spheres sounding in her ear, would nothave made Elinor forget her troubles like the stretching out towards thefire of those little pink toes. 

When the door opened, and the voice and step of a man--dreadedsounds--were audible, a thrill of terror ran over this little group. Mrs. Dennistoun sprang to her feet and placed herself between theintruder and the young mother, while Elinor gathered up, covering himall over, so that he disappeared altogether, her child in her arms. 

"It is John, " said Mrs. Dennistoun. "God be thanked, it is only John. "

But Elinor, quite overcome by the shock, burst suddenly into tears, towhich the baby responded by a vigorous cry, not at all relishing thesudden huddling up among its shawls to which it had been subjected. Itmay be supposed what an effect this cloudy side of the happiness, whichhe had not been able to deny to himself made a very pretty scene, hadupon John. He said, not without a little offence, "I am sure I beg yourpardon humbly. I'll go away. "

Elinor turned round her head, smiling through her tears. "It was onlythat you gave me a fright, " she said. "I am quite right again; don't, oh, don't go away! unless you object to the sight of baby, and to hearhim cry; but he'll not cry now, any more than his silly mother. Mamma, make John sit down and tell us--Oh, I am sure he has something to tellus--Perhaps I took comfort too soon; but the very sight of John is aprotection and a strength, " she said, holding out her hand to him. Thissudden change of front reduced John, who had been perhaps disposed for amoment to stand on his dignity, to utter subjection. He neither said noreven thought a word against the baby, who was presently unfolded again, and turned once more the toes of comfort towards the fire. He did notapproach too near, feeling that he had no particular share in the scene, and indeed cut an almost absurd figure in the midst of that group, butsat behind, contemplating it from a little distance against the fire. The evening had grown dark by this time, but the two women, absorbedby their worship, had wanted no light. It had happened to John by anextreme piece of luck to catch the express train almost as soon as LadyMariamne had left him, and to reach the station at Hurrymere before theFebruary day was done. 

"You have something to tell us, John--good news or bad?" Mrs. Dennistounsaid. 

"Good; or I should not have come like this unannounced, " he said. "Thepost is quick enough for bad. I think you may be quite at your easeabout the child--no claim will be made on the child. Elinor, I think, will not be disturbed if--she means to take no steps on her side. "

"What steps?" said Mrs. Dennistoun. Elinor turned her head to look athim anxiously over the back of her chair. 

"I have had a visit this afternoon, " he said. 

"From--" Elinor drew a long hurried breath. She said no name, but it wasevident that one was on her lips--a name she never meant to pronouncemore, but to which her whole being thrilled still even when it wasunspoken. She looked at him full of eagerness to hear yet with a handuplifted, as if to forbid any utterance. 

"From Lady Mariamne. "

How her countenance fell! She turned round again, and bent over herbaby. It was a pang of acute disappointment, he could not but see, thatwent through her, though she would not have allowed him to say thatname. Strange inconsistency! it ran over John too with a sense of keenindignation, as if he had taken from her an electric touch. 

"----Whose object in coming to me was to ascertain whether you intendedto bring a suit for--divorce. "

A cry rang through the room. Elinor turned upon him for a moment a faceblazing with hot and painful colour. The lamp had been brought in, andhe saw the fierce blush and look of horror. Then she turned round andburied it in her hands. 

"Divorce!" said Mrs. Dennistoun. "Elinor----! To drag her privateaffairs before the world. Oh, John, John, that could not be. You wouldnot wish that to be. "

"I!" he cried with a laugh of tuneless mirth. "Is it likely that I wouldwish to drag Elinor before the world?"

Elinor did not say anything, but withdrew one hand from her burningcheek and put it into his. These women treated John as if he were a manof wood. What he might be feeling, or if he were feeling anything, didnot enter their minds. 

"It was like her, " said Elinor after a time in a low hurried voice, "tothink of that. She is the only one who would think of it. As if I hadever thought or dreamed----"

"It is possible, however, " he said, "that it might be reasonable enough. I don't speak to Elinor, " who had let go his hand hastily, "but to you, aunt. If it is altogether final, as she says, to be released wouldperhaps be better, from a bond that was no bond. "

"John, John, would you have her add shame to pain?"

"The shame would not be to her, aunt. "

"The shame is to every one concerned--to every one! My Elinor's name, her dear name, dragged through all that mud! She a party, perhaps, torevelations--Oh, never, never! We would bear anything rather. "

"This of course, " said John, "is perhaps a still more bitter punishmentfor the other side. "

She looked round at him again. Looking up with a look of pale horror, her eyelids in agonised curves over her eyes, her mouth quivering. "Whatdid you say, John?"

"I said it might be a more bitter punishment still for--the other side. "

Elinor lifted up her baby to her breast, raising herself with a newdignity, with her head high. "I meant no punishment, " she said, "I wantnone. I have left--what killed me--behind me; many things, not one only. I have brought my boy away that he may never--never-- But if it would bebetter that--another should be free--"

"I will never give my consent to it, Elinor. "

"Nor I with my own mind; but if it is vindictive--if it is revenge, mother! I am not alone to think of myself. If it were better for ----that he should be free; speak to John about it and tell me. I cannot, cannot discuss it. I will leave it all to John and you. It will kill me!but what does that matter?--it is not revenge that I seek. "

She turned with the baby pressed to her breast and walked away, herevery movement showing the strain and excitement of her soul. 

"Why did you do this, John, without at least consulting me? You havethrown a new trouble into her mind. She will never, never do thisthing--nor would I permit it. There are some things in which I must takea part. I could not forbid her marriage; God grant that I had had thestrength to do it--but this I will forbid, to expose her to the wholeworld, when everything we have done has been with the idea of concealingwhat had happened. Never, never. I will never consent to it, John. "

"I had no intention of proposing such a step; but the other side--as weare bound to call him--are frightened about it. And when I saw her lookup, so young still, so sweet, with all her life before her, and thoughthow she must spend it--alone; with no expanding, no development, in thiscottage or somewhere else, a life shipwrecked, a being so capable, sofull of possibilities--lost. "

"I have spent my life in this cottage, " said Mrs. Dennistoun. "Myhusband died when I was thirty--my life was over, and still I was young;but I had Elinor. There were some who pitied me too, but their pity wasuncalled for. Elinor will live like her mother, she has her boy. "

"But it is different; you cannot but see the difference. "

"Yes, I see it--it is different; but not so different that my Elinor'sname should be placarded about the streets and put in all thenewspapers. Oh, never, never, John. If the man suffers, it is his fault. She will suffer, and it is not her fault; but I will not, to releasehim, drag my child before the world. "

Mrs. Dennistoun was so much excited that she began to pace about theroom, she who was usually so sober and self restrained. She had bornemuch, but this she was unable even to contemplate with calm. For once inher life she had arrived at something which she would not bear. Johnfelt his own position very strange sitting looking on as a spectator, while this woman, usually so self-controlled, showed her impatience ofcircumstances and fate. It was ruefully comic that this should be, so tospeak, his doing, though he was the last in the world to desire anyexposure of Elinor, or to have any sympathy with those who soughtjustice for themselves or revenge on others at such a cost. 

"I was rash perhaps to speak as I did, " he said; "I had no intention ofdoing it when I came. It was a mere impulse, seeing Elinor: but you mustknow that I agree with you perfectly. I see that Elinor's lot is fixedanyhow. I believe that no decree of a court would make any difference toher, and she would not change the name that is the child's name. Allthat I recognise. And one thing more, that neither you nor Elinor hasrecognised. They--he is afraid of any proceedings--I suppose I maymention him to you. It's rather absurd, don't you think, speaking of afellow of that sort, or rather, not speaking of him at all, as if hisname was sacred? He is afraid of proceedings--whatever may be thecause. "

"John, can't you understand that she cannot bear to speak of him, a manshe so fought for, against us all? And now her eyes are opened, she isundeceived, she knows him all through and through, more, far more, thanwe do. She opened her mind to me once, and only once. It was not _that_alone; oh, no, no. There are things that rankle more than that, somethinghe did before they were married, and made her help him to conceal. Something dishon--I can't say the word, John. "

"Oh, " said John, grimly, "you need not mind me. "

"Well, the woman--I blush to have to speak to you even of such athing--the woman, John, was not the worst. She almost might, I think, have forgiven that. It was one thing after another, and that, that firstbusiness the worst of all. She found it out somehow, and he had made hertake a part--I can't tell what. She would never open her lips on thesubject again. Only that once it all burst forth. Oh, divorce! Whatwould that do to her, besides the shame? You understand some things, John, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, with a smile, "though you are a man. Shewould never do anything to give herself a name different from herchild's. "

"Yes, " said John, with a laugh, "I think I understand a thing or two, though, as you say, my dear aunt, I am only a man. However, it isjust as well I am that imperfect creature, to take care of you. Itunderstands the tactics of the wicked better than you do. And now youmust persuade Elinor and persuade yourself of what I came here onpurpose to tell you--not to disturb you, as I have been so unfortunateas to do. You are perfectly safe from him. I will not let the enemy knowyour sentiments, or how decided you are on the subject. I will perhaps, if you will let me, crack the whip a little over their heads, and keepthem in a pleasing uncertainty. But as long as he is afraid that shewill take proceedings against him, he will take none, you may be sure, against her. So you may throw aside all your precautions and be happyover your treasure in your own way. "

"Thank God for what you say, John; you take a weight off my heart. Buthappy--how can you speak of being happy after such a catastrophe?"

"I thought I came in upon a very happy little scene. It might be onlypretence, but it looked uncommonly like the real thing. "

"You mean the baby, John, the dear infant that knows no harm. He doestake off our thoughts a little, and enable us to bear----"

"Oh, aunt, don't be a hypocrite; that was never a fault of yours. Confess that with all your misery about Elinor you are happy to have herhere and her child--notwithstanding everything--happy as you have notbeen for many a day. "

She sat down by him and gave him her hand. "John, to be a man you havewonderful insight, and it's I who am a very, very imperfect creature. You don't think worse of me to be glad to have her, even though it ispurchased by such misery and trouble? God knows, " cried the poor lady, drying her eyes, "that I would give her up to-morrow, and with joy, andconsent never to see her again, if that would be for her happiness. John! I've not thrust myself upon them, have I, nor done anythingagainst him, nor said a word? But now that she is here, and the baby, and all to myself--which I never hoped--would I not be an ungratefulwoman if I did not thank God for it, John?"

"You are an excellent special pleader, aunt, " he said, with a laugh, "asmost women whom I have known are: and I agree with you in everything. You behaved to them, while it was _them_, angelically: you effacedyourself, and I fully believe you never said a word against him. Also, Ibelieve that if circumstances changed, if anything happened to make hersee that she could go back to him----"

Mrs. Dennistoun started in spite of herself, and pressed her handstogether, with a half sob of dismay. 

"I don't think it likely, but if it were so, you would sacrificeyourself again--I haven't a doubt of it. Why, then, set up this piece ofhumbug to me who know you so well, and pretend that you are not veryhappy for the moment? You are, and you have a good right to be: and Isay enjoy it, my dear aunt; take all the good of it, you will have notrouble from him. "

"You think so, you really think so, John?"

"I have no doubt of it: and you must persuade Elinor. Don't think I ammaking light of the situation: you'll have plenty to trouble you nodoubt, when that little shaver grows up----"

"John!"

"Well, he is a little shaver (whatever that may mean I'm sure I don'tknow), if he were a little prince. When he grows up you will have yourbusiness laid out for you, and I don't envy you the clearing up----"

"John don't speak as if a time would come when you would not stand byus. I mean stand by Elinor. "

"Your first phrase was much the best. I will stand by you both as amatter of course. "

"You must consider I shall be an old woman then; and who knows if I maylive to see the poor little darling grow up?"

"The poor little darling may never grow up, and none of us may live tosee it. One prediction is as good as another: but I think better thingsof you, aunt, than that you would go and die and desert Elinor, unless'so be as you couldn't help it, ' as Pearson says. But, however, in themeantime, dying of anybody is not in the question, and I hope both youand she will take as much pleasure out of the baby and be as happy ascircumstances will allow. And I'll tell Pearson that there is no needfor him to act the dragon--either the Bible one, whom he did not thinkyou would like to have about the house, or any other--for the danger isover. Trust me at least for that. "

"I trust you for everything, John; but, " added Mrs. Dennistoun, "Iwouldn't say anything to Pearson. If you've told him to be a dragon, lethim be a dragon still. I am sure you are right, and I will tell Elinorso, and comfort her heart; but we may as well keep a good look out, andour eyes about us, all the same. "

"They are sure I am right, but think it better to go on as if Iwere wrong, " John said to himself as he went to dress for dinner. And while he went through this ceremony, he had a great manythoughts--half-impatient, half-tender--of the wonderful ways of womenwhich are so amazing to men in general, as the ways of men are amazingto women, and will be so, no doubt, as long as the world goes on. Thestrange mixture of the wise and the foolish, the altogether heroic, and the involuntarily fictitious, struck his keen perception witha humourous understanding, and amusement, and sympathy. That Mrs. Dennistoun should pose a little as a sufferer while she was unmitigatedlyhappy in the possession of Elinor and the child, and be abashed whenshe was forced to confess how ecstatic was the fearful joy which shesnatched in the midst of danger, was strange enough. But that Elinor, at this dreadful crisis of her life, when every bond was rent asunder, and all that is ordinarily called happiness wrecked for ever, should bemoved to the kind of rapture he had seen in her face by the reaching outand curling in of those little pink toes in the warm light of the fire, was inconceivable--a thing that was not in any philosophy. She had madeshipwreck of her life. She had torn the man whom she loved out of herheart, and fled from his neglect and treachery--a fugitive to hermother's house. And yet as she sat before the fire with this littleinfant cooing in the warmth--like a puppy or a little pig, or anyother little animal you can suggest--this was the thought of theirreverent man--there was a look of almost more than common happiness, of blessedness, in her face. Who can fathom these things? They were atleast beyond the knowledge, though not the sympathy, of this very risingmember of the bar. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Thus there came a sort of settling down and composure of affairs. PhilCompton and all belonging to him disappeared from the scene, and Elinorreturned to all the habits of her old life--all the habits, with oneextraordinary and incalculable addition which changed all these habits. The baby--so inconsiderable a little creature, not able to show afeeling, or express a thought, or make even a tremulous step from onepair of loving arms to another--an altogether helpless little bundle, but nevertheless one who had already altered the existence of thecottage and its inhabitants, and made life a totally different thing forthem. Can I tell how this was done? No doubt for the wisest objects, toguard the sacred seed of the race as mere duty could never guard it, rendering it the one thing most precious in the world to those to whomit is confided--at least to most of them. When that love fails, then isthe deepest abyss of misery reached. I do not say that Elinor was happyin this dreadful breaking up of her life, or that her heart didnot go back, with those relentings which are the worst part of everydisruption, to the man who had broken her heart and unsettled hernature. The remembrance of him in his better moments would flash uponher, and bear every resentment away. Dreadful thoughts of how she mightherself have done otherwise, have rendered their mutual life better, would come over her; and next moment recollections still more terribleof what he had done and said, the scorn she had borne, the insults, theneglect, and worse of all the complicity he had forced upon her, bywhich he had made her guilty when she knew and feared nothing--whenthese thoughts overcame her, as they did twenty times in a day, for itis the worst of such troubles that they will not be settled by onestruggle, but come back and back, beginning over again at the samepoint, after we have wrestled through them, and have thought that we hadcome to a close--when these thoughts, I say, overcame her, she wouldrush to the room in which the baby held his throne, and press him to theheart which was beating so hotly, till it grew calm. And in the midst ofall to sit down by the fire with the little atom of humanity in her lap, and see it spread and stretch its rosy limbs, would suffice to bringagain to her face that beatitude which had filled John Tatham withwonder unspeakable. She took the baby and laid him on her heart to takethe pain away: and so after a minute or two there was no more questionof pain, but of happiness, and delicious play, and the raptures ofmotherhood. How strange were these things! She could not understand itherself, and fortunately did not try, but accepted that solace providedby God. As for Mrs. Dennistoun, she made no longer any pretences toherself, but allowed herself, as John had advised, to take herblessedness frankly without hypocrisy. When Elinor's dear face wasveiled by misery her mother was sympathetically miserable, but at allother moments her heart sang for joy. She had her child again, and shehad her child's child, an endless occupation, amusement, and delight. All this might come to an end--who can tell when?--but for the momenther house was no more lonely, the requirements of her being weresatisfied. She had her Elinor--what more was to be said? And yet therewas more to be said, for in addition there was the boy. 

This was very well so far as the interior of the house and of theirliving was concerned, but very soon other difficulties arose. It hadbeen Mrs. Dennistoun's desire, when she returned home, to communicatesome modified version of what had happened to the neighbours around. Shehad thought it would not only be wise, but easier for themselves, thattheir position should be understood in the little parish society which, if it did not know authoritatively, would certainly inquire andinvestigate and divine, with the result of perhaps believing more thanthe truth, perhaps setting up an entirely fictitious explanation whichit would be impossible to set aside, and very hard to bear. It is theworst of knowing a number of people intimately, and being known by themfrom the time your children were in their cradles, that every domesticincident requires some sort of explanation to this close little circleof spectators. But Elinor, who had not the experience of her mother insuch matters, nor the knowledge of life, made a strenuous opposition tothis. She would not have anything said. It was better, she thought, toleave it to their imagination, if they chose to interfere with theirneighbours' concerns and imagine anything. "But why should they occupythemselves about us? And they have no imaginations, " she said, with acontempt of her neighbours which is natural to young people, though veryunjustifiable. "But, my darling, " Mrs. Dennistoun would say, "theposition is so strange. There are not many young women who--And theremust be some way of accounting for it. Let us just tell them----"

"For heaven's sake, mamma, tell them nothing! I have come to pay youa long visit after my neglect of you for these two years, which, ofcourse, they know well enough. What more do they want to know? It is avery good reason: and while baby is so young of course it is far betterfor him to be in a settled home, where he can be properly attended to, than moving about. Isn't that enough?"

"Well, Elinor; at least you will let me say as much as that----"

"Oh, they can surely make it out for themselves. What is the use ofalways talking a matter over, to lead to a little more, and a littlemore, till the appetite for gossip is satisfied? Surely, in ourcircumstances, least said is soonest mended, " Elinor said, with that airof superior understanding which almost always resides in persons of theyounger generation. Mrs. Dennistoun said no more to her, but she didtake advantage of the explanation thus suggested. She informed theanxious circle at the Rectory that Elinor had come to her on a longvisit, "partly for me, and partly for the baby, " she said, with oneof those smiles which are either the height of duplicity or the mostpathetic evidence of self-control, according as you choose to regardthem. "She thinks she has neglected her mother, though I am sure I havenever blamed her; and she thinks--of which there can be no doubt--thatto carry an infant of that age moving about from place to place is theworst thing in the world; and that I am very thankful she should thinkso, I need not say. "

"It is very nice for you, dear Mrs. Dennistoun, " Mrs. Hudson said. 

"And a good thing for Elinor, " said Alice, "for she is looking verypoorly. I have always heard that fashionable life took a great deal outof you if you are not quite brought up to it. I am sure I couldn'tstand it, " the young lady said with fervour, who had never had thatpainful delight in her power. 

"That is all very well, " said the Rector, rubbing his hands, "but whatdoes Mr. Compton say to it? I don't want to say a word against yourarrangements, my dear lady, but you know there must be some one on thehusband's side. Now, I am on the husband's side, and I am sorry for thepoor young man. I hope he is going to join his wife. I hope, excuse mefor saying it, that Elinor--though we are all so delighted to seeher--will not forsake him, for too long. "

And then Mrs. Dennistoun felt herself compelled to embroider a littleupon her theme. 

"He has to be a great deal abroad during this year, " she said; "he has agreat many things to do. Elinor does not know when he will be--home. That is one reason----"

"To be sure, to be sure, " the Rector said, rubbing his hands stillmore, and coming to her aid just as she was breaking down. "Somethingdiplomatic, of course. Well, we must not inquire into the secrets of theState. But what an ease to his mind, my dear lady, to think that hiswife and child will be safe with you while he's away!"

Mary Dale not being present could not of course say anything. She was aperson who was always dreadfully well informed. It was a comfortunspeakable that at this moment she was away!

This explanation made the spring pass quietly enough, but not withoutmany questions that brought the blood to Elinor's face. When she wasasked by some one, for the first time, "When do you expect Mr. Compton, Elinor?" the sudden wild flush of colour which flooded her countenancestartled the questioner as much as the question did herself. "Oh, I begyour pardon!" said the injudicious but perfectly innocent seeker forinformation. I fear that Elinor fell upon her mother after this, anddemanded to know what she had said. But as Mrs. Dennistoun was innocentof anything but having said that Philip was abroad, there was nosatisfaction to be got out of that. Some time after, one of the MissHills congratulated Elinor, having seen in the papers that Mr. Comptonwas returning to town for the season. "I suppose, dear Elinor, we shan'thave you with us much longer, " this lady said. And then it became knownat the Cottage that Mary Dale was returning to the Rectory. This was thelast aggravation, and Elinor, who had now recovered her strength andenergy, and temper along with it, received the news with an outburst ofimpatience which frightened her mother. "You may as well go through theparish and ring the bell, and tell everybody everything, " she said. "Mary Dale will have heard all, and a great deal more than all; she willcome with her budget, and pour it out far and wide; she will reportscenes that never took place: and quarrels, and all that--that womaninsinuated to John--and she will be surrounded with people who willshake their heads, and sink their voices when we come in and say, 'PoorElinor!' I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it, " she cried. 

"My darling! that was bound to come sooner or later. We must set ourfaces like a rock, and look as if we were unaware of anything----"

"I cannot look as if I were unaware. I cannot meet all their cruel eyes. I can see, now, the smile on Mary Dale's face, that will say, 'I toldyou so. ' I shall hear her say it even when I am in my room, with thecombe between. I know exactly how she will say it--'If Elinor hadlistened to me----'"

"Elinor, " said poor Mrs. Dennistoun, "I cannot contradict you, dear. Itwill be so--but none of them are cruel, not even Mary Dale. They willmake their remarks--who could help it? we should ourselves if it weresome one else's case: but they will not be cruel--don't think so--theywill be full of sympathy----"

"Which is a great deal worse, " Elinor said, in her unreason; "the onemight be borne, but the other I will not endure. Sympathy, yes! Theywill all be sorry for me--they will say they knew how it would be. Oh, Iknow I have not profited as I ought by what has happened to me. I amunsubdued. I am as impatient and as proud as ever. It is quite true, butit cannot be mended. It is more than I can bear. "

"My darling, " said her mother, again. "We all say that in our trouble, and yet we know that we have got to bear it all the same. It isintolerable--one says that a thousand times--and yet it has to be put upwith. All the time that we have been flattering ourselves that nobodytook any notice it has been a delusion, Elinor. How could it beotherwise? We must set our faces----"

"Not I, mamma!" she said. "Not I! I must go away----"

"Go away? Elinor!"

"Among strangers; where nobody has heard of me before--where nobody canmake any remark. To live like this, among a crowd of people who thinkthey ought to know everything that one is doing--who are nothing to you, and yet whom you stand in awe of and must explain everything to!--it isthis that is intolerable. I cannot, cannot bear it. Mother, I will takemy baby, and I will go away----"

"Where?" said Mrs. Dennistoun, with all the colour fading out of herface. What panic had taken her I cannot tell. She grew pale to her lips, and the words were almost inaudible which she breathed forth. I thinkshe thought for a moment that Elinor's heart had turned, that she wasgoing back to her husband to find refuge with him from the strife oftongues which she could not encounter alone. All the blood went backupon the mother's heart--yet she set herself to suppress all emotion, and if this should be so, not to oppose it--for was it not the thing ofall others to be desired--the thing which everybody would approve, thereuniting of those whom God had put together? Though it might be deathto her, not a word of opposition would she say. 

"Where? how can I tell where--anywhere, anywhere out of the world, "cried Elinor, in the boiling tide of her impatience and wretchedness, "where nobody ever heard of us before, where there will be no one toask, no one to require a reason, where we should be free to move when weplease and do as we please. Let me go, mother. It seemed too dear, toopeaceful to come home, but now home itself has become intolerable. Iwill take my baby and I will go--to the farthest point the railway cantake me to--with no servant to betray me, not even an address. Mother, let me go away and be lost; let me be as if I had never been. "

"And me--am I to remain to bear the brunt behind?"

"And you--mamma! Oh, I am the most unworthy creature. I don't deserve tohave you, I that am always giving you pain. Why should I unroot you fromyour place where you have lived so long--from your flowers, and yourlandscape, and your pretty rooms that were always a comfort to think ofin that horrible time when I was away? I always liked to think of youhere, happy and quiet, in the place you had chosen. "

"Flowers and landscapes are pretty things, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, whosecolour had begun to come again a little, "but they don't make up forone's children. We must not do anything rashly, Elinor; but if what youmean is really that you will go away to a strange place amongstrangers----"

"What else could I mean?" Elinor said, and then she in her turn grewpale. "If you thought I could mean that I would go--back----"

"Oh, my darling, my darling! God knows if we are right or wrong--I notto advise you so, or you not to take my advice. Elinor, it is my duty, and I will say it though it were to break my heart. There only could youavoid this strife of tongues. John spoke the truth. He said, as theboy grew up we should have--many troubles. I have known women endureeverything that their children might grow up in a natural situation, in their proper sphere. Think of this--I am saying it against my owninterest, against my own heart. But think of it, Elinor. Whatever youmight have to bear, you would be in your natural place. "

Elinor received this agitated address standing up, holding her headhigh, her nostrils expanded, her lips apart. "Have you quite done, mother?" she said. 

Mrs. Dennistoun made an appealing movement with her hands, and sank, without any power to add a word, into a chair. 

"I am glad you said it against your heart. Now you must feel that yourconscience is clear. Mother, if I had to wander the world from place toplace, without even a spot of ground on which to rest my foot, I wouldnever, never do what you say. What! take my child to grow up in thattainted air; give him up to be taught such things as they teach! Never, never, never! His natural place, did you say? I would rather the slumsof London were his natural place. He would have some chance there! If Icould bear it for myself, yet I could not for him--for him most of all. I will take him up in my arms. Thank God, I am strong now and can carryhim--and go away--among strangers, I don't care where--where there canbe no questions and no remarks. "

"But not without me, Elinor!"

"Oh, mother, mother! What a child I am to you, to rend your heart as Ihave done, and now to tear you out of your house and home!"

"My home is where my children are, " Mrs. Dennistoun said: and then shemade a little pause. "But we must think it over, Elinor. Such a step asthis must not be taken rashly. We will ask John to come down and adviseus. My dear----"

"No, mother, not John or any one. I will go first if you like and find aplace, and you will join me after. That woman" (it was poor Mary Dale, who was indeed full of information, but meant no harm) "is comingdirectly. I will not wait here to see her, or their faces after she hastold them all the lies she will have heard. I am not going to takeadvice from any one. Let me alone, mother. I must, I must go away. "

"But not by yourself, Elinor, " Mrs. Dennistoun said. 

This was how it happened that John Tatham, who had meant to go down tothe Cottage the very next Saturday to see how things were going, wasdriven into a kind of stupefaction one morning in May by a letter whichreached him from the North, a letter conveying news so unexpected andsudden, so unlike anything that had seemed possible, that he laid itdown, when it was half read, with a gasp of astonishment, unable tobelieve his eyes. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

It was Mrs. Dennistoun whose letter brought John Tatham such dismay. Itwas dated Lakeside, Waterdale, Penrith--an address with which he had noassociations whatever, and which he gazed at blankly for a moment beforehe attempted to read the letter, not knowing how to connect it with thewell-known writing which was as familiar as the common day. 

"You will wonder to see this address, " she wrote. "You will wonder stillmore, dear John, when I tell you we have come here for good. I have leftthe Cottage in an agent's hands with the hope of letting it. Windyhillis such a healthy place that I hope somebody will soon be found to takeit. You know Elinor would not let me make any explanation. And theconstant questions and allusions to _his_ movements which people hadseen in the papers, and so forth, had got on her nerves, poor child. Youcan understand how easily this might come about. At last she got thatshe could not bear it longer. Mary Dale, who always lives half the yearwith her sister at the Rectory, was coming back. You know it was she whobrought the first tale about him, and she knows, I think, all the gossipthat ever was got up about any one. Poor Elinor--though I don't believeMary had any bad meaning; and it would, alas! have been for all our goodhad we listened to what she said--Elinor cannot bear her; and when sheheard she was coming, she declared she would take her baby and go away. I tried to bring her to reason, but I could not. Naturally it was shewho convinced me--you know the process, John. Indeed, in many things Ican see it is the best thing we could do. I am not supremely attached toWindyhill. The Cottage had got to be very homelike after living in it solong, but home is where those are whom one loves. And to live among oneset of people for so many years, if it has great advantages, has at thesame time very great disadvantages too. You can't keep anything toyourself. You must explain every step you take, and everything thathappens to you. This is a lovely country, a little cold as yet, and alittle damp perhaps, being so near the lake--but the mountains arebeautiful, and the air delicious. Elinor is out all the day long, andbaby grows like a flower. You must come and see us as soon as ever youcan. That is one dreadful drawback, that we shall not have you runningup and down from Saturday to Monday: and I am afraid you will be vexedwith us that we did not take your advice first--you, who have alwaysbeen our adviser. But Elinor would not hear a word of any advice. Ithink she was afraid you would disapprove: and it would have been worseto fly in your face if you had disapproved than to come away withoutconsulting you: and you know how impetuous she is. At all events the dieis cast. Write kindly to her; don't say anything to vex her. You can letyourself out, if you are very angry, upon me. 

"One thing more. She desires that if you write you should address her as_Mrs. Compton_ only, no Honourable. That might attract attention, andwhat we desire is to escape notice altogether, which I am sure is athing you will thoroughly understand, now that we have transplantedourselves so completely. Dear John, form the most favourable idea youcan of this sudden step, and come and see us as soon as it is possible. 

"Yours affectly. , "M. D. "

To say that John was thunderstruck by this letter is to describe hissensations mildly, for he was for a time bitterly angry, wounded, disappointed, disturbed to the bottom of his soul; but perhaps if truthwere told it could scarcely be said that he disapproved. He thought itover, which he naturally did all that day, to the great detriment of hiswork, first with a sort of rage against Elinor and her impetuosity, which presently shaded down into understanding of her feelings, andended in a sense that he might have known it from the first, and thatreally no other conclusion was possible. He came gradually to acquiescein the step the ladies had taken. To have to explain everything to theHudsons, and Hills, and Mary Dales, to open up your most sacred heart inorder that they might be able to form a theory sufficient for theiroutside purposes of your motives and methods, or, what was perhaps worsestill--to know that they were on the watch, guessing what you did nottell them, putting things together, explaining this and that in theirown way--would have been intolerable. "That is the good of havingattached friends, " John exclaimed to himself, very unjustly: for it ishuman nature that is to blame, if there is any blame attaching to anexercise of ingenuity so inevitable. As a matter of fact, when Miss Dalebrought the true or something like the true account to Windyhill, thewarmth of the sympathy for Elinor, the wrath of the whole community withher unworthy husband, was almost impassioned. Had she been there itwould not have been possible for those good people altogether to concealfrom her how sorry and how indignant they were; even perhaps there mighthave been some who could not have kept out of their eyes, who must havebetrayed in some word or shake of the head the "I told you so" which isso dear to human nature. But how was it possible that they could remainuninterested, unaffected by the trouble in the midst of them, or evenappear to be so? John, like Elinor, threw a fiery dart of impatience atthe country neighbours, not allowing that everywhere in the greatesttown, in the most cosmopolitan community, this would have been thesame. 

"The chattering gossips!" he said, as if a club would not have been agreat deal worse, as if indeed his own club, vaguely conscious of aconnection by marriage between him and the dis-Honourable Phil, had notdiscussed it all, behind his back, long ago. 

But on the whole John was forced not to disapprove. To say that he wentthe length of approving would be too much, and to deny that he launchedforth a tremendous letter upon Mrs. Dennistoun, who always bore thebrunt, is more than my conscience would permit. He did do this, throwingout, as the French say, fire and flame, but a few days after followed itup by a much milder letter (need I say this was addressed to Elinor?), allowing that he understood their motives, and that perhaps, from theirown point of view, they were not so very much to blame. "You will findit very damp, very cold, very different from Windyhill, " he said, with asort of savage satisfaction. But as it happened to be unusually goodweather among the lakes when his letter came, this dart did not do muchharm. And that John felt the revolution in his habits consequent uponthis move very much, it would be futile to deny. To have nowhere to goto freely when he pleased from Saturday to Monday (he had at least ascore of places, but none like the Cottage) made a wonderful differencein his life. But perhaps when he came to think of it soberly, as he didso often in the brilliant Saturday afternoons of early summer, when thesunshine on the trees made his heart a little sick with the idea that hehad, as he said to himself, nowhere to go to, he was not sure that thedifference was not on the whole to his advantage. A man perhaps shouldnot have it in his power to enjoy, in the most fraternal intimacy, thesociety of another man's wife whenever he pleased, even if to her hewas, as he knew, of as little importance (notwithstanding that she was, as she would have said, so fond of John) as the postman, say, or anyother secondary (yet sufficiently interesting) figure in the countryneighbourhood. John knew in his heart of hearts that this was not agood thing nor a wholesome thing for him. He was not a man, as has beensaid, who would ever have hurried events, or insisted upon appropriatinga woman, even when he loved her, and securing her as his very own. Hewould always have been able to put that off, to subordinate it to thenecessity of getting on in the world, and securing his position: and hewas by no means sure when he questioned his own heart (which was a thinghe did seldom, knowing, like a wise man, that that shifty subjectoften made queer revelations, and was not at all an easy object tocross-examine), that the intercourse which he had again dropped intowith Elinor was not on the whole as much as he required. There was nodoubt that it kept him alive from one period to another; kept his heartmoderately light and his mind wonderfully contented--as nothing else hadever done. He looked forward to his fortnightly or monthly visit to theCottage (sometimes one, and sometimes the other; he never indulgedhimself so far as to go every week), and it gave him happiness enoughto tide over all the dull moments between: and if anything came inhis way and detained him even from his usual to a later train, he wasridiculously, absurdly angry. What right had he to feel so in respect toanother man's wife? What right had he to watch the child--the child whomhe disliked so much to begin with--developing its baby faculties with aninterest he was half ashamed of, but which went on increasing? Anotherman's wife and another man's child. He saw now that it was not awholesome thing for him, and he could never have given it up had theyremained. It had become too much a part of his living; should he not beglad therefore that they had taken it into their own hands, and goneaway? When it suddenly occurred to John, however, that this perhaps hadsome share in the ladies' hasty decision, that Mrs. Dennistoun perhaps(all that was objectionable was attributed to this poor lady) had beenso abominably clear-sighted, so odiously presuming as to have suspectedthis, his sudden blaze of anger was _foudroyant_. Perhaps she hadsettled upon it for his sake, to take temptation out of his way. Johncould scarcely contain himself when this view of the case flashed uponhim, although he was quite aware for himself that though it was a bitterwrench, yet it was perhaps good for him that Elinor should go away. 

It was probably this wave of fierce and, as we are aware, quiteunreasonable anger rushing over him that produced the change whicheverybody saw in John's life about this time. It was about the beginningof the season when people's enjoyments begin to multiply, and for thefirst time in his life John plunged into society like a very novice. Hewent everywhere. By this time he had made a great start in life, hadbeen brought into note in one or two important cases, and was, aseverybody knew, a young man very well thought of, and likely to do greatthings at the bar; so that he was free of many houses, and had so manyinvitations for his Sundays that he could well afford to be indifferentto the loss of such a humble house as the Cottage at Windyhill. Perhapshe wanted to persuade himself that this was the case, and that therereally was nothing to regret. And it is certain that he did visit agreat deal during that season at one house where there were two or threeagreeable daughters; the house, indeed, of Sir John Gaythorne, who wasSolicitor-General at that time, and a man who had always looked uponJohn Tatham with a favourable eye. The Gaythornes had a house nearDorking, where they often went from Saturday to Monday with a few choice_convives_, and "picknicked, " as they themselves said, but it was apicknicking of a highly comfortable sort. John went down with them thevery Saturday after he received that letter--the Saturday on which hehad intended to go to Windyhill. And the party was very gay. To compareit for a moment with the humdrum family at the Cottage would have beenabsurd. The Gaythornes prided themselves on always having pleasantpeople with them, and they had several remarkably pleasant peoplethat day, among whom John himself was welcomed by most persons; andthe family themselves were lively and agreeable to a high degree. Adistinguished father, a very nice mother, and three charming girls, upto everything and who knew everybody; who had read or skimmed all thenew books of any importance, and had seen all the new pictures; whocould talk of serious things as well as they could talk nonsense, andwho were good girls to boot, looking after the poor, and visiting athospitals, in the intervals of their gaieties, as was then the highestfashion in town. I do not for a moment mean to imply that the MissGaythornes did their good work because it was the fashion: but the factthat it is the fashion has liberated many girls, and allowed them tocarry out their natural wishes in that way, who otherwise would havebeen restrained and hampered by parents and friends, who would haveupbraided them with making themselves remarkable, if in a formergeneration they had attempted to go to Whitechapel or St. Thomas's withany active intentions. And Elinor had never done anything of this kind, any more than she had pursued music almost as a profession, which waswhat Helena Gaythorne had done; or learned to draw, like Maud (who oncehad a little thing in the Royal Academy); or studied the Classics, like Gertrude. John thought of her little tunes as he listened to MissGaythorne's performance, and almost laughed out at the comparison. Hewas very fond of music, and Miss Gaythorne's playing was something whichthe most cultivated audience might have been glad to listen to. He wasashamed to confess to himself that he liked the "tunes" best. No, hewould not confess it even to himself; but when he stood behind theperformer listening, it occurred to him that he was capable of walkingall the miles of hill and hollow which divided the one place from theother, only for the inane satisfaction of seeing that baby spread onElinor's lap, or hearing her play to him one of her "tunes. "

He went with the Gaythornes to their country-place twice in the month ofJune, and dined at the house several times, and was invited on otheroccasions, becoming, in short, one of the _habitués_ when there wasanything going on in the house--till people began to ask, which was it?It was thought generally that Helena was the attraction, for John wasknown to be a musical man, always to be found where specially good musicwas going. Some friends of the family had even gone so far as to sayamong themselves what a good thing it was that dear Helena's lot waslikely to be cast with one who would appreciate her gift. "It generallyhappens in these cases that a girl marries somebody who does not knowone note from another, " they said to each other. When, all at once, Johnflagged in his visits; went no more to Dorking; and finally ceased to bemore assiduous or more remarked than the other young men who were onterms of partial intimacy at the Gaythorne house. He had, indeed, triedvery hard to make himself fall in love with one of Sir John's girls. Itwould have been an excellent connection, and the man might think himselffortunate who secured any one of the three for his wife. Proceeding fromhis certainty on these points, and also a general liking for theircompany, John had gone into it with a settled purpose, determined tofall in love if he could: but he found that the thing was not to bedone. It was a pity; but it could not be helped. He was in a conditionnow when it would no longer be rash to marry, and he knew now that therewas the makings of a domestic man in him. He never could have believedthat he would take an interest in the sprawling of the baby upon itsmother's knee, and he allowed to himself that it might be sweet to havethat scene taking place in a house of his own. Ah! but the baby wouldhave to be Elinor's. It must be Elinor who should sit on that lowchair with the firelight on her face. And that was impossible. HelenaGaythorne was an exceedingly nice girl, and he wished her everysuccess in life (which she attained some time after by marrying LordBallinasloe, the eldest son of the Earl of Athenree, a marriage whicheverybody approved), but he could not persuade himself to be in lovewith her, though with the best will in the world. 

During this time he did not correspond much with his relations in thecountry. He had, indeed, some letters to answer from his father, inwhich the interrogatories were very difficult: "Where has MaryDennistoun gone? What's become of Elinor and her baby? Has thatfashionable fellow of a husband deserted her? What's the meaning of themove altogether?" And, "Mind you keep yourself out of it, " his fatherwrote. John had great trouble in wording his replies so as to convey aslittle information as possible. "I believe Aunt Mary has got a housesomewhere in the North, probably to suit Elinor, who would be able to bemore with her if she were in that neighbourhood. " (It must be confessedthat he thought this really clever as a way of getting over the question. )"As for Compton, I know very little about him. He was never a man muchin my way. " Mr. Tatham's household saw nothing remarkable in thesereplies; upon which, however, they built an explanation, such as it was, of the other circumstances. They concluded that it must be in order tobe near Elinor that Mrs. Dennistoun had gone to the North, and that itwas a very good thing that Elinor's husband was not a man who was inJohn's way. "A scamp, if I ever saw one!" Mr. Tatham said. "But what'sthat Jack says about Gaythorne? Mary, I remember Gaythorne years ago; acapital friend for a young man. I'm glad your brother's making such nicefriends for himself; far better than mooning about that wretched littlecottage with Mary Dennistoun and her girl. "

CHAPTER XXX. 

It happened thus that it was not till the second autumn after thesettlement of the ladies in Waterdale, when all the questions had diedout, and there was no more talk of them, except on occasions when asudden recollection cropped up among their friends at Windyhill, thatJohn Tatham paid them his first visit. He had been very conscientiousin his proposed bestowal of himself. Perhaps it is scarcely quitecomplimentary to a woman when she is made choice of by a man who isconsciously to himself "on the outlook, " thinking that he ought tomarry, and investigating all the suitable persons about with an eye tofinding one who will answer his requirements. This sensible way ofapproaching the subject of matrimony does not somehow commend itself toour insular notions. It is the right way in every country except ourown, but it has a cold-blooded look to the Anglo-Saxon; and a girl isnot flattered (though perhaps she ought to be) by being the subject ofthis sensible choice. "As if I were a housekeeper or a cook!" she is aptto say, and is far better pleased to be fallen in love with in the mostrash and irresponsible way than to be thus selected from the crowd:though that, everybody must allow, after due comparison and inspection, is by far the greater compliment. John having arrived at the conclusionthat it would be better for him in many ways to marry, and speciallyin the way of Elinor, fortifying him for ever from all possiblecomplications, and making it possible for him to regard her evermorewith the placid feelings of a brother, which was, he expected, to be theconsequence--worked at the matter really with great pertinacity andconsistency. He kept his eyes open upon the whole generation of girlswhom he met with in society. When he went abroad during the longvacation (instead of going to Lakeside, as he was invited to do), hedirected his steps rather to the fashionable resorts, where familiesdisport themselves at the foot of the mountains, than to the Alpineheights where he had generally found a more robust amusement. Andwherever he went he bent his attention on the fairer portion of thecreation, the girls who fill all the hotels with the flutter of theirfresh toilettes and the babble of their pleasant voices. It was verymean and poor of him, seeing he was a mountaineer himself--but still itmust be recorded that the only young ladies he systematically neglectedwere those in very short petticoats, with very sunburnt faces and nailsin their boots, who ought to have been most congenial to him as sharinghis own tastes. It is said, I don't know with what truth, that at Ouch, or Interlachen, or some other of the most mundane and banal resorts ofthe tourists, he came upon one girl who he thought might make him asuitable wife: and that, though with much moderation and prudence, hemore or less followed her party for some time, meeting them over andover again, with expressions of astonishment, round the most well-knowncorners, and persisting for a considerable time in this quest. Butwhether he ever came the length of proposing at all, or whether theyoung lady was engaged beforehand, or if she thought the prospect ofmaking a suitable wife not good enough, I cannot say, and I doubtwhether any one knows--except, of course, the parties immediatelyconcerned. It is very clear, at all events, that it came to nothing. John did not altogether give it up, I fancy, for he went a great dealinto society still, especially in that _avant saison_, which people wholive in London declare to be the most enjoyable, and when it is supposedyou can enjoy the best of company at your ease without the hurry andrush of the summer crowd. He would have been very glad, thankful, indeed, if he could have fallen in love. How absurd to think that anysilly boy can do it, to whom it is probably nothing but a disadvantageand the silliest of pastimes, and that he, a reasonable man with a goodincome, and arrived at a time of life when it is becoming and rationalto marry, could not do it, let him try as he would! There was somethingludicrous in it, when you came to think, as well as something verydepressing. Mothers who wanted a good position for their daughtersdivined him, and many of them were exceedingly civil to John, this manin search of a wife; and many of the young ladies themselves divinedhim, and with the half indignation, half mockery, appropriate to thesituation, were some of them not unaverse to profit by it, andaccordingly turned to him their worst side in the self-consciousnessproduced by that knowledge. And thus the second year turned roundtowards the wane, and John was farther from success than ever. 

He said to himself then that it was clear he was not a marrying man. Heliked the society of ladies well enough, but not in that way. He wasnot made for falling in love. He might very well, he was aware, havedispensed with the tradition, and found an excellent wife, who would notat all have insisted upon it from her side. But he had his prejudices, and could not do this. Love he insisted upon, and love would not come. Accordingly, when the second season was over he gave up both the questand the idea, and resolved to think of marrying no more, which was asensible relief to him. For indeed he was exceedingly comfortable as hewas; his chambers were excellent, and he did not think that any streetor square in Belgravia would have reconciled him to giving up theTemple. He had excellent servants, a man and his wife, who took thegreatest care of him. He had settled into a life which was arranged ashe liked, with much freedom, and yet an agreeable routine which Johnwas too wise to despise. He relinquished the idea of marrying then andthere. To be sure there is never any prophesying what may happen. Alittle laughing gipsy of a girl may banish such a resolution out of aman's mind in the twinkling of an eye, at any moment. But short of suchaccidents as that, and he smiled at the idea of anything of the kind, hequite made up his mind on this point with a great sensation of relief. 

It is curious how determined the mind of the English public at least ison this subject--that the man or woman who does not marry (especiallythe woman, by-the-bye) has an unhappy life, and that a story which doesnot end in a wedding is no story at all, or at least ends badly, aspeople say. It happened to myself on one occasion to put together in abook the story of some friends of mine, in which this was the case. Theywere young, they were hopeful, they had all life before them, but theydid not marry. And when the last chapter came to the consciousness ofthe publisher he struck, with the courage of a true Briton, not ashamedof his principles, and refused to pay. He said it was no story atall--so beautiful is marriage in the eyes of our countrymen. I hope, however, that nobody will think any harm of John Tatham because heconcluded, after considerable and patient trial, that he was not amarrying man. There is no harm in that. A great number of those Catholicpriests whom it was the habit in my youth to commiserate deeply, as ifthey were vowed to the worst martyrdom, live very happy lives in theircelibacy and prefer it, as John Tatham did. It will be apparent to thereader that he really preferred it to Elinor, while Elinor was in hispower. And though afterwards it gave a comfort and grace to his life tothink that it was his faithful but subdued love for Elinor which madehim a bachelor all his days, I am by no means certain that this wastrue. Perhaps he never would have made up his mind had she remainedalways within his reach. Certain it is that he was relieved when hefound that to give up the idea of marriage was the best thing for him. He adopted the conclusion with pleasure. His next brother had alreadymarried, though he was younger than John; but then he was a clergyman, which is a profession naturally tending to that sort of thing. Therewas, however, no kind of necessity laid upon him to provide for thecontinuance of the race. And he was a happy man. 

By what sequence of ideas it was that he considered himself justified, having come to this conclusion, in immediately paying his long-promisedvisit to Lakeside, is a question which I need not enter into, and indeeddo not feel entirely able to cope with. It suited him, perhaps, ashe had been so long a time in Switzerland last year: and he had aninvitation to the far north for the grouse, which he thought it would bepleasant to accept. Going to Scotland or coming from it, Waterdale ofcourse lies full in the way. He took it last on his way home, which wasmore convenient, and arrived there in the latter part of September, when the hills were golden with the yellow bracken. The Cumberland hillsare a little cold, in my opinion, without the heather, which clotheswith such a flush of life and brightness our hills in the north. Thegreenness is chilly in the frequent rain; one feels how sodden andslippery it is--a moisture which does not belong to the heather: butwhen the brackens have all turned, and the slopes reflect themselves inthe tranquil water like hills of gold, then the landscape reaches itsperfect point. Lakeside was a white house standing out on a smallprojection at the head of the lake, commanding the group of hills aboveand part of the winding body of water below, in which all these goldenreflections lay. A little steamer passed across the reflected glory, andcame to a stop not a hundred yards from the gate of the house. It was ascene as unlike as could be conceived to the Cottage at Windyhill: thetrees were all glorious in colour; yellow birches like trees made oflight, oaks all red and fiery, chestnuts and elms and beeches in ahundred hues. The house was white, with a sort of broad verandah round, supported on pillars, furnishing a sheltered walk below and a broadbalcony above, which gave it a character of more importance than perhapsits real size warranted. When John approached there ran out to meet himinto the wide gravel drive before the door a little figure upon twosturdy legs, calling out, in inarticulate shoutings, something thatsounded a little like his own name. It was, "'tle John! 'tle John!"made into a sort of song by the baby, nearly two years old, and "veryforward, " as everybody assured the stranger, for his age. Uncle John!his place was thus determined at once by that little potentate andmaster of the house. Behind the child came Elinor, no longer pale andlanguid as he had seen her last, but matured into vigorous beauty, bright-eyed, a little sober, as might have become maturer years thanhers. Perhaps there was something in the style of her dress thatfavoured the idea, not of age indeed, but of matronly years, and beyondthose which Elinor counted. She was dressed in black, of the simplestdescription, not of distinctive character like a widow's, yet somethinglike what an ideal widow beyond fashion or conventionalities of woemight wear. It seemed to give John the key-note of the character she hadassumed in this new sphere. 

Mrs. Dennistoun, who had not changed in the least, stood in the opendoor. They gave him a welcome such as John had not had, he said tohimself, since he had seen them before. They were unfeignedly glad tosee him, not wounded (which, to think of afterwards, wounded him alittle) that he had not come sooner, but delighted that he was here now. Even when he went home it was not usual to John to be met at the door inthis way by all his belongings. His sister might come running down thestairs when she heard the dog-cart draw up, but that was all. And Mary'seagerness to see him was generally tempered by the advice she had togive, to say that or not to say this, because of papa. But in thepresent case it was the sight of himself which was delightful to all, and, above all, though the child could have no reason for it, to thelittle shouting excited boy. "'Tle John! 'tle John!" What was Uncle Johnto him? yet his little voice filled the room with shouts of joy. 

"What does he know about me, the little beggar, that he makes such anoise in my honour?" said John, touched in spite of himself. "But Isuppose anything is good enough for a cry at that age. "

"Come, " said Elinor, "you are not to be contemptuous of my boy anylonger. You called him _it_ when he was a baby. "

"And what is he now?" said John, whose heart was affected by strangeemotions, he, the man who had just decided (with relief) that he was nota marrying man. There came over him a curious wave of sensation which hehad no right to. If he had had a right to it, if he had been coming hometo those who belonged to him, not distantly in the way of cousinship, but by a dearer right, what sensations his would have been! But sittingat the corner of the fire (which is very necessary in Waterdale in theend of September) a little in the shadow, his face was not very clearlyperceptible: though indeed had it been so the ladies would have thoughtnothing but that John's kind heart was touched, as was so natural, bythis sight. 

"What is he now? Your nephew! Tell Uncle John what you are now, " saidElinor, lifting her child on her lap; at which the child between thekisses which were his encouragement and reward produced, in a largeinfant voice, very treble, yet simulating hers, the statement, "Mamma'sbhoy. "

"Now, Elinor, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, "he has played his partbeautifully; he has done everything you taught him. He has told you whohe is and who Uncle John is. Let him go to his nursery now. "

"Come up-stairs, Pippo. Mother will carry her boy, " said Elinor. "Theydon't want us any more, these old people. Say good-night to Uncle John, and come to bed. "

"Dood-night, 'tle John, " said the child; which, however, was not enough, for he tilted himself out of his mother's arms and put his rosy face andopen mouth, sweet but damp, upon John's face. This kiss was one of thechild's accomplishments. He himself was aware that he had been good, andbehaved himself in every way as a child should do, as he was carried offcrowing and jabbering in his mother's arms. He had formed a sort oflittle human bridge between them when he made that dive from Elinor'sarms upon John's face. Ah, heaven! if it had been the other way, if thechild and the mother had both been his!

"He has grown up very sweet. You may think we are foolish, John; but youcan't imagine what a delight that child is. Hasn't he grown up sweet?"

"If you call that grown up!"

"Oh, yes, I know he is only a baby still; but so forward for his age, such a little man, taking care of his mother before he is two yearsold!"

"What did I hear her call him?" John asked, and it seemed to Mrs. Dennistoun that there was something severe in the sound of his voice. 

"He had to be Philip. It is a pretty name, though we may have reason tomourn the day--and belongs to his family. We must not forget that hebelongs to a known family, however he may have suffered by it. "

"Then you intend the child to know about his family? I am glad to hearit, " said John, though his voice perhaps was not so sweet as his words. 

"Oh, John, that is quite another thing! to know about his family--attwo! He has his mother--and me to take care of them both, and what doeshe want more?"

"But he will not always be two, " said John, the first moment almost ofhis arrival, before he had seen the house, or said a word about thelake, or anything. She was so disappointed and cast down that she madehim no reply. 

"I am a wretched croaker, " he said, after a moment, "I know. I oughtafter all this time to try to make myself more agreeable; but you mustpardon me if this was the first thing that came into my mind. Elinor islooking a great deal better than when I saw her last. "

"Isn't she! another creature. I don't say that I am satisfied, John. Whowould be satisfied in such a position of affairs? but while the child isso very young nothing matters very much. And she is quite happy. I dothink she is quite happy. And so well--this country suits them bothperfectly. Though there is a good deal of rain, they are both out everyday. And little Pippo thrives, as you see, like a flower. "

"That is a very fantastic name to give the child. "

"How critical you are, John! perhaps it is, but what does it matter athis age? any name does for a baby. Why, you yourself, as grave as youare now----"

"Don't, aunt, " said John. "It is a grave matter enough as it appears tome. "

"Not for the present; not for the present, John. "

"Perhaps not for the present: if you prefer to put off all thedifficulties till they grow up and crush you. Have there been anyovertures, all this time, from--the other side?"

"Dear John, don't overwhelm me all in a moment, in the first pleasure ofseeing you, both with the troubles that are behind and the troubles thatare in front of us, " the poor lady said. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

The weather was fine, which was by no means always a certainty atWaterdale, and Elinor had become a great pedestrian, and was ready toaccompany John in his walks, which were long and varied. It was rather acurious test to which to subject himself after the long time he had beenaway, and the other tests through which he had gone. Never had he beenso entirely the companion of Elinor, never before had they spent so manyhours together without other society. At Windyhill, indeed, theirinterviews had been quite unrestrained, but then Elinor had many friendsand interests in the parish and outside of it, visits to pay and dutiesto perform. Now she had her child, which occupied her mornings andevenings, but left her free for hours of rambling among the hills, forlong walks, from which she came back blooming with the fresh air andbreezes which had blown her about, ruffling her hair, and stirring upher spirits and thoughts. Sometimes when there has been heavy andpremature suffering there occurs thus in the young another spring-time, an almost childhood of natural, it may be said superficial pleasure--thepower of being amused, and of enjoying every simple satisfaction withoutany _arrière pensée_ like a child. She had recovered her strength andvigour in the mountain air--and in that freedom of being unknown, withno look ever directed to her which reminded her of the past, no questionwhich brought back her troubles, had blossomed out into that fineyouthful maturity of twenty-six, which has already an advantage over theearlier girlhood, the perfection of the woman grown. Elinor had thoughtof many things and understood many things, which she had still regardedwith the high assumptions of ignorance three or four years ago. And poorJohn, who had tried so hard to find himself a mate that suited him, whohad studied so many girls more beautiful, more accomplished than Elinor, in the hope of goading himself, so to speak, into love, and had notsucceeded--and who had felt so strongly that another man's wife must notoccupy so much of his thoughts, nor another man's child give him anunwilling pleasure which was almost fatherly--poor John felt himselfplaced in a position more trying than any he had known before, moredifficult to steer his way through. He had never had so much of hercompany, and she did not conceal the pleasure it was to her to have someone to walk with, to talk with, who understood what she said and whatshe did not say, and was in that unpurchasable sympathy with herselfwhich is not to be got by beauty, or by will, or even by love itself, but comes by nature. Elinor felt this with simple pleasure. Without anycomplicating suspicion, she said, "What a brother John is! I always felthim so, but now more than ever. " "You have been, so to speak, brought uptogether, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, whose mind was by no means so easy onthe subject. "That is the reason, I suppose, " said Elinor, with happylooks. 

But poor John said nothing of this kind. What he felt was that he mighthave spared himself the trouble of all those researches of his; that toroam about looking for a young lady whom he might--not devour, but learnto love, was pains as unnecessary as ever man took. He still huggedhimself, however, over the thought that in no circumstances would hehave been a marrying man; that if Elinor had been free he would havefound plenty of reasons why they should remain on their present termsand go no farther. As it was clear that they must remain on theirpresent terms, and could go no farther, it was certainly better that heshould cherish that thought. 

And curiously enough, though they heard so little from the outsideworld, they had heard just so much as this, that John's assiduities tothe Miss Gaythornes (which the reader may remember was the first of allhis attempts, and quite antiquated in his recollection) had occasionedremarks, and he had not been many evenings at Lakeside before he wasquestioned on the subject. Had it been true, or had he changed his mindor had the lady----? It vexed him that there was not the least littleopposition or despite in their tones, such as a man's female friendsoften show towards the objects of his admiration, not from any feelingon their own part, except that most natural one, which is surprised andalmost hurt to find that, "having known me, he could decline"--a feelingwhich, in its original expression, was not a woman's sentiment, but aman's, and therefore is, I suppose, common to both sides. But the ladiesat Lakeside did not even betray this feeling. They desired to know ifthere had been anything in it--with smiles, it is true; but Mrs. Dennistoun at the same time expressed her regret warmly. 

"We were in great hopes something would come of it, John. Elinor has metthe Gaythornes, and thought them very nice; and if there is a thing inthe world that would give me pleasure, it would be to see you with anice wife, John. "

"I am sure I am much obliged to you, aunt; but there really was nothingin it. That is, I was seized with various impulses on the subject, andrather agreed with you: but I never mentioned the matter to any of theMiss Gaythornes. They are charming girls, and I don't suppose would havelooked at me. At the same time, I did not feel it possible to imaginemyself in love with any of them. That's quite a long time since, " headded with a laugh. 

"Then there have been others since then? Let us put him in theconfessional, mother, " cried Elinor with a laugh. "He ought not to haveany secrets of that description from you and me. "

"Oh, yes, there have been others since, " said John. "To tell the truth, I have walked round a great many nice girls asking myself whether Ishouldn't find it very delightful to have one of them belonging to me. Iwasn't worthy the least attractive of them all, I quite knew; but stillI am about the same as other men. However, as I've said, I nevermentioned the matter to any of them. "

"Never?" cried Mrs. Dennistoun, feeling a hesitation in his tone. 

He laughed a little, shamefaced: "Well, if you like, I will say hardlyever, " he said. "There was one that might, perhaps, have taken pity uponme--but fortunately an old lover of hers, who was much moreenterprising, turned up before anything decisive had been said. "

"Fortunately, John?"

"Well, yes, I thought so. You see I am not a marrying man. I tried toscrew myself up to the point, but it was altogether, I am afraid, as amatter of principle. I thought it would be a good thing, perhaps, tohave a wife. "

"That was a very cold-blooded idea. No wonder you--it never came toanything. That is not the way to go about it, " said Elinor with theringing laugh of a child. 

And yet her way of going about it had been far from a success. Howcurious that she did not remember that!

"Yes, " he said, "I am quite aware that I did not go about it in theright way, but then that was the only way in which it presented itselfto me; and when I had made up my mind at last that it was a failure, Iconfess it was with a certain sense of relief. I suppose I was born tolive and die an old bachelor. "

"Do not be so sure of that, " said Elinor. "Some day or other, in themost unlooked-for moment, the fairy princess will bound upon the scene, and the old bachelor will be lost. "

"We'll wait quite contentedly for that day--which I don't believe in, "he said. 

Mrs. Dennistoun did not take any part in the later portion of thisdiscussion; her smile was feeble at the places where Elinor laughed. Shesaid seriously after this fireside conference, when he got up to preparefor dinner, putting her hand tenderly on his shoulder, "I wish you hadfound some one you could have loved, John. "

"So did I--for a time, " he said, lightly. "But you see, it was not tobe. "

She shook her head, standing against the firelight in the dark room, sothat he could not see her face. "I wish, " she said, "I wish--that I sawyou with a nice wife, John. "

"You might wish--to see me on the woolsack, aunt. "

"Well--and it might come to pass. I shall see you high up--if I livelong enough; but I wish I was as sure of the other, John. "

"Well, " he said with a laugh, "I did my best; but there is no use instruggling against fate. "

No, indeed! how very, very little use there was. He had kept away fromthem for nearly two years; while he had done his best in the meantime toget a permanent tenant for his heart which should prevent any wanderingtendencies. But he had not succeeded; and now if ever a man could be putin circumstances of danger it was he. If he did not appear in time fortheir walk Elinor would call him. "Aren't you coming, John?" And sheoverflowed in talk to him of everything--excepting always of that onedark passage in her life of which she never breathed a word. She askedhim about his work, and about his prospects, insisting upon havingeverything explained to her--even politics, to which he had a tendency, not without ideas of their use in reaching the higher ranks of hisprofession. Elinor entered into all with zest and almost enthusiasm. Shewrapped him up in her sympathy and interest. There was nothing he didthat she did not wish to know about, did not desire to have a part in. A sister in this respect is, as everybody knows, often more full ofenthusiasm than a wife, and Elinor, who was vacant of all concerns ofher own (except the baby) was delighted to take up these subjects ofexcitement, and follow John through them, hastening after him on everyline of indication or suggestion which he gave--nay, often with herlively intelligence hastening before him, making incursions intoundiscovered countries of which he had not yet perceived the importance. They walked over all the country, into woods which were a little damp, and up hill-sides where the scramble was often difficult enough, andalong the side of the lake--or, for a variety, went rowing across tothe other side, or far down the gleaming water, out of sight, roundthe wooded corner which, with all its autumnal colours, blazed likea brilliant sentinel into the air above and the water below. Mrs. Dennistoun watched them, sometimes with a little trouble on her face. She would not say a word to throw suspicions or doubts between them. She would not awaken in Elinor's mind the thought that any suchpossibilities as arise between two young people free of all bonds couldbe imagined as affecting her and any man such as her cousin John. PoorJohn! if he must be the victim, the victim he must be. Elinor couldnot be disturbed that he might go free. And indeed, what good would ithave done to disturb Elinor? It would but have brought consciousness, embarrassment, and a sense of danger where no such sense was. She wastrebly protected, and without a thought of anything but the calm yetclose relations that had existed so long. He---- but he could take careof himself, Mrs. Dennistoun reflected in despair; he must take care ofhimself. He was a man and must understand what his own risks and perilswere. 

"And do you think this plan is a success?" John asked her one day asthey were rowing homeward up the lake. The time of his visit was drawingto a close; indeed it had drawn to a close several times, and beenlengthened very unadvisedly, yet very irresistibly as he felt. 

Her face grew graver than usual, as with a sudden recollection of thatshadow upon her life which Elinor so often seemed to have forgotten. "Asmuch of a success, " she said, "as anything of the kind is likely to be. "

"It suits you better than Windyhill?"

"Only in being more out of the world. It is partially out of the worldfor a great part of the year; but I suppose no place is so wholly. Itseems impossible to keep from making acquaintances. "

"Of course, " he said, "I have noticed. You know people here already. "

"How can we keep from knowing people? Mamma says it is the same thingeverywhere. If we lived up in that little house which they say is thehighest in England--at the head of the pass--we should meet people Isuppose even there. "

"Most likely, " he replied; "but the same difficulties can hardly arise. "

"You mean we shall not know people so well as at--at home, and will notbe compelled to give an account of ourselves whatever we do? Heavenknows! There is a vicarage here, and there is a squire's house: andthere are two or three people besides who already begin to inquire if weare related to So-and-So, if we are the Scotch Dennistouns, or the IrishComptons, or I don't know what; and whether we are going to Penrith orany other capital city for the winter. " Elinor ended with a laugh. 

"So soon?" John said. 

"So soon--very much sooner, the first year: with mamma so friendly asshe is and with me so silly, unable to keep myself from smiling atanybody who smiles at me!"

"Poor Elinor!"

"Oh, you may laugh; but it is a real disadvantage. I am sure there wasnot very much smile in me when we came; and yet, notwithstanding, thefirst pleasant look is enough for me, I cannot but respond; and I shallalways be so, I suppose, " she said, with a sigh. 

"I hope so, Elinor. It would be an evil day for all of us if you did notrespond. "

"For how many, John? For my mother and--ah, you are so good, more likemy brother than my cousin--for you, perhaps, a little; but what is it toanybody else in the world whether I smile or sigh? It does not matter, however, " she said, flinging back her head; "there it is, and I can'thelp it. If you smile at me I must smile back again--and so we makefriends; and already I get a great deal of advice about little Pippo. If we live here till he grows up, the same thing will happen as at theCottage. We will require to account to everybody for what we do withhim--for the school he goes to, and all he does; to explain why he hasone kind of training or another; and, in short, all that I ran awayfrom: the world wherever one goes seems to be so much the same. "

"The world is very much the same everywhere; and you cannot get out ofit were you to take refuge in a cave on the hill. The best thing isgenerally to let it know all that can be known, and so save themultitude of guesses it always makes. "

Elinor looked at him for a moment with her lips pressed tightlytogether, and a light in her eyes; then she looked away across the waterto the golden hills, and said nothing; but there was a great deal inthat look of eager contradiction, yet forced agreement, of determinationabove all, with which right and wrong had nothing to do. 

"Elinor, " he said, "do you mean that child to grow up here between yourmother and you--in ignorance of all that there is in the world besidesyou two?"

"That child!" she cried. "John, I think you dislike my boy; for, ofcourse, it is Pippo you mean. "

"I wish you would not call him by that absurd name. "

"You are hard to please, " she said, with an angry laugh. "I think it isa very sweet little name. "

"The child will not always be a baby, " said John. 

"Oh, no: I suppose if we all live long enough he will some time bea--possibly disagreeable man, and punish us well for all the care wehave spent upon him, " Elinor said. 

"I don't want to make you angry, Elinor----"

"No, I don't suppose you do. You have been very nice to me, John. Youhave neither scolded me nor given me good advice. I never expected youwould have been so forbearing. But I have always felt you must mean togive me a good knock at the end. "

"You do me great injustice, " he said, much wounded. "You know that Ithink only of what is best for you--and the child. "

They were approaching the shore, and Mrs. Dennistoun's white cap wasvisible in the waning light, looking out for them from the door. Elinorsaid hastily, "And the child? I don't think that you care much for thechild. "

"There you are mistaken, Elinor. I did not perhaps at first: but Iacknowledge that a little thing like that does somehow creep into one'sheart. "

Her face, which had been gloomy, brightened up as if a sunbeam hadsuddenly burst upon it. "Oh, bless you, John--Uncle John; how good andhow kind, and what a dear friend and brother you are! And I such awretch, ready to quarrel with those I love best! But, John, let me keepquiet, let me keep still, don't make me rake up the past. He is such ababy, such a baby! There cannot be any question of telling him anythingfor years and years!"

"I thought you were lost, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, calling to them. "Ibegan to think of all kinds of things that might have happened--of thesteamboat running into you, or the boat going on a rock, or----"

"You need not have had any fear when I was with John, " Elinor said, witha smile that made him warm at once, like the sun. He knew very well, however, that it was only because he had made that little pleasantspeech about her boy. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

There passed after this a number of years of which I can make no record. The ladies remained at Lakeside, seldom moving. When they took a holidaynow and then, it was more for the sake of the little community which, just as in Windyhill, had gathered round them, and which inquired, concerned, "Are you not going to take a little change? Don't you think, dear Mrs. Dennistoun, your daughter would be the better for a change? Doyou really think that a little sea air and variety wouldn't be good forthe boy?" Forced by these kind speeches they did go away now and then tounknown seaside places in the north when little Philip was still achild, and to quiet places abroad when he grew a boy, and it was thoughta good thing for him to learn languages, and to be taught that therewere other countries in the world besides England. They were absent forone whole winter in France and another in Germany with this motive, thatPhilip should learn these languages, which he did _tant bien que mal_with much assistance from his mother, who taught herself everythingthat she thought the boy should know, and shared his lessons in orderto push him gently forward. And on the whole, he did very well in thisparticular of language, showing much aptitude, though not perhaps muchapplication. I would not assert that the ladies, with an opinion verycommon among women, and also among youth in general, did not ratherglory in the thought that he could do almost anything he liked (whichwas their opinion, and in some degree while he was very young, theopinion of his masters), with the appearance of doing nothing at all. But on the whole, his education was the most difficult matter in whichthey had yet been engaged. How was he to be educated? His birth andcondition pointed to one of the great public schools, and Mrs. Dennistoun, who had made many economics in that retirement, was quite able to givethe child what they both called the best education. But how could theysend him to Eton or Harrow? A boy who knew nothing about his parentageor his family, a boy bearing a well-known name, who would be subject toendless questions where he came from, who he belonged to? a hundredthings which neither in Waterdale nor in their travels had ever beenasked of him. What the Waterdale people thought on the subject, or howmuch they knew, I should not like to inquire. There are ways of findingout everything, and people who possess family secrets are oftenextraordinarily deceived in respect to what is known and what is notknown of those secrets. My own opinion is that there is scarcely such athing as a secret in the world. If any moment of great revolution comesin your life you generally find that your neighbours are not muchsurprised. They have known it, or they have suspected it, all along, andit is well if they have not suspected more than the truth. So it isquite possible that these excellent people knew all about Elinor: butElinor did not think so, which was the great thing. 

However, there cannot be any question that Philip's education was a verygreat difficulty. John Tatham, who paid them a visit soberly from timeto time, but did not now come as of old, never indeed came as on thatfirst occasion when he had been so happy and so undeceived. To be sure, as Philip grew up it was of course impossible for any one to be likethat. From the time Pippo was five or six he went everywhere with hismother, her sole companion in general, and when there was a visitoralways making a third in the party, a third who was really the first, for he appealed to his mother on every occasion, directed her attentionto everything. He only learned with the greatest difficulty that it waspossible she should find it necessary to give her attention in a greaterdegree to any one else. When she said, "You know, Pippo, I must talk toUncle John, " Pippo opened his great eyes, "Not than to me, mamma?"

"Yes, dearest, more than to you for the moment: for he has come a longway to see us, and he will soon have to go away again. " When this wasfirst explained to him, Pippo inquired particularly when his Uncle Johnwas going away, and was delighted to hear that it was to be very soon. However, as he grew older the boy began to take great pleasure in UncleJohn, and hung upon his arm when they went out for their walks, andinstead of endeavouring to monopolise his mother, turned the tables uponher by monopolising this the only man who belonged to him, and to whomhe turned with the instinct of budding manhood. John too was verywilling to be thus appropriated, and it came to pass that now and thenElinor was left out, or left herself out of the calculation, urging thatthe walk they were planning was too far for her, or too steep for her, or too something, so that the boy might have the enjoyment of the man'ssociety all to himself. This changed the position in many ways, and I amnot sure that at first it did not cost Elinor a little thus to standaside and put herself out of that first place which had always been byall of them accorded to her. But if this was so, it was soon lost in theconsideration of how good it was for Pippo to have a man like John totalk to and to influence him in every way. A man like John! That was thething; not a common man, not one who might teach him the baseness, orthe frivolity, or the falsehood of the world, but a good man, who wasalso a distinguished man, a man of the world in the best sense, knowinglife in the best sense, and able to modify the boy's conception of whathe was to find in the world, as women could never do. 

"For after all that can be said, we are not good for much on thosepoints, mother, " Mrs. Compton would say. 

"I don't know, Elinor; I doubt whether I would exchange my own ideas forJohn's, " the elder lady replied. 

"Ah, perhaps, mother; but for Pippo his experience and his knowledgewill do so much. A boy should not be brought up entirely with women anymore than a girl should be with men. "

"I have often thought, my dear, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, "if in God'sprovidence it had been a girl instead of a boy----"

"Oh!" said the younger mother, with a flush, "how can you speak--howcould you think of any possible child but Pippo? I would not give himfor a score of girls. "

"And if he had been a girl you would not have changed him for scores ofboys, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, who added after a while, with a curioussense of competition, and a determination to allow no inferiority, "Youforget, Elinor, that my only child is a girl. " The elder lady (whom theybegan to call the old lady) showed a great deal of spirit in defence ofher own. 

But Philip was approaching fourteen, and the great question had to bedecided now or never; where was he to be sent to school? It wasdifficult now to send him to bed to get him out of the way, he who wasused to be the person of first importance in the house--in order thatthe others might settle what was to be his fate. And accordingly the twoladies came down-stairs again after the family had separated in theusual way, in order to have their consultation with their adviser. Therewas now a room in the house furnished as a library in order that Philipmight have a place in which to carry on his studies, and where "thegentlemen" might have their talks by themselves, when there was any onein the house. And here they found John when they stole in one after theother, soft-footed, that the boy might suspect no complot. They hadtheir scheme, it need not be doubted, and John had his. He pronounced atonce for one of the great public schools, while the ladies on their parthad heard of one in the north, an old foundation as old as Eton, wherethere was at the moment a head master who was quite exceptional, andwhere boys were winning honours in all directions. There Pippo wouldbe quite safe. He was not likely to meet with anybody who would putawkward questions, and yet he would receive an education as good as anyone's. "Probably better, " said Elinor: "for Mr. Sage will have fewpupils like him, and therefore will give him the more attention. "

"That means, " said John, "that the boy will not be among his equals, which is of all things I know the worst for a boy. "

"We are not aristocrats, as you are, John. They will be more than hisequal in one way, because many of them will be bigger and stronger thanhe, and that is what counts most among boys. Besides, we have nopretensions. "

"My dear Elinor, " said John Tatham (who was by this time an exceedinglysuccessful lawyer, member for his native borough, and within sight of aSolicitor-Generalship), "your modesty is a little out of character, don't you think? There can be no two opinions about what the boy is: anaristocrat--if you choose to use that word, every inch of him--a littlegentleman, down to his fingers' ends. "

"Oh, thank you, John, " cried Pippo's inconsistent mother; "that is thething of all others that we hoped you would say. "

"And yet you are going to send him among the farmers' sons. Finefellows, I grant you, but not of his kind. Have you heard, " he said, more gravely, "that Reginald Compton died last year?"

"We saw it in the papers, " said Mrs. Dennistoun. Elinor said nothing, but turned her head away. 

"And neither of the others are married, or likely to marry; one of themis very much broken down----"

"Oh, John, John, for God's sake don't say anything more!"

"I must, Elinor. There is but one good life, and that in a dangerousclimate, and with all the risks of possible fighting, between the boyand----"

"Don't, don't, John!"

"And he does not know who he is. He is ignorant of everything, even thefact, the great fact, which you have no right to keep from him----"

"John, " she cried, starting to her feet, "the boy is mine: I have aright to deal with him as I think best. I will not hear a word you haveto say. "

"It is vain to say anything, " said Mrs. Dennistoun; "she will not hear aword. "

"That is all very well, so far as she is concerned, " said John, "but Ihave a part of my own to play. You give me the name of adviser and soforth--a man cannot be your adviser if his mouth is closed before hespeaks. I have a right to speak, being summoned for that purpose. I tellyou, Elinor, that you have no right to conceal from the boy who he is, and that his father is alive. "

She gave a cry as if he had struck her, and shrank away behind hermother, hiding her face in her hands. 

"I am, more or less, of your opinion, John. I have told her the same. While he was a baby it mattered nothing, now that he is a rationalcreature with an opinion of his own, like any one of us----"

"Mother, " cried Elinor, "you are unkind. Oh, you are unkind! What did itmatter so long as he was a baby? But now he is just at the age when hewould be--if you don't wish to drive me out of my senses altogether, don't say a word more to me of this kind. "

"Elinor, " said John, "I have said nothing on the subject for many years, though I have thought much: and you must for once hear reason. The boybelongs--to his father as much as to you. I have said it! I cannot takeit back. He belongs to the family of which he may one day be the head. You cannot throw away his birthright. And think, if you let him grow uplike this, not knowing that he has a family or a--unaware whom hebelongs to. "

"Have you done, John?" asked Elinor, who had made two or three effortsto interrupt, and had been beating her foot impatiently upon the ground. 

"If you ask me in that tone, I suppose I must say yes: though I have agreat deal more that I should like to say. "

"Then hear me speak, " cried Elinor. "Of us three at least, I am theonly one to whom he belongs. I only have power to decide for him. And Isay, No, no: whatever argument there may be, whatever plea you may bringforward, No and no, and after that No! What! at fourteen, just the agewhen anything that was said to him would tell the most; when he wouldlearn a lesson the quickest, learn what I would die to keep him from!When he would take everything for gospel that was said to him, when thevery charm of--of that unknown name----"

She stopped for a moment to take breath, half choked by her own words. 

"And you ought to remember no one has ever laid claim to him. Why shouldI tell him of one that never even inquired---- No, John, no, no, no!A baby he might have been told, and it would have done him no harm. Perhaps you were right, you and mother, and I was wrong. He might haveknown it from the first, and thought very little of it, and he may knowwhen he is a man, and his character is formed and he knows what thingsmean--but a boy of fourteen! Imagine the glamour there would be aboutthe very name; how he would feel we must all have been unjust andthe--the other injured. You know from yourself, John, how he clings toyou--you who are only a cousin; he knows that, yet he insists upon UncleJohn, the one man who belongs to him, and looks up to you, and thinksnothing of any of us in comparison. I like it! I like it!" cried Elinor, dashing the tears from her eyes. "I am not jealous: but fancy what itwould be with the--other, the real, the---- I cannot, cannot, say theword; yes, the father. If it is so with you, what would it be with him?"

John listened with his head bent down, leaning on his hand: every wordwent to his heart. Yes, he was nothing but a cousin, it was true. Theboy did not belong to him, was nothing to him. If the father stepped in, the real father, the man of whom Philip had never heard, in all theglory of his natural rights and the novelty and wonder of his existence, how different would that be from any feeling that could be raised by acousin, an uncle, with whom the boy had played all his life! No doubt itwas true: and Phil Compton would probably charm the inexperienced boywith his handsome, disreputable grace, and the unknown ways of the manof the world. And yet, he thought to himself, there is a perspicacityabout children which is not always present in a man. Philip had noprecocious instincts to be tempted by his father's habits; he had thetrue sight of a boy trained amid everything that was noble and pure. Would it indeed be more dangerous now, when the boy was a boy, with allthose safeguards of nature, than when he was a man? John kept his mindto this question with the firmness of a trained intelligence, notletting himself go off into other matters, or pausing to feel the stingthat was in Elinor's words, the reminder that though he had been somuch, he was still nothing to the family to whom he had consecrated somuch of his life, so much now of his thoughts. 

"I do not think I agree with you, Elinor, " he said at last. "I think itwould have been better had he always known that his father lived, andwho he was, and what family he belonged to; that is not to say that youwere to thrust him into his father's arms. And I think now that, thoughwe cannot redeem the past, it should be done as soon as possible, andthat he should know before he goes to school. I think the effect will beless now than if the discovery bursts upon him when he is a young man, when he finds, perhaps, as may well be, that his position and all hisprospects are changed in a moment, when he may be called upon withoutany preparation to assume a name and a rank of which he knows nothing. "

"Not a name. He has always borne his true name. "

"His true name may be changed at any moment, Elinor. He may become LordLomond, and the heir----"

"My dear, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, growing red, "that is a chance we havenever taken into account. "

"What has that to do with it?" she said. "Is his happiness and hishonour to be put in comparison with a chance, a possibility that maynever come true? John, for the sake of everything that is good, let himwait till he is a man and knows good from evil. "

"It is that I am thinking of, Elinor; a boy of fourteen often knows goodfrom evil much better than a youth of twenty-one, which is, I suppose, what you call a man. My opinion is that it would be better and safernow. "

"No!" she said. "And no! I will never consent to it. If you go andpoison my boy's mind I will never forgive you, John. "

"I have no right to do anything, " he said; "it is of course you who mustdecide, Elinor: I advise only; and I might as well give that up, " headded, "don't you think? for you are not to be guided by me. "

And she was of course supreme in everything that concerned her son. John, when he could do no more, knew how to be silent, and Mrs. Dennistoun, if not so wise in this respect, was yet more easily silencedthan John. And Philip Compton went to the old grammar-school among thedales, where was the young and energetic head-master, who, as Elinoranticipated, found this one pupil like a pearl among the pebbles of theshore, and spared no pains to polish him and perfect him in every wayknown to the ambitious schoolmaster of modern times. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

It is needless to say that the years which developed Elinor's child intoa youth on the verge of manhood, had not passed by the others of thefamily without full evidence of its progress. John Tatham was no longerwithin the elastic boundaries of that conventional youth which isallowed to stretch so far when a man remains unmarried. He might havebeen characterized as _encore jeune_, according to the fine distinctionof our neighbours in France, had he desired it. But he did not desireit. He had never altogether neglected society, having a wholesome likingfor the company of his fellow creatures, but neither had he ever plungedinto it as those do who must keep their places in the crowd or die. John had pursued the middle path, which is the most difficult. He hadcultivated friends, not a mob of acquaintances, although as people sayhe "knew everybody, " as a man who had attained his position and won hissuccess could scarcely fail to do. He had succeeded indeed, not in thefabulous way that some men do, but in a way which most men in hisprofession looked upon as in the highest degree satisfactory. He had asilk gown like any dowager. He had been leading counsel in many caseswhich were now of note. He was among, not the two or three perhaps, butthe twenty or thirty, who were at the head of his profession. If he hadnot gone further it was perhaps more from lack of ambition than fromwant of power. He had been for years in Parliament, but preferred hisindependence to the chance of office. It is impossible to tell howJohn's character and wishes might have been modified had he married andhad children round him like other men. Had the tall boy in the north, the young hero of Lakeside, been his, what a difference would thathave made in his views of life! But Philip was not his, nor Philip'smother--probably, as he always said to himself, from his own fault. This, as the reader is aware, had always been fully recognised by Johnhimself. Perhaps in the old days, in those days when everything waspossible, he had not even recognised that there was but one woman inthe world whom he could ever wish to marry. Probably it was onlyher appropriation by another that revealed this fact to him. Thereare men like this to be found everywhere; not so hotly constitutedas to seize for themselves what is most necessary for their personalhappiness--possessed by so many other subjects that this seems a thingto be thought of by-and-by--which by-and-by is generally too late. 

But John Tatham was neither a disappointed nor an unhappy man. He mighthave attained a higher development and more brilliant and full life, butthat was all; and how few men are there of whom this could not be said!He had become Mr. Tatham of Tatham's Cross, as well as Q. C. And M. P. , a county gentleman of modest but effective standing, a lawyer of highreputation, quite eligible either for the bench or for politicalelevation, had he cared for either, a member of Parliament with adistinct standing, and therefore importance of his own. There wasprobably throughout England no society in which he could have foundhimself where his position and importance would have been unknown. Hewas a man approaching fifty, who had not yet lost any of the power ofenjoyment or begun to feel the inroads of decay, at the very height oflife, and unconscious that the ground would shortly begin to slopedownwards under his feet; indeed, it showed no such indication as yet, and probably would not do so for years. The broad plateau of middle agelasts often till sixty, or even beyond. There was no reason to doubtthat for John Tatham it would last as long as for any man. His healthwas perfect, and his habits those of a man whose self had never demandedindulgences of the vulgar kind. He had given up with some regret, butyears before, his chambers in the Temple: that is, he retained them aschambers, but lived in them no longer. He had a house in one of thestreets about Belgrave Square, one of those little bits of awkward, three-cornered streets where there are some of the pleasantest housesof a moderate kind in London; furnished from top to bottom, the stairs, the comfortable quaint landings, the bits of corridor and passage, nothing naked or neglected about it--no cold corner; but nothingfantastic; not very much ornament, a few good pictures, a great dealof highly-polished, old-fashioned dark mahogany, with a general flavourof Sherraton and Chippendale: and abundance of books everywhere. Johnwas able to permit himself various little indulgences on which wivesare said to look with jealous eyes. He had a fancy for rare editions(in which I sympathise) and also for bindings, which seems to me aweakness--however, it was one which he indulged in moderation. Hepossessed in his drawing-room (which was not very much used) a beautifulold-fashioned harpsichord, and also he had belonging to him a fiddleof value untold. I ought, of course, to say violin, or rather todistinguish the instrument by its family name; I have no doubt it was aStradivarius. But there is an affectionate humour in the fiddle whichdoes not consist with fine titles. He had always been fond of music, buteven the Stradivarius did not beguile him, in the days of which I speak, to play, nor perhaps was his performance worthy of it, though his tastewas said to be excellent. It will be perceived by all this that JohnTatham's life had many pleasures. 

And I am not myself sorry for him because he was not married, as manypeople will be. Perhaps it is a little doleful coming home, when thereis never anybody looking out for you, expecting you. But then he hadnever been accustomed to look for that, and the effect might have beenirksome rather than pleasant. His household went on velvet under thecare of a respectable couple who had "done for" Mr. Tatham for years. Hewould not have submitted to extortion or waste, but everything was amplein the house; the cook by no means stinted in respect to butter or anyof those condiments which are as necessary to good cooking as air is tolife. Mr. Tatham would not have understood a lack of anything, or thatwhat was served to him should not have been the best, supplied andserved in the best way. Failure on such points would have so muchsurprised him that he would scarcely have known what steps to take. ButJervis, his butler, knew what was best as well as Mr. Tatham did, andwas quite as little disposed to put up with any shortcoming. I say I amnot sorry for him that he was not married--up to this time. But, as amatter of fact, the time does come when one becomes sorry for thewell-to-do, highly respectable, refined, and agreeable man who haseverything that heart can desire, except the best things in life--love, and the companionship of those who are his very own. When old age loomsin sight everything is changed. But Mr. Tatham, as has been said, wasnot quite fifty, and old age seemed as far off as if it could never be. 

He was a man who was very good to a number of people, and spent almostas much money in being kind as if he had possessed extravagant childrenof his own. His sister Mary, for instance, had married a clergyman notvery well off, and the natural result had followed. How they could haveexisted without Uncle John, much less how they could have stumbled intopublic schools, scholarships, and all the rest of it, would be difficultto tell, especially now in these days when a girl's schooling ought, weare told, to cost as much as a boy's. This latter is a grievance whichmust be apparent to the meanest capacity. Unless the girl binds herselfby the most stringent vows _not_ to marry a poor curate or otherpenniless man the moment that you have completed her expensive education, I do not think she should in any case be permitted to go to Girton. It is all very well when the parents are rich or the girls have asufficiency of their own. But to spend all that on a process which, instead of fructifying in other schools and colleges, or producing inlife a highly accomplished woman, is to be lost at once and swallowed upin another nursery, is the most unprofitable of benefactions. This iswhat Mary Tatham's eldest girl had just done, almost before her bills atNewnham had been paid. A wedding present had, so to speak, been demandedfrom Uncle John at the end of the bayonet to show his satisfaction inthe event which had taken all meaning out of his exertions for littleMary. He had given it indeed--in the shape not of a biscuit-box, whichis what she would have deserved, but of a cheque--but he was notpleased. Neither was he pleased, as has been seen, by the proceedings ofElinor, who had slighted all his advice yet clung to himself in a waysome women have. I do not know whether men expect you to be quite asmuch their friend as ever after they have rejected your counsel andtaken their own (exactly opposite) way: but women do, and indeed I thinkexpect you to be rather grateful that they have not taken amiss theadvice which they have rejected and despised. This was Elinor's case. She hoped that John was ashamed of advising her to make her boyacquainted with his family and the fact of his father's existence, andthat he duly appreciated the fact that she did not resent that advice;and then she expected from him the same attention to herself and her sonas if the boy had been guided in his and not in her way. Thus it will beseen his friends and relations expected a very great deal from John. 

He had gone to his chambers one afternoon after he left the law courts, and was there very busily engaged in getting up his notes for to-morrow'swork, when he received a visit which awakened at once echoes of the pastand alarms for the future in John's mind. It was very early in the year, the end of January, and the House was not sitting, so that his publicduties were less overwhelming than usual. His room was the same in whichwe have already seen on various occasions, and which Elinor in heryouth, before anything had happened to make life serious for her, hadbeen in the habit of calling the Star Chamber, for no reason in theworld except that law and penalties or judgments upon herself in herunripe conviction, and suggestions of what ought to be done, came fromthat place to which Mrs. Dennistoun had made resort in her perplexitiesalmost from the very beginning of John's reign there. Mr. Tatham hadbeen detained beyond his usual time by the importance of the case forwhich he was preparing, and a clerk, very impatient to get free, yetobliged to simulate content, had lighted the lamp and replenished thefire. It had always been a comfortable room. The lamp by which Johnworked had a green shade which concentrated the light upon a tablecovered with that litter of papers in which there seemed so littleorder, yet which Mr. Tatham knew to the last scrap as if they had beenthe tidiest in the world. The long glazed book-case which filled up oneside of the room gave a dark reflection of the light and of the leapingbrightness of the fire. The curtains were drawn over the windows. If theclerk fumed in the outer rooms, here all was studious life and quiet. No spectator could have been otherwise than impressed by the air ofabsolute self-concentration with which the eminent lawyer gave himselfup to his work. He was like his lamp, giving all the light in him to thespecial subject, indifferent to everything outside. 

"What is it, Simmons?" he said abruptly, without looking up. 

"A lady, sir, who says she has urgent business and must see you. "

"A lady--who _must_ see me. " John Tatham smiled at the very ineffectual_must_, which meant coercion and distraction to him. "I don't see howshe is going to accomplish that. "

"I told her so, " said the clerk. 

"Well, you must tell her so again. " He had scarcely lifted his head fromhis work, so that it was unnecessary to return to it when the doorclosed, and Mr. Tatham went on steadily as before. 

It is easy to concentrate the light of the lamp when it is duly shadedand no wind to blow it about, and it is easy to concentrate a man'sattention in the absolute quiet when nothing interrupts him; but whenthere suddenly rises up a wind of talk in the room which is separatedfrom him only by a door, a tempest of chattering words and laughter, shrill and bursting forth in something like shrieks, making the studentstart, that is altogether a different business. The lady outside, whoevidently had multiplied herself--unless it was conceivable that theserious Simmons had made himself her accomplice--had taken the cleverestway of showing that she was not to be beat by any passive resistance ofbusy man, though not even an audible conversation with Simmons wouldhave startled or disturbed his master, to whom it would have beenapparent that his faithful vassal was thus defending his own strongholdand innermost retirement. But this was quite independent of Simmons, adiscussion in two voices, one high-pitched and shrill, the other softer, but both absolutely unrestrained by any consciousness of being in aplace where the chatter of strange voices is forbidden, and stillnessand quiet a condition of being. The sound of the talk rang through Mr. Tatham's head as if all the city bells were ringing. One of the unseenladies had a very shrill laugh, to which she gave vent freely. Johnfidgeted in his chair, raised up his eyes above the level of hisspectacles (he wore spectacles, alas! by this time habitually when heworked) as if lifting a voiceless appeal to those powers who interestthemselves in law cases to preserve him from disturbance, then made amanly effort to disregard the sounds that filled the air, returning witha shake of his head to his reading. But at the end of a long day, and inthe dulness of the afternoon, perhaps a man is less capable than atother moments to fight against interruption of this kind and finally hethrew down his papers and touched his bell. Simmons came in full of paleindignation, which made itself felt even beyond the circle illuminatedby the lamp. 

"What can I do?" he said. "They've planted themselves by the fire, andthere they mean to stay. 'Oh, very well, we'll wait, ' they said, quitecalm. And I make no doubt they will, having nothing else to do, till allis blue. "

Mr. Simmons had a gift of expression of which all his friends wereflatteringly sensible, and he was very friendly and condescending toJohn, of whom he had taken care for many years. 

"What is to be done?" said Mr. Tatham. "Can't you do anything to getthem away?"

Simmons shook his head. "There's two of them, " he said, "and theyentertain each other, and they think it's fun to jabber like that in alawyer's office. The young one says, 'What a queer place!' and theother, she holds forth about other times when she's been here. "

"Oh, she's been here other times---- Do you know her, Simmons?"

"Not from Adam, Mr. Tatham--or, I should say, from Eve, as she's alady. But a real lady I should say, though she don't behave herself assuch--one of the impudent ones. They are never impudent like that, " saidMr. Simmons, with profound observation, "unless they are real highor--real low. "

"Hum!" said John, hesitating. And then he added, "There is a young one, you say?"

But I do not myself think, though the light-minded may imagine it to beso, that it was because there was a young one that John gave in. It wasbecause he could do nothing else, the noise and chatter of the voicesbeing entirely destructive of that undisturbed state of the atmospherein which work can be done. It was not merely the sounds but the vibrationthey made in the air, breaking all its harmony and concentration. Hetried a little longer, but was unsuccessful, and finally in despair hesaid to Simmons, "You had better show them in, and let me get done withthem, " in an angry tone. 

"Oh, he will see us after all, " said the high-pitched voice. "So good ofMr. Tatham; but of course I should have waited all the same. Dolly, takeToto; I can't possibly get up while I have him on my knee. You can tellMr. Tatham I did not send in my name to disturb him, which makes it allthe more charitable of him to receive me; but, dear me, of course I cantell him that himself as he consents to see us. Dolly, don't strangle mypoor darling! I never saw a girl that didn't know how to take up a deardog before. "

"He's only a snappish little demon, and you spoil him so, " said theother voice. This was attended by the sound of movement as if the partywere getting under weigh. 

"My poor darling pet, it is only her jealousy: is that the way? Yes, tobe sure it is the next room. Now, Dolly, remember this is where all thepoor people are ruined and done for. Leave hope behind all ye who enterhere. " A little shriek of laughter ended this speech. And John, lookingup, taking off his spectacles, and raising a little the shade of thelamp, saw in the doorway Lady Mariamne, altered as was inevitable by thestrain and stress of nearly twenty years. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

I do not mean to assert that John Tatham had not seen Lady Mariamneduring these twenty years, or that her changed appearance burst upon himwith anything like a shock. In society, when you are once a member ofthat little world within a world, everybody sees everybody else fromtime to time. He had not recognised her voice, for he was not in thesmallest degree thinking of Lady Mariamne or of any member of herfamily, notwithstanding that they now and then did make a very markedappearance in his mind in respect of the important question of thatconnection which Elinor in her foolishness tried to ignore. And John wasnot at all shocked by the progress of that twenty years, as reflected inthe appearance of this lady, who was about his own standing, a womanvery near fifty, but who had fought strenuously against every sign ofher age, as some women foolishly do. The result was in Lady Mariamne'scase, as in many others, that the number of her years looked more like ahundred and fifty than their natural limit. A woman of her class has buttwo alternatives as she gets old. She must get stout, in which case, though she becomes unwieldy, she preserves something of her bloom; orshe may grow thin, and become a spectre upon which art has to do so muchthat nature, flouted and tortured, becomes vindictive, and withdrawsevery modifying quality. Lady Mariamne had, I fear, false hair, falseteeth, false complexion, everything that invention could do in apoor little human countenance intended for no such manipulation. Theconsequence was that every natural advantage (and there are some whichage confers, as well as many that age takes away) was lost. The skin wasparchment, the eyes were like eyes of fishes, the teeth--too white andtoo perfect--looked like the horrible things in the dentists' windows, which was precisely what they were. On such a woman, the very heightof the fashion, to which she so often attaches herself with desperation, has an antiquated air. Everything "swears, " as the French say, with everything else. The softness, the whiteness, the ease, theself-abnegation of advancing age are all so many ornaments if peoplebut knew. But Lady Mariamne had none of these. She wore a warm cloakin her carriage, it is true, but that had dropped from her shoulders, leaving her in all the bound-up rigidity in which youth is trim andslim and elastic, as becomes it. It is true that many a woman of fiftyis, as John Tatham was, serenely dwelling on that tableland whichshows but little difference between thirty-five, the crown of life, andfifty-five; but Lady Mariamne was not one of these. She had gone "toofast, " she would herself have allowed; "the pace" had been too much forsuch survivals. She was of the awful order of superannuated beauties ofwhich Mr. Rider Haggard would in vain persuade us "She" was not one. Iam myself convinced that "She's" thousands of years were all written onher fictitious complexion, and that other people saw them clearly if nother unfortunate lover. And Lady Mariamne had come to be of the order of"She. " By dint of wiping out the traces of her fifty years, she had madeherself look as if she might have been a thousand, and in this guise sheappeared to the robust, ruddy, well-preserved man of her own age, as shestood, with a fantastic little giggle, calling his attention, on thethreshold of his door. 

Behind Lady Mariamne was a very different figure--that of the seriousand independent girl without any illusions, who is in so many cases thechild of such a mother, and who is in revolt so complete from all thatmother's traditions, so highly set on the crown of every oppositeprinciple, that nature vindicates itself by the possibility that shemay at any moment topple over and become again what her mother was. Hewould have been a bold man, however, who in the present stage wouldhave prophesied any such fate for Dolly Prestwich, who between workingat Whitechapel, attending on a ward in St. Thomas's, drawing threedays a week in the Slade School, and other labours of equally varieddescriptions, had her time very fully taken up, and only on specialoccasions had time to accompany her mother. She had been beguiled onthis occasion by the family history which was concerned, and which, _finde siècle_ as Dolly was, excited her curiosity almost as much as if shehad been born in the "forties. " Dolly was never unkind, sometimes indeedwas quite the reverse, to her mother. When Mr. Tatham, with a man'sbrutal unconsciousness of what is desirable, placed a chair for LadyMariamne in front of the fire, Dolly twisted it round with a dexterousmovement so as to shield the countenance which was not adapted for anysuch illumination. For herself, Dolly cared nothing, whether it was thenoonday sun or the blaze of a furnace that shone upon her; she defiedthem both to make her wink. As for complexion, she scorned thatold-fashioned vanity. She had not very much, it is true. Having beenscorched red and brown in Alpine expeditions in the autumn, she was nowof a somewhat dry whitish-greyish hue, the result of much loss ofcuticle and constant encounter with London fogs and smoke. She carriedToto--who was a shrinking, chilly Italian greyhound--in a coat, carelessly under one arm, and sat down beside her mother, studying thepapers on John's table with exceedingly curious eyes. She would haveliked to go over all his notes about his case, and form her own opinionon it--which she would have done, we may be sure, much more rapidly, andwith more decision, than Mr. Tatham could do. 

"So here I am again, you will say, " said Lady Mariamne. She had takenoff her gloves, and was smoothing her hands, from the points of thefingers downwards, not, I believe, with any intention of demonstratingtheir whiteness, but solely because she had once done so, and the habitremained. She wore several fine rings, and her hands were still pretty, and--unlike the rest of her--younger than her age. They made a littleshow with their sparkling diamonds, just catching the edge of the lightfrom John's shaded lamp. Her face by Dolly's help was in the shadow ofthe green shade. "You will say so, Mr. Tatham, I know: here she isagain--without thinking how self-denying I have been, never to come, never to ask a single question, for all these years. "

"The loss is mine, Lady Mariamne, " said John, gravely. 

"It's very pretty of you to say that, isn't it, Dolly? One's old flirtsdon't always show up so well. " And here the lady gave a laugh, such ashad once been supposed to be one of Lady Mariamne's charms, but whichwas rather like a giggle now--an antiquated giggle, which is much lesssatisfactory than the genuine article. "How I used to worry you aboutpoor Phil, and that little spitfire of a Nell--and what a mess they havemade of it! I suppose you know what changes have happened in the family, Mr. Tatham, since those days?"

"I heard indeed, with regret, Lady Mariamne, that you had lost abrother----"

"A brother! two!" she cried. "Isn't it extraordinary--poor Hal, that wasthe picture of health? How little one knows! He just went, don't youknow, without any one ever thinking he would go. Regg in India wasdifferent--you expect that sort of thing when a man is in India. Butpoor Hal! I told you Mr. Tatham wouldn't have heard of it, Dolly, notbeing in our own set, don't you know. "

"It was in all the papers, " said Miss Dolly. 

"Ah, well, you didn't notice it, I suppose: or perhaps you were away. Ialways say it is of no use being married or dying or anything else inSeptember--your friends never hear of it. You will wonder that I am notin black, but black was always very unbecoming to me, and dark grey isjust as good, and doesn't make one quite so ghastly. But the funny thingis that now Phil--who looked as if he never could be in the running, don't you know--is heir presumptive. Isn't it extraordinary? Two gone, and Phil, that lived much faster than either of them, and at one timekept up an awful pace, has seen them both out. And St. Serf has nevermarried. He won't now, though I have been at him on the subject foryears. He says, not if he knows it, in the horrid way men have. And Idon't wonder much, for he has had some nasty experiences, poor fellow. There was Lady---- Oh, I almost forgot you were there, Dolly. "

"You needn't mind me, " said Dolly, gravely; "I've heard just as bad. "

"Well, " said Lady Mariamne, with a giggle, "did you ever know anythinglike those girls? They are not afraid of anything. Now, when I was agirl--don't you remember what an innocent dear I was, Mr. Tatham?--likea lamb; never suspecting that there was any naughtiness in theworld----"

John endeavoured to put on a smile, in feeble sympathy with theuproariousness of Lady Mariamne's laugh--but her daughter took no suchtrouble. She sat as grave as a young judge, never moving a muscle. Thedog, however, held in her arms, and not at all comfortable, then makingprodigious efforts to struggle on to its mistress's more commodious lap, burst out into a responsive bark, as shrill and not much unlike. 

"Darling Toto, " said Lady Mariamne, "come!--it always knows whatit's mummy means. Did you ever see such a darling little head, Mr. Tatham?--and the faithful pet always laughs when I laugh. What was Italking of?--St. Serf and his ladies. Well, it is not much wonder, youknow, is it? for he has always been a sort of an invalid, and he willnever marry now--and poor Hal being gone there's only Phil. Phil's beengoing a pace, Mr. Tatham; but he has had a bad illness, too, and theother boys going has sobered him a bit; and I do believe, _now_, thathe'll probably mend. And there he is, you know, tied to a---- Oh, ofcourse, _she_ is as right as a--as right as a--trivet, whatever that maybe. Those sort of heartless people always are: and then there's thechild. Is it living, Mr. Tatham?--that's what I want to know. "

"Philip is alive and well, Lady Mariamne, if that is what you want toknow. "

"Philip!--she called him after Phil, after all! Well, that is somethingwonderful. I expected to hear he was John, or Jonathan, or something. Now, where is he?" said Lady Mariamne, with the most insinuating air. 

John burst into a short laugh. "I don't suppose you expect me to tellyou, " he said. 

"Why not?--you can't hide a boy that is heir to a peerage, Mr. Tatham!--itis impossible. Nell has done the best she could in that way. They knownothing about her in that awful place she was married from--of courseyou remember it--a dreadful place, enough to make one commit suicide, don't you know. The Cottage, or whatever they call it, is let, andnobody knows anything about them. I took the trouble to go there, Iassure you, on my own hook, to see if I could find out something. Totonearly died of it, didn't you, darling? Not a drop of cream to be hadfor him, the poor angel; only a little nasty skim milk. But Mr. Tathamhas the barbarity to smile, " she went on, with a shrill outcry. "Fancy, Toto--the cruelty to smile!"

"No cream for the angel, and no information for his mistress, " saidJohn. 

"You horrid, cruel, cold-blooded man!--and you sit there at your ease, and will do nothing for us----"

"Should you like me, " said John, "to send out for cream for your dog, Lady Mariamne?"

"Cream in the Temple?" said the lady. "What sort of a compound would itbe, Dolly? All plaster of Paris, or stuff of that sort. Perhaps you havetea sometimes in these parts----"

"Very seldom, " said John; "but it might be obtainable if you would likeit. " He put forward his hand, but not with much alacrity, to the bell. 

"Mother never takes any tea, " said Miss Dolly, hastily; "she onlycrumbles down cake into it for that little brute. "

"It is you who are a little brute, you unnatural child. Toto likes histea very much--he is dying for it. But you must have patience, my pet, for probably it would be very bad, and the cream all stucco, or something. Mr. Tatham, do tell us what has become of Nell? Now, have you hidden hersomewhere in London, St. John's Wood, and that sort of thing, don't youknow? or where is she? Is the old woman living? and how has that boybeen brought up? At a dame's school, or something of that sort, Isuppose. "

"Mother, " said Dolly, "you ought to know there are now no dame'sschools. There's Board Schools, which is what you mean, I suppose; andit would be very good for him if he had been there. They would teach hima great deal more than was ever taught to Uncle Phil. "

"Teach him!" said Lady Mariamne, with another shriek. "Did I askanything about teaching? Heaven forbid! Mr. Tatham knows what I mean, Dolly. Has he been at any decent place--or has he been where it willnever be heard of? Eton and Harrow one knows, and the dame's schools oneknows, but horrible Board Schools, or things, where they might say youngLord Lomond was brought up--oh, goodness gracious! One has to bear agreat many things, but I could not bear that. "

"It does not matter much, does it, so long as he does not come withinthe range of his nearest relations?" This was from John, who was almostat the end of his patience. He began to put his papers back in aportfolio, with the intention of carrying them home with him, for hishour's work had been spoilt as well as his temper. "I am afraid, " headded, "that I cannot give you any information, Lady Mariamne. "

"Oh, such nonsense, Mr. Tatham!--as if the heir to a peerage could behid. "

It was not often that Lady Mariamne produced an unanswerable effect, but against this last sentence of hers John had absolutely nothing tosay. He stared at her for a moment, and then he returned to his papers, shovelling them into the portfolio with vehemence. Fortunately, she didnot herself see how potent was her argument. She went on diluting ittill it lost all its power. 

"There is the 'Peerage, ' if it was nothing else--they must have theright particulars for that. Why, Dolly is at full length in it, her ageand all, poor child; and Toto, too, for anything I know. Is du in the'Peerage, ' dear Toto, darling? And yet Toto can't succeed, nor Dollyeither. And this year Phil will be in as heir presumptive and hismarriage and all--and then a blank line. It's ridiculous, it's horrible, it's a thing that can't, can't be! Only think of all the troops ofpeople, nice people, the best people, that read the 'Peerage, ' Mr. Tatham!--and that know Phil is married, and that there is a child, andyet will see nothing but that blank line. Nell was always a little fool, and never could see things in a common-sense way. But a man ought toknow better--and a lawyer, with chambers in the Temple! Why, people comeand consult you on such matters--I might be coming to ask you to sendout detectives, and that sort of thing. How do you dare to hide awaythat boy?"

Lady Mariamne stamped her foot at John, but this proceeding very muchincommoded Toto, who, disturbed in his position on her knee, got uponhis feet and began to bark furiously, first at his mistress and then, following her impulse, at the gentleman opposite to her, backing againstthe lady's shoulder and setting up his little nose furiously withvibrations of rage against John, while stumbling upon the uncertainfooting of the lap, volcanically shaken by the movement. The result ofthis onslaught was to send Lady Mariamne into shrieks of laughter, inthe midst of which she half smothered Toto with mingled endearments andattempts at restraint, until Dolly, coming to the rescue, seized himsummarily and snatched him away. 

"The darling!" cried Lady Mariamne, "he sees it, and you can't see it, agreat big lawyer though you are. Dolly, don't throttle my angel child. Stands up for his family, don't he, the dear? Mr. Tatham, how can you beso bigoted and stubborn, when our dear little Toto---- But you alwayswere the most obstinate man. Do you remember once, when I wanted to takeyou to Lady Dogberry's dance--wasn't it Lady Dogberry's?--well, it wasLady Somebody's--and you said you were not asked, and I said, what didit matter: but to make you go, and Nell was with me--we might as wellhave tried to make St. Paul's go----"

"My dear Lady Mariamne, " said John. 

She held up a finger at him with the engaging playfulness of old. "Howcan I be your dear Lady Mariamne, Mr. Tatham, when you won't do a thingI ask you? What, Dolly? Yes, we must go, of course, or I shall not havemy nap before dinner. I always have a nap before dinner, for the sake ofmy complexion, don't you know--my beauty nap, they call it. Now, Mr. Tatham, come to me to-morrow, and you shall give Toto his cream, to showyou bear no malice, and tell me all about the boy. Don't be an obstinatepig, Mr. Tatham. Now, I shall look for you--without fail. Shan't we lookfor him, Dolly?--and Toto will give you a paw and forgive you--and youmust tell me all about the boy. "

CHAPTER XXXV. 

To tell her all about the boy!

John Tatham shovelled his papers into his portfolio, and shut it up witha snap of embarrassment, a sort of confession of weakness. He pushedback his chair with the same sharpness, almost making a noise upon theold Turkey carpet, and he touched his bell so that it sounded with ashrill electric ping, almost like a pistol-shot. Simmons understood allthese signs, and he was very sympathetic when he came in to take Mr. Tatham's last orders and help him on with his coat. 

"Spoilt your evening's work, " said Simmons, compassionately. "I knewthey would. Ladies never should enter a gentleman's chambers if I couldhelp it. They've got nothing to do in the Temple. "

"You forget some men in the Temple are married, Simmons. "

"What does that matter?" said the clerk; "let 'em see their wives athome, sir. What I will maintain is that ladies have no business here. "

This was a little ungrateful, it must be said, for Simmons probably gotoff three-quarters of an hour earlier than he would have done had Mr. Tatham remained undisturbed. As it was, John had some ten minutes towait before his habitual hansom drew up at the door. 

It was not the first time by many times that Mr. Tatham had consideredthe question which he now took with him into his hansom, and whichoccupied him more or less all the way to Halkin Street. Lady Mariamne, however, had put it very neatly and very conclusively when she said thatyou can't hide the heir to a peerage--more concisely at least than Johnhad himself put it in his many thoughts on the subject--for, to tell thetruth, John had never considered the boy in this aspect. That he shouldever be the heir to a peerage had seemed one of those possibilitieswhich so outrage nature, and are so very like fiction, that the sobermind rejects them with almost a fling of impatience. And yet how oftenthey come true! He had never heard--a fact of which he felt partlyashamed, for it was an event of too much importance to be ignoredby any one connected with Elinor--of Hal Compton's death. John was notacquainted with Hal Compton any more than he was with other men who comeand go in society, occasionally seen, but open to no particular remark. A son of Lord St. Serf--the best of the lot--a Compton with very littleagainst him: these were things which he had heard said and had takenlittle notice of. Hal was healthier, less objectionable, a better lifethan Phil's, and yet Hal was gone, who ought by all rights to havesucceeded his invalid brother. It was true that the invalid brother, whohad seen the end of two vigorous men, might also see out Phil. But thatwould make little difference in the position, unless indeed by modifyingElinor's feelings and removing her reluctance to make her boy known. John shook his head as he went on with his thoughts, and decided withinhimself that this was the very reason why Phil Compton should surviveand become Lord St. Serf, and make the imbroglio worse, if worse werepossible. It had not required this to make it a hideous imbroglio, themost foolish and wanton that ever a woman made. He wondered at himselfwhen he thought of it how he had ever consented to it, ever permittedsuch a state of affairs; and yet what could he have done? He had noright to interfere even in the way of advice, which he had given untileverybody was sick of him and his counsels. He could not have betrayedhis cousin. To tell her that she was conducting her affairs veryfoolishly, laying up untold troubles for herself, was what he had donefreely, going to the very edge of a breach. And he had no right to doany more. He could not force her to adopt his method, neither could hebetray her when she took her own way. Nevertheless, there can be nodoubt that John felt himself almost an accomplice, involved in thisunwise folly, with a sort of responsibility for it, and almost guilt. Itdid not indeed change young Philip's moral position in any way, ormake the discovery that he had a father living more likely to shockand bewilder him that this discovery should come mingled with manyextraneous wonders. And yet these facts did alter the circumstances. "You cannot hide the heir to a peerage. " Lady Mariamne was far, veryfar, from being a philosopher or a person of genius, and yet this whichshe had said was in reality quite unanswerable. Phil Compton might havebeen ignored for ever by his wife and child had he remained only the_dis_-Honourable Phil, a younger son and a nobody. But Phil Compton asLord St. Serf could not be ignored. Elinor had been wise enough never tochange her name, that is to say, she had been too proud to do so, thoughnobody knew of the existence of that prefix which was so inappropriateto her husband's character. But now Mrs. Compton would no longer be hername; and Philip, the boy at the big northern grammar-school, would beLord Lomond. An unlooked-for summons like this has sometimes the powerof turning the heads of the heirs so suddenly ennobled, but it didanything but convey elation to John's mind in the prospect of its effectupon his relations. Would she see reason _now?_ Would she be brought toallow that something must be done, or would she remain obdurate to theend of the chapter? A great impatience with Elinor filled John's mind. She was, as the reader knows, the only woman to John Tatham; but whatdoes that matter? He did not approve of her any more on that account. Hewas even more conscious of the faults of which she was guilty. He wasaware of her obstinacy, her determined adherence to her own way as noother man in the world was. Would she acknowledge now at last that shewas wrong, and give in? I am obliged to confess that the giving in ofElinor was the last spectacle in heaven or earth which John Tatham couldconceive. 

He went over these circumstances as he drove through all of London thatis to some people worth calling London, on that dark January night, passing from the light of the busy streets into the comparative darknessof those in which people live, without in the least remarking where hewas going, except in his thoughts. He had not the least intention ofaccepting the invitation of Lady Mariamne, nor did his mind dwell uponher or the change that age had wrought in her. But yet the Comptonfamily had gained an interest in John's eyes which it did not possesseven at the time when Elinor's marriage first brought its name into histhoughts. Philip--young Philip--the boy, as John called him in his ownmind, in fond identification--was as near John's own child as anythingever could be in this world. He had many nephews and nieces belonging tohim by a more authentic title, but none of these was in the least likePhilip, whom none of all the kindred knew but himself, and who, sofar as he was aware, had but one kinsman in the world, who was UncleJohn. He had followed the development of the boy's mind always with areference to those facts of which Philip knew nothing, which would beso wonderful to him when the revelation came. To John that little worldat Lakeside--where the ladies had made an artificial existence forthemselves, which was at the same time so natural, so sweet, so fullof all the humanities and charities--was something like what we mightsuppose this erring world to be to some archangel great enough to seehow everything is, not great enough to give the impulse that would putit right. If the great celestial intelligences are allowed to know andmark out perverse human ways, how much impatience with us must minglewith their tenderness and pity! John Tatham had little perhaps that washeavenly about him, but he loved Elinor and her son, and was absolutelyfree of selfishness in respect to them. Never, he was aware, couldeither woman or child be more to him than they were now. Nay, they wereeverything to him, but on their own account, not his; he desired theirwelfare absolutely, and not his own through them. Elinor was capable atany moment of turning upon him, of saying, if not in words, yet inundeniable inference, what is it to you? and the boy, though he gladlyreferred to Uncle John when Uncle John was in the way, took him withperfect composure as a being apart from his life. They were everythingto him, but he was nothing to them. His whole heart was set upon theirpeace, upon their comfort and well-being, but as much apart from himselfas if he had not been. 

Mr. Tatham was dining out that night, which was a good thing for him todistract his thoughts from this problem, which he could only tormenthimself about and could not solve; and there was an evening party at thesame house--one of those quieter, less-frequented parties which are, people in London tell you, so much more agreeable than in the crowd ofthe season. It was a curious kind of coincidence that at this littleassembly, which might have been thought not at all in her way, he metLady Mariamne, accompanied by her daughter, again. It was not in herway, being a judge's house, where frivolity, though it had a certainplace, was not the first element. But then when there are few things tochoose from, people must not be too particular, and those who cannothave society absolutely of their own choosing, are bound, as in othercases of necessity, to take what they can get. And then Dolly liked tohear people talking of things which she did not understand. When LadyMariamne saw that John Tatham was there she gave a little shriek ofsatisfaction, and rushed at him as if they had been the dearest friendsin the world. "So delighted to see you _again_, " she cried, givingeverybody around the idea of the most intimate relationship. "It was themost wonderful good fortune that I got my Toto home in safety, poordarling; for you know, Mr. Tatham, you would not give him any tea, andDolly, who is quite unnatural, pitched him into the carriage and simplysat upon him--sat upon him, Mr. Tatham! before I could interfere. Oh, you do not know half the trials a woman has to go through! And nowplease take me to have some coffee or something, and let us finish theconversation we were having when Dolly made me go away. "

John could not refuse his arm, nor his services in respect to thecoffee, but he was mute on the subject on which his companion was bent. He tried to divert her attention by some questions on the subject ofDolly instead. 

"Dolly! oh, yes, she's a girl of the period, don't you know--not what agirl of the period used to be in _our_ day, Mr. Tatham, when those nastynewspaper people wrote us down. Look at her talking to those two men, and laying down the law. Now, we never laid down the law; we knew bestabout things in our sphere--dress, and the drawing-room, and what peoplewere doing in society. But Dolly would tell you how to manage your nextgreat case, Mr. Tatham, or she could give one of those doctor-men awrinkle about cutting off a leg. Gracious, I should have fainted only tohear of such a thing! Tell me, are those doctor-men supposed to be insociety?" Lady Mariamne cried, putting up her thin shoulder (which wasfar too like a specimen of anatomy) in the direction of a famousphysician who was blandly smiling upon the instruction which Miss Dollyassuredly intended to convey. 

"As much as lawyer-men are in society, " replied John. 

"Oh, Mr. Tatham, such nonsense! Lawyers have always been in society. What are the Attorney General and Lord Chancellor and so forth? Theyare all lawyers; but I never heard of a doctor that was in the Cabinet, which makes all the difference. Here is a quiet corner, where nobody candisturb us. Sit down; it will be for all the world like sitting out adance together: and tell me about Nell and her boy. "

"And what if I have nothing to tell?" said John, who did not feel at alllike sitting out a dance; but, on the contrary, was much more uprightand perpendicular than even a queen's counsel of fifty has any need tobe. 

"Oh, sit down, _please!_ I never could bear a man standing over me, asif he had swallowed a poker. Why did she go off and leave Phil? Wheredid she go to? I told you I went off on my own hook to that horrid placewhere they lived, and knocked up the old clergyman and the woman whowanted me to put on a shawl over one of the prettiest gowns I ever had. Fancy, the Vandal! But they knew nothing at all of her there. Where isNell, Mr. Tatham? You don't pretend not to know. And the boy? Why hemust be about eighteen--and if St. Serf were to die---- Mr. Tatham, youknow it is quite, quite intolerable, and not to be borne! I don't knowwhat steps Phil has taken. He has been awfully good--he has never saida word. To hear him you would think she was far too nice to be mixed upwith a set of people like us. But now, you know, he must be got holdof--he must, he must! Why, he'd be Lomond if St. Serf were to die! andeverybody would be crying out, 'Where's the heir?' After Phil there'sthe Bagley Comptons, and they would set up for being heirs presumptive, unless you can produce that boy. "

"But the boy is not mine that I should produce him, " said John. 

"Oh, Mr. Tatham! when Nell is your relation, and always, always wasadvised by you. You may tell that to the Marines, or anybody that willbelieve it. You need not think you can take me in. "

"I hope not to take in anybody. If being advised by me meanspersistently declining to do what I suggest and recommend----"

"Oh, then, you are of the same opinion as I am!" said Lady Mariamne. "Bravo! now we shall manage something. If you had been like that yearsago when I used to go to you, don't you remember, to beg you to smooththings down--but you would never see it, till the smash came. "

"I wish, " said John, not without a little bitterness, "that I couldpersuade you how little influence I have. There are some women, Isuppose, who take advice when it is given to them; but the women whom Ihave ever had anything to do with, I am sorry to say----"

"I'll promise, " cried Lady Mariamne, putting her hands and ringstogether in an attitude of supplication, "to do what you tell mefaithfully, if you'll advise me where I'll find the boy. Oh, let Nellalone, if you want to keep her to yourself--I sha'n't spoil sport, Mr. Tatham, I promise you, " she cried, with her shrill laugh; "only tell mewhere I'll find the boy. What is it you want, Dolly, coming after melike a policeman? Don't you see I am busy? We are sitting out the dance, Mr. Tatham and I. "

Dolly did not join in her mother's laugh nor unbend in the least. "Asthere is no dancing, " she said, "and everybody is going, I thought youwould prefer to go too. "

"But we shall see you to-morrow, Mr. Tatham? Now, I cannot take anyrefusal. You must come, if it were only for Toto's sake; and Dolly willgo out, I hope, on one of her great works and will not come to disturbus, just when I have persuaded you to speak--for you were just goingto open your mouth. Now you know you were! Five o'clock to-morrow, Mr. Tatham, whatever happens. Now remember! and you are to tell meeverything. " She held up her finger to him, half threatening, halfcoaxing, and then, with a peal of laughter, yielded to Dolly, and wastaken away. 

"I did not know, Tatham, " said the Judge who was his host, "that youwere on terms of such friendship with Lady Mariamne. "

"Nor did I, " said John Tatham, with a yawn. 

"Queer thing this is about that old business, in which her brother wasmixed up--haven't you heard? one of those companies that came to smashsomewhere about twenty years ago. The manager absconded, and there wassomething queer about the books. Well, the fellow, the manager, has beencaught at last, and there will be a trial. It's in your way--you will beoffered a brief, no doubt, with refreshers every day, you lucky fellow. I have just as much trouble and no refreshers. What a fool a man is, Tatham, ever to change the Bar for the Bench! Don't you do it, my dearfellow--take a man's advice who knows. "

"At least I shall wait till I am asked, " said John. 

"Oh, you will be asked sooner or later--but don't do it--take example bythose who have gone before you, " said the great functionary, shaking hislearned head. 

And the Judge's wife had also a word to say. "Mr. Tatham, " she said, ashe took his leave, "I know now what I have to do when I want to secureLady Mariamne--I shall ask you. "

"Do you often want to secure Lady Mariamne?" said John. 

"Oh, it is all very well to look as if you didn't care! She is, perhaps, a little _passée_, but still a great many people think her charming. Isn't there a family connection?" Lady Wigsby said, with a curiositywhich she tried not to make too apparent, for she was acquainted withthe ways of the profession, and knew that was the last thing likely toprocure her the information she sought. 

"It cannot be called a connection. There was a marriage--which turnedout badly. "

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Tatham, if the question was indiscreet! Ihear Lord St. Serf is worse again, and not likely to last long; andthere is some strange story about a lost heir. "

"Good-night, Lady Wigsby, " John replied. 

And he added, "Confound Lord St. Serf, " under his breath, as he wentdown-stairs. 

But it was not Lord St. Serf, poor man, who had done him no harm, whomJohn wished to be confounded because at last, after many threatenings, he was about to be so ill-advised as to die. It was some one verydifferent. It was the woman who for much more than twenty years had beenthe chief object of John Tatham's thoughts. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Things relapsed into quietness for some time after that combinationwhich seemed to be directed against John's peace of mind. If I said thatit is not unusual for the current of events to run very quietly beforea great crisis, I should not be saying anything original, since thetorrent's calmness ere it dash below has been remarked before now. Butit certainly was so in this instance. John, I need scarcely say, did notpresent himself at Lady Mariamne's on the afternoon at five when he wasexpected. He wrote a very civil note to say that he was unable to come, and still less able to give the information her ladyship required; and, to tell the truth, in his alarm lest Lady Mariamne should repeat herinvasion, Mr. Tatham was guilty of concerting with his clerk, theexcellent Simmons, various means of eluding such a danger. And heexercised the greatest circumspection in regard to his own invitations, and went nowhere where there was the least danger of meeting her. Inthis way for a few months he had kept himself safe. 

It may be imagined, then, how great was his annoyance when Simmons camein again, very diffident, coughing behind his hand, and taking shelterin the shaded part of the room, with the hesitating statement that alady--who would take no denial, who looked as if she knew the chambersas well as he did, and could hardly be kept from walking straight in--waswaiting to see Mr. Tatham. John sprang to his feet with words which werenot benedictions. "I thought, " he said, "you ass, that you knew exactlywhat to say. "

"But, sir, " said Simmons, "it is not the same lady--it is not at all thesame lady. It is a lady who----"

But here the question was summarily settled, for the door was pushedopen though Simmons still held it with his hand, and a voice, which wasmore like the voice of Elinor Dennistoun at eighteen than that of Mrs. Compton, said quickly, "I know, John, that your door can't be shut forme. "

"Elinor!" he said, getting up from his chair. 

"I know, " she repeated, "that there must be some mistake--that your doorcould not be shut for me. "

"No, of course not, " he said. "It is all right, Simmons; but whocould have thought of seeing you here? It was a contingency I neveranticipated. When did you come? where are you staying? Is Philip withyou?" He overwhelmed her with questions, perhaps by way of stopping hermouth lest she should put questions still more difficult to answer tohimself. 

"Let me take breath a little, " she said. "I scarcely have taken breathsince the--thing happened which has brought me here; but I feel a littleconfidence now with the strong backing I have in you, John. "

"My dear Elinor, " he said, "I am afraid you must not look for any strongbacking in me. "

"Why?" she cried. "Have you judged it all beforehand? And do youknow--are you quite, quite sure, John, that I cannot avoid it in anyway, that I am obliged at all costs to appear? I would rather fly thecountry, I would rather leave Lakeside altogether and settle abroad. There is nothing in the world that I would not rather do. "

"Elinor, " said John, with some sternness, "you cannot believe that Iwould oppose you in any possible thing. Your pleasure has been a law tome. I may have differed with you, but I have never made any difference. "

"John! you do not mean to say, " she cried, turning pale, "that you aregoing to abandon me now?"

"Of course, that is merely a figure of speech, " he said. "How could Iabandon you? But it is quite true what that woman says, and I entirelyagree with her and not with you in this respect, that the heir to apeerage cannot be hid----"

"The heir to a peerage!" she faltered, looking at him astonished. Gradually a sort of slowly growing light seemed to diffuse itself overher face. "The heir to a peerage, John! I don't know what you mean. "

"Is this not your reason for coming to town?"

"There is nothing--that I know of--about the heir to a peerage. Who isthis heir to a peerage? I don't know what you mean, but you frighten me. Is that a reason why I should be dragged out of my seclusion and made toappear in his defence? Oh, no--surely no; if he is _that_, they will lethim off. They will not press it. I shall not be wanted. John, the morereason that you should stand by me----"

"We are at cross-purposes, Elinor. What has brought you to London? Letme know on your side and then I shall understand what I have got todo. "

"_That_ has brought me to London. " She handed him a piece of paper whichJohn knew very well the appearance of. He understood it better than shedid, and he was not afraid of it, which she was, but he opened it allthe same with a great deal of surprise. It was a subpoena chargingElinor Compton to appear and bear testimony--in the case of the _Queen_versus _Brown_. 

"The _Queen_ versus _Brown!_ What have you got to do with such a case?You, Elinor, of all people in the world! Oh!" he said suddenly as alight, but a dim one, began to break upon him. It was the case of whichhis friend the judge had spoken, and in which he had been offered aretainer, as a matter of fact, shortly after that talk. He had beenobliged to refuse, his time being already fully taken up, and he had notlooked into the case. But now it began slowly to dawn upon him that thetrial was that of the once absconded manager of a certain joint-stockcompany, and that this was precisely the company in which Elinor's moneyhad been all but invested by her husband. It might be upon that subjectthat she had to appear. 

"Well, " he said, "I can imagine a possible reason why you should becalled, and yet not a good one; for it was not of course you who wereacting, but your--husband for you. It is he that should appear, and notyou. "

"Oh, John, " she cried. "Oh, John!" wringing her hands. She had followedhis looks eagerly, noticing the light that seemed to dawn over his facewith a strange anxiety and keen interest. But John, it was evident, hadnot got the clue which she expected, and her face changed intoimpatience, disappointment, exasperation. "You have not heard anythingabout it, " she said; "you don't know. "

"It was brought to me, " he said, "but I could not take it up--no, Idon't know--except that it's curious from the lapse of time--twentyyears or thereabouts: that's all I know. "

"The question is, " she said, "about a date. There were some booksdestroyed, and it is not known who did it. Suspicion fell upon one--whomight have been guilty: but that on that day--he arrived at the house ofthe girl--whom he was going to marry: and consequently could not havebeen there----"

"Elinor!"

"Yes, " she said, "that is what I am wanted for, John, an excellentreason after all these years. I must appear to--clear my husband: andthat is how Pippo will find out that I have a husband and he a father. Oh, John, John! support me with your approval, and help me, oh, help meto go away. "

"Good gracious!" was all that John could say. 

"I should have gone first and asked you after, " she cried, "for you area lawyer, and I suppose you will think you must not advise any one tofly in the face of the law. And I don't even know whether it will be ofany use to fly. Will they have it in the papers all the same? Will theyput it in that his wife refused to appear on his behalf, that she hadgone away to avoid the summons? Will it be all there for Pippo to guessand wonder at the name and come to me with questions, mother, who isthis? and mother, what is that? John, can't you answer me, you that Icame to to guide me, to tell me what I must do; have you nothing, nothing to say?"

"I am too much bewildered to know what I am doing, Elinor. This is allsprung upon me like a mine: and there was plenty before. "

"There was nothing before, " she cried, indignantly, "it was all plainsailing before. He knew nothing of family troubles--how should he, poorchild, being so young? That was simple enough. And I think I see a waystill, John. I will take him off at Easter for a trip abroad, and whenwe have started to go to Switzerland or somewhere, I will change mymind, and make him think of Greece or somewhere far, far away--the Eastwhere there will be no newspapers. Tell me when the trial will come on, and how long you think it will last, and I will keep him away till it isall over. John! you have nothing surely to say against that? Think fromhow much it will save the boy. "

"It is impossible, Elinor, that the boy can be saved. I never knew ofthis complication, but there are other circumstances, of which I havelately heard. "

"What can any other circumstances have to do with it, John, even if hemust hear? I know, I know, you have always been determined upon that. Isthat the way you would have him hear, not only that he has a father, butthat his father was involved in--in transactions like that before everhe was born?"

"Elinor, let us understand each other, " said Mr. Tatham. "You mean thatyou have it in your power to exonerate your husband, and he has had yousubpoenaed, knowing this?"

She looked at him with a look which he could not fathom. Was it reluctanceto save Phil Compton that was in Elinor's eyes? Was she ready to leaveher husband to destruction when she could prevent it, in order to saveher boy from the knowledge of his existence? John Tatham was horrifiedby the look she fixed upon him, though he could not read it. He thoughthe could read it, and read it that way, in the way of hate and deliberatepreference of her own will to all law and justice. There could beno such tremendous testimony to the power of that long continued, absolutely-faithful, visionary love which John Tatham bore to Elinorthan that this discovery which he thought he had made did not destroyit. He was greatly shocked, but it made no difference in his feelings. Perhaps there was more of the brotherly character in them than hethought. For a moment they looked at each other, and he thought he madethis discovery--while she met his eyes with that look which she did notknow was inscrutable, which she feared was full of self-betrayal. "Ibelieve, " she said, bending her head, "that that is what he thinks. "

"If it had been me, " said John Tatham, moved out of his habitual calm, "I would rather be proved guilty of anything than owe my safety to suchan expedient as that. Drag in a woman who hates me to prove my alibi asif she loved me! By Jove, Elinor! you women have the gift of drawing outeverything that's worst in men. "

"It seems to make you hate me, John, which I don't think I havedeserved. "

"Oh, no, I don't hate you. It's a consequence, I suppose, of use andwont. It makes little difference to me----"

She gave him another look which he did not understand--a wistful look, appealing to something, he did not know what--to his ridiculouspartiality, he thought, and that stubborn domestic affection to which itwas of so little importance what she did, as long as she was Elinor; andthen she said with a woman's soft, endless pertinacity, "Then you thinkI may go?"

He sprang from his seat with that impatient despair which is equallycharacteristic of the man. "Go!" he said, "when you are called upon bylaw to vindicate a man's character, and that man your husband! I oughtnot to be surprised at anything with my experience, but, Elinor, youtake away my breath. "

She only smiled, giving him once more that look of appeal. 

"How can you think of it?" he said. "The subpoena is enough to keep anyreasonable being, besides the other motive. You must not budge. I shouldfeel my own character involved, as well as yours, if after consulting meon the subject you were guilty of an evasion after all. "

"It would not be your fault, John. "

"Elinor! you are mad--it must not be done, " he cried. "Don't defy me, Iam capable of informing upon you, and having you stopped--by force--ifyou do not give this idea up. "

"By force!" she said, with her nostril dilating. "I shall go, of course, if I am threatened. "

"Then Philip must not go. Do you know what has happened in the family towhich he belongs, and must belong, whether you like it or not? Do youknow--that the boy may be Lord Lomond before the week is out? that hisuncle is dying, and that your husband is the heir?"

She turned round upon him slowly, fixing her eyes upon his, with simpleastonishment and no more in her look. Her mind, so absorbed in otherthoughts, hardly took in what he could mean. 

"Have you not heard this, Elinor?"

"But there is Hal, " she said, "Hal--the other brother--who comes first. "

"Hal is dead, and the one in India is dead, and Lord St. Serf is dying. The boy is the heir. You must not, you cannot, take him away. It isimpossible, Elinor, it is against all nature and justice. You have hadhim for all these years; his father has a right to his heir. "

"Oh, John!" she cried, in a bitter note of reproach, "oh, John, John!"

"Well, " he cried, "is not what I tell you the truth? Would Philip giveit up if it were offered to him? He is almost a man--let him judge forhimself. "

"Oh, John, John! when you know that the object of my life has been tokeep him from knowing--to shut that chapter of my life altogether; tobring him up apart from all evil influences, from all instructions----"

"And from his birthright, Elinor?"

She stopped, giving him another sudden look, the natural languageof a woman brought to bay. She drew a long breath in impatience anddesperation, not knowing what to reply; for what could she reply? Hisbirthright! to be Lord Lomond, Lord St. Serf, the head of the house. What was that? Far, far better Philip Dennistoun, of Lakeside, the heirof his mother and his grandmother, two stainless women, with enoughfor everything that was honest and of good report, enough to permithim to be an unworldly scholar, a lover of art, a traveller, anyplay-profession that he chose if he did not incline to graver work. Ah!but she had not been so wise as that, she had not brought him up asPhilip Dennistoun. He was Philip Compton, she had not been bold enoughto change his name. She stood at bay, surrounded as it were by herenemies, and confronted John Tatham, who had been her constant companionand defender, as if all that was hostile to her, all that was againsther peace was embodied in him. 

"I must go a little further, Elinor, " said John, "though God knows thatto add to your pain is the last thing in the world I wish. You havebeen left unmolested for a very long time, and we have all thought yourretreat was unknown. I confess it has surprised me, for my experiencehas always been that everything is known. But you have been subpoenaedfor this trial, therefore, my dear girl, we must give up that idea. Everybody, that is virtually everybody, all that are of any consequence, know where you are and all you are about now. "

She sank into a chair, still keeping her eyes upon him, as if it werepossible that he might take some advantage of her if she withdrew them;then, still not knowing what to reply, seized at the last words becausethey were the last, and had little to do with the main issue. "All aboutme?" she said faintly, as if there had been something else besides theplace of her refuge to conceal. 

"You know what I mean, Elinor. The moment that your home is known all isknown. That Philip lives and is well, a promising boy; that you havebrought him up to do honour to any title or any position. "

He could not help saying this, and partly in the testimony to her, partly for love of the boy, John Tatham's voice faltered a little andthe water came into his eyes. 

"Ah, John! you say that!" she cried, as if it had been an admissionforced from him against his will. 

"What could I say otherwise? Elinor, because I don't approve of all yourproceedings, because I don't think you have been wise in one respect, isthat to say that I do not understand and know _you?_ I am not such afool or a formalist as you give me credit for being. You have made himall that the fondest and proudest could desire. You have done farbetter for him, I do not doubt for a moment, than---- But, my dearcousin, my dear girl, my poor Nellie----"

"Yes, John?"

He paused a moment, and then he said, "Right is right, and justice isjustice at the end of all. "

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

When Elinor received the official document which had so extraordinary aneffect upon her life, and overturned in a moment all the fabric ofdomestic quiet and security which she had been building up for years, itwas outside the tranquil walls of the house at Lakeside, in the gardenwhich lay between it and the high-road, opening upon that not verymuch-frequented road by a pair of somewhat imposing gates, which gavethe little establishment an air of more pretension than it reallypossessed. Some fine trees shrouded the little avenue, and Elinor wasstanding under one of them, stooping over a little nest of primroses atits roots, from which the yellow buds were peeping forth, when she heardbehind her the sound of a vehicle at the gates, and the quick leap tothe ground of someone who opened them. Then there was a pause; thecarriage, whatever it was, did not come farther, and presently sheherself, a little curious, turned round to see a man approaching her, whom she did not know. A dog-cart driven by another, whose face sherecognized, waited in the road while the stranger came forward. "You areMrs. Compton, ma'am?" he said. A swift thrill of alarm, she couldscarcely tell why, ran over Elinor from head to foot. She had beensettled for nearly eighteen years at Lakeside. What could happen tofrighten her now? but it tingled to her very fingers' ends. And then hesaid something to her which she scarcely understood, but which sent thattingle to her very heart and brain, and gave her the suspicious lookingblue paper which he held in his hand. It all passed in a moment of timeto her dazed yet excited consciousness. The early primrose which she hadgathered had not had time to droop in her grasp, though she crushed thestalk unconsciously in her fingers, before the gates were closed again, the sound of the departing wheels growing faint on the road, and sheherself standing like one paralyzed with that thing in her hand. Asubpoena!--what was a subpoena? She knew as little, perhaps less, thanthe children in the parish school, who began to troop along the road intheir resounding clogs at their dinner hour. The sound of this awoke hera little to a frightened sense that she had better put this document outof sight, at least until she could manage to understand it. And then shesped swiftly away past the pretty white house lying in the sunshine, with all its doors and windows open, to the little wood behind, where itwould be possible to think and find out at her leisure what this was. Itwas a small wood and a public path ran through it; but where the publicwas so limited as at Lakeside this scarcely impaired the privacy of theinhabitants, at least in the morning, when everybody in the parish wasat work. Elinor hurried past the house that her mother might not seeher, and climbed the woody hillock to a spot which was peculiarly herown, and where a seat had been placed for her special use. It was alittle mount of vision from which she could look out, up and down, atthe long winding line of the lake cleaving the green slopes, and away tothe rugged and solemn peaks among which lay, in his mountain fastnesses, Helvellyn, with his hoary brethren crowding round him. Elinor hadwatched the changes of many a north-country day, full of endlessvicissitudes, of flying clouds and gleams of sunshine, from that seat, and had hoped and tried to believe that nothing, save these vicissitudesof nature, would ever again disturb her. Had she really believed that?Her heart thumping against her breast, and the pulses of her brainbeating loud in her ears, answered "No. " She had never believed it--shehad known, notwithstanding all her obstinacy, and indignant oppositionto all who warned her, that some day or other her home must be brokenup, and the storm burst upon her. But even such a conviction, desperatelyfought against and resisted, is a very different matter from the awfulsense of certainty that it has come, _now_----

The trees were thick enough to conceal her from any passer-by on thepath, the young half-unfolded foliage of the birches fluttered over herhead, while a solid fir or two stood, grim guardians, yet catchingpathetic airs from every passing wind to soothe her. But Elinor neitherheard nor saw lake, mountain, nor sunshine, nor spring breezes, but onlythe bit of paper in her hand, and the uncomprehended words she had heardwhen it was given to her. It was not long, however, before she perceivedand knew exactly what it meant. It was a subpoena in the case of "TheQueen _versus_ Brown, " to attend and give evidence on a certain day inMay, in London. It was for a few minutes a mystery to her as great as itwas alarming, notwithstanding the swift and certain mental convictionshe had that it concerned infallibly the one secret and mystery ofher life. But as she sat there pondering, those strange strays ofrecollection that come to the mind, of things unnoted, yet unconsciouslystored by memory, drew gradually about her, piecing out the threads ofconviction. She remembered to have heard her mother read, among the manyscraps which Mrs. Dennistoun loved to read out when the newspaperarrived, something about a man who had absconded, whose name was Brown, who had brought ruin on many, and had at length, after a number ofyears, ventured back to England and had been caught. It was one of theweaknesses of Mrs. Dennistoun's advancing years to like these bitsof news, though there might be little interest in them to so quieta household; and her daughter was wont to listen with a very vagueattention, noting but a word now and then, answering vaguely the livelyremarks her mother would make on the subjects. In this case even she hadpaid no attention; and yet, the moment that strong keynote had beenstruck, which vibrated through her whole being, this echo suddenly wokeup and resounded as if it had been thundered in her ears--"Brown!" Shebegan to remember bit by bit--and yet what had she to do with Brown?He had not defrauded her; she had never seen him; she knew nothingabout his delinquencies. Then there came another note faintly outof the distance of the years: her husband's image, I need not say, had come suddenly into her sight with the first burst of this newevent. His voice seemed to be in the air saying half-forgotten things. What had he to do with this man? Oh, she knew very well there wassomething--something! which she would have given her life not torecollect; which she knew in another moment would flash completely uponher as she tried not to remember it. And then suddenly her working mindcaught another string which was not that; which was a relief to that forthe moment. Brown!--who was it that had talked of Brown?--and the booksthat were destroyed--and the----and the----day that Phil Compton arrivedat Windyhill?

Elinor rose up from her seat with a gasp. She put her arm round therough stem of the fir-tree to support herself, but it shook with herthough there was no wind, only the softest of morning airs. She sawbefore her a scene very different from this--the flowery garden at thecottage with the copse and the sandy road beyond, and the man whom Philhad expected, whom he had been so anxious to see--and his fingerscatching hers, keeping her by him, and the questions to which she hadreplied. Twenty years! What a long time it is! time enough for a boy togrow into almost a man who had not been born or thought of--and yet whata moment, what a nothing! Her mind flashed from that scene in the gardento the little hall in the cottage, the maid stooping down fastening thebolt of the door, the calendar hanging on the wall with the big 6showing so visible, so obtrusive, forcing itself as it were on thenotice of all. "Only ten days, Nell!" And the maid's glance upwards ofshy sympathy, and the blank of Mrs. Dennistoun's face, and his look. Oh, that look of his! which was true and yet so false; which meant so muchbesides, and yet surely, surely meant love too!

The young fir-tree creaked and swayed in Elinor's grip. She unloosed itas if the slim thing had cried under the pressure, and sat down again. She had nothing to grasp at, nothing. Oh, her life had not been withoutsupport! Her mother--how extraordinary had been her good fortune to haveher mother to fall back upon when she was shipwrecked in her life--tohave a home, a shelter, a perpetual protector and champion, who, whethershe approved or disapproved, would forsake her never. And then the boy, God bless him! who might quiver like the little fir if she flung herselfupon him, but who, she knew, would stand as true. Oh, God forbid, Godforbid that he should ever know! Oh, God help her, God help her! how wasshe to keep it from his knowledge? Elinor flung herself down upon themossy knoll in her despair as this came pouring into her mind a flood ofhorrible light, of unimaginable bitterness. He must not know, he mustnot know; and yet how was it to be kept from his knowledge? It was apublic thing; it could not be hid. It would be in all the papers, hisfather's name: and the boy did not know he had a father living. And hismother's evidence on behalf of her husband; and the boy thought she hadno husband. 

This was what had been said to her again and again and again. Sometimethe boy must know--and she had pushed it from her angrily, indignantlyasking why should he know? though in the bottom of her own heart she toowas aware that it was the delusion of a fool, and that the time mustcome---- But how could she ever have thought that it would come likethis, that the boy would discover his father through the summons of hismother to a public court to defend her husband from a criminalaccusation? Oh, life that pardons nothing! Oh, severe, unchangingheaven!--that this should be the way!

And then there came into Elinor's mind wild thoughts of flight. Shewas not a woman whose nature it was to endure. When things becameintolerable to her she fled from them, as the reader knows; escaped, shutting her ears to all advice and her heart to all thoughts exceptthat life had become intolerable, and that she could bear it no longer. It is not easy to hold the balance even in such matters. Had Elinorfulfilled what would appear to many her first duty, and stood by Philthrough neglect, ill-treatment, and misery, as she had vowed, forbetter, for worse, she would by this time have been not only a wretchedbut a deteriorated woman, and her son most probably would have beeninjured both in his moral and intellectual being. What she had done wasnot the abstract duty of her marriage vow, but it had been better--hadit not been better for them both? In such a question who is to be thejudge? And now again there came surging up into Elinor's veins theimpulse of flight. To take the boy and fly. She could take him where hewished most to go, to the scenes of that literature and history of whichhis schoolboy head was full, to the happiest ideal wandering, his motherand he, two companions almost better than lovers. How his eyes wouldbrighten at the thought! among the summer seas, the golden islands, theideal countries--away from all the trouble and cares, all the burdens ofthe past, all the fears of the future! Why should she be held by thatvillainous paper and obey that dreadful summons? Why allow all herprecautions, all the fabric of her life to fall in a moment? Why pourupon the boy the horror of that revelation, when everything she had doneand planned all his life had been to keep it from him? In the suddenenergy of that new possibility of escape Elinor rose up again from theprostration of despair. She saw once more the line of shining water ather feet full of heavenly splendour, the mountain tops sunningthemselves in the morning light, the peace and the beauty that was overall. And there was nothing needed but a long journey, which would bedelightful, full of pleasure and refreshment, to secure her peace toher, and to save her boy. 

When she had calmed herself with this new project, which, the moment ittook form in her mind seemed of itself, without reference to the cause, the most delightful project in the world and full of pleasure--Elinorsmoothed back her hair, put her garden hat, which had got a little outof order, straight, and took her way again towards the house. Her hearthad already escaped from the shock and horror and was beating softly, exhausted yet refreshed, in her bosom. She felt almost like a child whohad sobbed all its troubles out, or like a convalescent recovering froma brief but violent illness, and pathetically happy in the cessation ofpain. She went along quietly, slowly, by the woodland path among thetrees full of the sweetness of the morning which seemed to have comeback to her. Should she say anything about it to her mother, or only bydegrees announce to her the plan she had begun to form for Pippo'spleasure, the long delightful ramble which would come between hisschool-time and the university? She had almost decided that she would dothis when she went into the house; but she had not been half an hourwith her mother when her intention became untenable, for the good reasonthat she had already told Mrs. Dennistoun of the new incident. They werenot in the habit of keeping secrets from each other, and in that casethere is nothing in the world so difficult. It requires training to keepone's affairs to one's self in the constant presence of those who areour nearest and dearest. Some people may be capable of this effort ofself-control, but Elinor was not. She had showed that alarming paper toher mother with a partial return of her own terror at the sight of itbefore she knew. And I need not say that for a short time Mrs. Dennistoun was overwhelmed by that natural horror too. 

"But, " she said, "what do you know, what can you tell about this Mr. Brown, Elinor? You never saw him in your life. "

"I think I know what it means, " said Elinor, with a sudden dark glowof colour, which faded instantly, leaving her quite pale. She addedhurriedly, "There were some books destroyed. I cannot tell you therights of the story. It is too dreadful altogether, but--another wasexculpated by the date of the day he arrived at Windyhill. This must bethe reason I am called. "

"The date he arrived--before your marriage, Elinor? But then they mightcall me, and you need not appear. "

"Not for the world, mother!" cried Elinor. The colour rose again andfaded. "Besides, you do not remember. "

"Oh, I could make it out, " said Mrs. Dennistoun. "It was when he camefrom Scotland, and went off in the evening next day. I don't at thismoment remember what the day was, but I could make it out. It was abouta fortnight before, it was----"

"Do you remember, mother, the little calendar in the hall, and what itmarked, and what he said?"

"I remember, of course, perfectly well the little calendar in the hall. You gave it me at Christmas, and it was always out of order, and neverkept right. But I could make it out without that. "

"You must not think of it for a moment, " cried Elinor, with a shudder. There had been so many things to think of that it had scarcely occurredto her what it was to which she had to bear witness. She told her motherhurriedly the story of that incident, and then she added, without stoppingto take breath, "But I will not appear. I cannot appear. We must keep itout of the papers, at every cost. Mother, do not think it dreadful ofme. I will run away with Pippo; far away, if you will not be anxious. This is just his chance between school and college. I will take him toGreece. "

"To Greece, Elinor?" Mrs. Dennistoun cried, with almost a shriek. 

"Mother, dear, it is not so very far away. "

"I am not thinking how far away it is, Elinor. And leave his father'sreputation to suffer? Leave him perhaps to be ruined--by a falsecharge?"

"Oh, mother, " cried Elinor, starting to her feet. She was quiteunprepared for such remonstrance. 

"My dear, I have not opposed you; though there have been many things Ihave scarcely approved of. But, Elinor, this must not be. Run away fromthe law? Allow another to suffer when you can clear him? Elinor, Elinor, this must not be--unless I can go and be his witness in your place. Imight do that, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, seriously. She paused a moment, and then she said, "But I think you are wrong about the sixth. He stayedonly one night, and the night he went away was the night that AlickHudson--who was going up for his examination. I can make it out exactly, if you will give me a little time to think it over. My poor child! thatyou should have this to disturb your peace. But I will go, Elinor. I canclear him as well as you. "

Elinor stood up before her, pallid as a ghost. "For God's sake, mother, not another word, " she said, with a dreadful solemnity. "The burden ismine, and I must bear it. Let us not say a word more. "

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

I will not confuse the reader with a description of all Elinor'sthoughts during the slow progress of that afternoon and evening, whichwere as the slow passing of a year to her impatient spirit. Shetook the usual afternoon walk with her mother soberly, as became Mrs. Dennistoun's increasing years, and then she made a pretext of someerrands in the village to occupy her until dark, or rather to leaveher free to twist the thread of her own thoughts as she went along thesilent country road. Her thoughts varied in the afternoon from thosewhich had seized upon her with such vulture's claws in the morning; butthey were not less overwhelming in that respect. Her mother's suggestionthat _she_ and not Elinor should be the witness of that date, and thenher ponderings as to that date, her slow certainty that she could makeit out, or puzzle it out, as Elinor in her impatience said, which wasthe last of all things to be desired--had stung the daughter into a newand miserable realization of what it was that was demanded of her, whichnobody could do but she. What was it that would be demanded of her? Tostand up in the face of God and man and swear to tell the truth, andtell--a lie: or else let the man who had been her husband, the love ofher youth, the father of her boy, sink into an abyss of shame. Shethought rapidly, knowing nothing, that surely there could be nopunishment for him, even if it were proved, at the long interval oftwenty years. But, shame--there would be shame. Nothing could save himfrom that. Shame which would descend more or less to his son. And thenElinor reflected, with hot moisture coming out upon her forehead againstthe cold breeze of the spring night, on what would be asked of her. Oh, no doubt, it would be cleverly done! She would be asked if sheremembered his visit, and why she remembered it. She would be led oncarefully to tell the story of the calendar in the hall, and of how itwas but ten days before her marriage--the last hurried, unexpected visitof the lover before he came as a bridegroom to take her away. It wouldbe all true, every word, and yet it would be a lie. And standing upthere in that public place, she would be made to repeat it, as she haddone in the flowery garden, in the sunshine, twenty years ago--thendazed and bewildered, not knowing what she did, and with something ofthe blind confidence of youth and love in saying what she was told tosay; but now with clearer insight, with a horrible certainty of thefalsehood of that true story, and the object with which it was requiredof her. Happily for herself, Elinor did not think of the ordeal ofcross-examination through which witnesses have to pass. She would not, I think, have feared that if the instinct of combativeness had beenroused in her: her quick wit and ready spirit would not have failed indefending herself, and in maintaining the accuracy of the fact to whichshe had to bear witness. It was herself, and not an opposing counsel, that was alarming to Elinor. But I have promised that the reader shouldnot be compelled to go through all the trouble and torment of herthoughts. 

Dinner, with the respect which is necessary for the servant who waits, whether that may be a solemn butler with his myrmidons, or a littlemaid--always makes a pause in household communications; but when theladies were established afterwards by the pleasant fireside which hadbeen their centre of life for so many years, and with the cheerful lampon the table between them which had lighted so many cheerful talks, readings, discussions, and consultations, the new subject of anxiety andinterest immediately came forth again. It was Mrs. Dennistoun who spokefirst. She had grown older, as we all do; she wore spectacles as sheworked, and often a white shawl on her shoulders, and was--as sometimesher daughter felt, with shame of herself to remark it--a little slowerin speech, a little more pertinacious and insistent, not perhapsperceiving with such quick sympathy the changes and fluctuations ofother minds, and whether it was advisable or not to follow a subject tothe bitter end. She said, looking up from her knitting, with a littlerhetorical movement of her hand which Elinor feared, and which showedthat she felt herself on assured and certain ground:

"My dear, I have been thinking. I have made it out day by day. God knowsthere were plenty of landmarks in it to keep any one from forgetting. Ican now make out certainly the day--of which we were speaking; and ifyou will give me your attention for a minute or two, Elinor, you willsee that whatever the calendar said--which I never noticed, for it wasas often wrong as right--you are making a mis----"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, mother, " cried Elinor, "don't let us talk ofthat any more!"

"I have no desire to talk of it, my dear child; but for what you saidI should never---- But of course we must take some action about thisthing--this paper you have got. And it seems to me that the best thingwould be to write to John, and see whether he could not manage to get ittransferred from you to me. I can't see what difficulty there could beabout that. "

"I would not have it for the world, mother! And what good would it do?The great thing in it, the dreadful thing, would be unchanged. Whetheryou appear or me, Pippo would be made to know, all the same, what it hasbeen our joint object to conceal from him all his life. "

Mrs. Dennistoun did not say anything, but she would not have been mortalif she had not, very slightly, but yet very visibly to keen eyes, shakenher head. 

"I know what you mean, " said Elinor, vehemently, "that it has been I, and not we, whose object has been to conceal it from him. Oh, yes, Iknow you are right; but at least you consented to it, you have helped init, it is your doing as well as mine. "

"Elinor, Elinor!" cried her mother, who, having always protested, wasnot prepared for this accusation. 

"Is there any advantage to be got, " said Elinor, like an injured andindignant champion of the right, "in opening up the whole question overagain now?"

What could poor Mrs. Dennistoun do? She was confounded, as she often hadbeen before, by those swift and sudden tactics. She gave a glance up ather daughter over her spectacles, but she said nothing. Argument, sheknew by long experience, was difficult to keep up with such an opponent. 

"But John is an idea, " said Elinor. "I don't know why I should not havethought of him. He may suggest something that could be done. "

"I thought of him, of course, at once, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, not ableto refrain from that small piece of self-assertion. "It is not a timethat it would be easy for him to leave town; but at least you couldwrite and lay your difficulties before him, and suggest----"

"Oh, you may be sure, mother, " cried Elinor, "I know what I have tosay. "

"I never doubted it, my dear, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, gently. 

And then there was a little pause. They sat and worked, the elder ladystumbling a little over her knitting, her thoughts being so much engaged;the younger one plying a flying needle, the passion and impetus of herthoughts lending only additional swiftness and vigour to everything shedid. And for ten minutes or more there was nothing to be heard in theroom but the little drop of ashes from the fire, the sudden burst of alittle gas-flame from the coals, the rustle of Elinor's arm as it moved. The cat sat with her tail curled round her before the fire, the image ofdignified repose, winking at the flames. The two human inhabitants, savefor the movements of their hands, might have been in wax, they were sostill. Suddenly, however, the quietness was broken by an energeticmovement. Elinor threw her work down on the table and rose from herchair. She went to the window and drew the curtain aside, and lookedout upon the night. She shut it carefully again, and going to thewriting-table, struck a match and lighted the candles there, and satdown and began, or appeared to begin, to write. Then she rose quicklyagain and returned to the table at which Mrs. Dennistoun was stillseated, knitting on, but watching every movement of her restlesscompanion. "Mother, " she said, "I can't write, I have far too much tosay. I will run up to town to-morrow myself and see John. "

"To town, Elinor, by yourself? My dear, you forget it is not an hour'sjourney, as it was to Windyhill. "

"I know that very well, mother. But even the journey will be anadvantage. The movement will do me good, and I can tell John much betterthan I could write. Who could write about a complicated business likethis? He will understand me when he sees me at half a word; whereas inwriting one can never explain. Don't oppose me, please, mother! I feelthat to do something, to get myself in motion, is the only thing for menow. "

"I will not oppose you, Elinor. I have done so, perhaps, too little, mydear; but we will not speak of that. No doubt, as you say, you willunderstand each other better if you tell him the circumstances face toface. But, oh, my dear child, do nothing rash! Be guided by John; he isa prudent adviser. The only thing is that he, no more than I, has everbeen able to resist you, Elinor, if you had set your heart upon anycourse. Oh, my dear, don't go to John with a foregone conclusion. Hearfirst what he has to say!"

Elinor came behind her mother with one of those quick returns ofaffectionate impulse which were natural to her, and put her armssuddenly round Mrs. Dennistoun. "You have always been far too good tome, mamma, " she said, kissing her tenderly, "both John and you. "

And next morning she carried out her swiftly conceived intention andwent to town, as the reader is aware. A long railway journey issometimes soothing to one distracted with agitation and trouble. Thequiet and the noise, which serves as a kind of accompaniment, halfsilencing, half promoting too active thought; the forced abstractionand silence, and semi-imprisonment of mind and body, which are equallyrestless, but which in that enclosure are bound to self-restraint, exercise, in spite of all struggles of the subject, a subduing effect. And it was a strange thing that in the seclusion of the railwaycompartment in which she travelled alone there came for the first timeto Elinor a softening thought, the sudden sensation of a feeling, ofwhich she had not been sensible for years, towards the man whose nameshe bore. It occurred to her quite suddenly, she could not tell how, asif some one invisible had thrown that reflection into her mind (and Iconfess that I am of opinion they do: those who are around us, who areunseen, darting into our souls thoughts which do not originate with us, thoughts not always of good, blasphemies as well as blessings)--itoccurred to her, I say, coming into her mind like an arrow, that afterall she had not been so well hidden as she thought all these years, seeing that she had been found at once without difficulty, it appeared, when she was wanted. Did this mean that he had known where she was allthe time--known, but never made any attempt to disturb her quiet? Thethought startled her very much, revealing to her a momentary glimpse ofsomething that looked like magnanimity, like consideration and generousself-restraint. Could these things be? He could have hurt her very muchhad he pleased, even during the time she had remained at Windyhill, whencertainly he knew where she was: and he had not done so. He might havetaken her child from her: at least he might have made her life miserablewith fears of losing her child: and he had not done so. If indeed it wastrue that he had known where she was all the time and had never doneanything to disturb her, what did that mean? This thought gave Elinorperhaps the first sense of self-reproach and guilt that she had everknown towards this man, who was her husband, yet whom she had not seenfor more than eighteen years. 

And then there was another thing. After that interval he was not afraidto put himself into her hands--to trust to her loyalty for hissalvation. He knew that she could betray him--and he knew equally wellthat she would not do so, notwithstanding the eighteen years ofestrangement and mutual wrong that lay between. It did not matter thatthe loyalty he felt sure of would be a false loyalty, an upholding ofwhat was not true. He would think little of that, as likely as not hehad forgotten all about that. He would know that her testimony wouldclear him, and he would not think of anything else; and even did hethink of it the fact of a woman making a little mis-statement like thatwould never have affected Philip. But the strange thing was that he hadno fear she would revenge herself by standing up against him--no doubtof her response to his appeal; he was as ready to put his fate in herhands as if she had been the most devoted of wives--his constantcompanion and champion. This had the most curious effect upon her mind, almost greater than the other. She had shown no faith in him, but he hadfaith in her. Reckless and guilty as he was, he had not doubted her. Hehad put it in her power to convict him not only of the worst accusationthat was brought against him, but of a monstrous trick to prove his_alibi_, and a cruel wrong to her compelling her to uphold that as true. She was able to expose him, if she chose, as no one else could do; buthe had not been afraid of that. This second thought, which burst uponElinor without any volition of her own, had the most curious effectupon her. She abstained carefully, anxiously, from allowing herselfto be drawn into making any conclusion from these darts of unintendedthoughts. But they moved her in spite of herself. They made her think ofhim, which she had for a long time abstained from doing. She had shuther heart for years from any recollection of her husband, trying toignore his existence in thought as well as in fact. And she hadsucceeded for a long time in doing this. But now in a moment all herprecautions were thrown to the winds. He came into her memory with asudden rush for which she was no way responsible, breaking all thebarriers she had put up against him: that he should have known where shewas all this time, and never disturbed her, respected her solitude allthese years--that when the moment of need came he should, without a wordto conciliate her, without an explanation or an apology, have put hisfate into her hands---- To the reader who understands I need not saymore of the effect upon the mind of Elinor, hasty, generous, impatientas she was of these two strange facts. There are many in the world whowould have given quite a different explanation--who would have made outof the fact that he had not disturbed her only the explanation thatPhil Compton was tired of his wife and glad to get rid of her at anyprice: and who would have seen in his appeal to her now only audacitycombined with the conviction that she would not compromise herself bysaying anything more than she could help about him. I need not say whichof these interpretations would have been the true one. But the firstwill understand and not the other what it was that for the first timefor eighteen years awakened a struggle and controversy which she couldnot ignore, and vainly endeavoured to overcome, in Elinor's heart. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Elinor had not been three days gone, indeed her mother had but justreceived a hurried note announcing her arrival in London, when as shesat alone in the house which had become so silent, Mrs. Dennistounsuddenly became aware of a rising of sound of the most jubilant, almostriotous description. It began by the barking of Yarrow, the old colley, who was fond of lying at the gate watching in a philosophic way of hisown the mild traffic of the country road, the children trooping by toschool, who hung about him in clusters, with lavish offerings of crustand scraps of biscuit, and all the leisurely country _flâneurs_ whom thegood dog despised, not thinking that he himself did nothing but _flâner_at his own door in the sun. A bark from Yarrow was no small thing inthe stillness of the spring afternoon, and little Urisk, the terrier, who lay wrapt in dreams at Mrs. Dennistoun's feet, heard where he layentranced in the folds of sleep and cocked up an eager ear and uttered asubdued interrogation under his breath. The next thing was no bark, buta shriek of joy from Yarrow, such as could mean nothing in the world but"Philip!" or Pippo, which was what no doubt the dogs called him betweenfollowing their mistress. Urisk heard and understood. He made but onespring from the footstool on which he lay and flung himself against thedoor. Mrs. Dennistoun sat for a moment and listened, much disturbed. When some troublous incident occurs in the deep quiet of domestic lifehow often is it followed by another, and her heart turned a little sick. She was not comforted even by the fact that Urisk was waggling not histail only, but his whole little form in convulsions of joy, barking, crying aloud for the door to open, to let him forth. By this time allthe friendly dogs about had taken up the sound out of sympathy withYarrow's yells of delight--and into this came the clang of the gate, the sound of wheels, an outcry in a human voice, that of Barbara, themaid--and then a young shout that rang through the air--"Where's mymother, Barbara, where's granny?" Philip, it may be imagined, did notwait for any answer, but came in headlong. Yarrow leaping after him, Urisk springing into the air to meet him--himself in too great a hurryto heed either, flinging himself upon the astonished lady who rose tomeet him, with a sudden kiss, and a "Where's my mother, granny?" ofeager greeting. 

"Pippo! Good gracious, boy, what's brought you home now?"

"Nothing but good news, " he said, "so good I thought I must come. I'vegot it, granny: where _is_ my mother----"

"You've got it?" she said, so full of other thoughts that she could notrecollect what it was he meant. Pippo thought, as Elinor sometimesthought, that his granny was getting slow of understanding--not sobright as she used to be in her mind. 

"Oh, granny, you've been dozing: the scholarship! I've got it--I thoughtyou would know the moment you heard me at the door----"

"My dear boy, " she said, putting her arms about him, while the tall boystood for the homage done to him--the kiss of congratulation. "You havegot the scholarship! notwithstanding Howard and Musgrave and the hardfight there was to be----"

Pippo nodded, with a bright face of pleasure. "But, " he said--"I can'tsay I'm sorry I've got it, granny--but I wish there had been another forMusgrave: for he worked harder than I did, and he wanted so to win. Butso did I, for that matter. And where is my mother all this time?"

"How delighted she will be: and what a comfort to her just now when sheis upset and troubled! My dear, it'll be a dreadful disappointment toyou: your mother is in London. She had to hurry off the day beforeyesterday--on business. "

"In London!" cried Pippo. His countenance fell: he was so muchdisappointed that for a moment, big boy as he was, he looked ready tocry. He had come in bursting with his news, expecting a reception almostas tumultuous as that given him by the dogs outside. And he found onlyhis grandmother, who forgot what it was he was "in for"--and no motherat all!

"It is a disappointment, Pippo--and it will be such a disappointment toher not to hear it from your own lips: but you must telegraph at once, and that will be next best. She has some worrying business--things thatshe hates to look after--and this will give her a little heart. "

"What a bore!" said Pippo, with his crest down and the light gone out ofhim. He gave himself up to the dogs who had been jumping about him, biding their time. "Yarrow knew, " he said, laughing, to get the waterout of his eyes. "He gave me a cheer whenever he saw me, dear oldfellow--and little Risky too----"

"And only granny forgot, " said Mrs. Dennistoun; "that was very hard uponyou, Pippo; my thoughts were all with your mother. And I couldn't thinkhow you could get back at this time----"

"Well, " said the boy, "my work's over, you know. There's nothing for afellow to do after he's got the scholarship. I needn't go back atall--unless you and my mother wish it. I've--in a sort of a way, doneeverything that I can do. Don't laugh at me, granny!"

"Laugh at you, my boy! It is likely I should laugh at you. Don't youknow I am as proud of you as your mother herself can be? I am glad andproud, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, "for I am glad for her as well as for you. Now, Pippo, you want something to eat. "

The boy looked up with a laugh. "Yes, granny, " he said, "you alwaysdivine that sort of thing. I do. "

Mrs. Dennistoun did not occupy her mind with any thought of that littleunintentional and grateful jibe--that she always divined that sort ofthing. Among the other great patiences of her life she had learnt toknow that the mother and son, loving and tender as they were, had puther back unconsciously into the proper place of the old woman--alwaysconsulted, always thought of, never left out; but divining chiefly _thatsort of thing_, the actual needs, the more apparent thoughts of thoseabout her. She knew it, but she did not dwell upon it--sometimes itmade her smile, but it scarcely hurt her, and never made her bitter, she comprehended it all so well. Meanwhile Pippo, left alone, devotedhimself to the dogs for a minute or two, making them almost too happy. Then, at the very climax of riotous enjoyment, cast them off with asudden, "Down, Yarrow!" which took all the curl in a moment out of thenoble tail with which Yarrow was sweeping all the unconsidered triflesoff Mrs. Dennistoun's work-table. The young autocrat walked to thewindow as he shook off his adoring vassal, and stared out for a littlewith his hands deeply dug into his pockets. And then a new idea cameinto Pippo's head; the most brilliant new idea, which restored at oncethe light to his eyes and elevation to his crest. He said nothing ofthis, however, till he had done justice to the excellent luncheon, whilehis grandmother, seated beside him in the dining-room with her knitting, looked on with pride and pleasure and saw him eat. This was a thing, they were all of accord, which she always thoroughly understood. 

"You will run out now and telegraph to your mother. She is in the oldrooms in Ebury Street, Pippo. "

"Yes, granny; don't you think now a fellow of my age, having done prettywell and all that, might be trusted to--make a little expedition out ofhis own head?"

"My dear! you have always been trusted, Pippo, you know. I can'tremember when your mother or I either have shown any want of trust----"

"Oh, it's not that, " said Pippo, confused. "I know I've had lots, lots--far more than most fellows--of my own way. It was not thatexactly. I meant without consulting any one, just to do a thing out ofmy own head. "

"I have no doubt it will be quite a right thing, Pippo; but I shouldknow better if you were to tell me. "

"That would scarcely be doing it out of my own head, would it, granny?But I can't keep a thing to myself; now Musgrave can, you know; that'sthe great difference. I suppose it is having nobody but my mother andyou, who always spoil me, that has made me that I can't keep a secret. "

"It is something about making it up to Musgrave for not winning thescholarship?"

Philip grew red all over with a burning blush of shame. "What a beast Iam!" he said. "You will scarcely believe me, but I had forgottenthat--though I do wish I could. I do wish there was any way----No, granny, it was all about myself. "

"Well, my dear?" she said, in her benignant, all-indulgent grandmother'svoice. 

"It is no use going beating about the bush, " he said. "Granny, I'm notgoing to telegraph to mamma. I'll run up to London by the night mail. "

"Pippo!"

"Well, it isn't so extraordinary; naturally I should like to tell herbetter than to write. It didn't quite come off, my telling it to you, did it? but my mother will be excited about it--and then it will be asurprise seeing me at all--and then if she is worried by business itwill be a good thing to have me to stand by her. And--why there are ahundred reasons, granny, as you must see. And then I should like itabove all. "

"My dear, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, trembling a little. She had time duringthis long speech to collect herself, to get over the first shock, buther nerves still vibrated. "In ordinary circumstances, I should think itan excellent plan. And you have worked well for it, and won yourholiday; and your mother always enjoys wandering about town with you. Still, Pippo----"

"Now what can there be against it?" the boy said, with the same spark offire coming into his blue eyes which had often been seen in Elinor'shazel ones. He was like the Comptons, a refined image of his father, with the blue eyes and very dark hair which had once made Phil Comptonirresistible. Pippo had the habit, I am sorry to say, of being a littleimpatient with his grandmother. Her objections seemed old-world andobsolete at the first glance. 

"The chief thing against it is that I don't think your mother--wouldwish it, Pippo. "

"Mamma--think me a bore, perhaps!" the lad cried, with a laugh of almostscornful amusement at this ridiculous idea. 

"She would never, of course, think you a bore in any circumstances--butshe will be very much confined--she could not take you with herto--lawyers' offices. She will scarcely have any time to herself. "

"What is this mysterious business, granny?"

"Indeed, Pippo, I can scarcely tell you. It is something connected withold times--that she wishes to have settled and done with. I did notinquire very closely; neither, I think, should you. You know your poormother has had troubles in her life----"

"Has she?" said Pippo, with wide open eyes. "I have never seen any. Ithink, perhaps, don't you know, granny, ladies--make mountains ofmolehills--or so at least people say----"

"Do they?" said Mrs. Dennistoun, with a laugh. "So you have begun tolearn that sort of thing already, Pippo, even here at the end of theworld!"

Pippo was a little mortified by her laugh, and a little ashamed of whathe had said. It is very tempting at eighteen to put on a man'ssuperiority, yet he was conscious that it was perhaps a littleungenerous, he who owed all that he was and had to these two ladies; butnaturally he was the more angry because of this. 

"I suppose, " he said, "that what is in every book that ever was writtenis likely to be true! But that has nothing to do with the question. Iwon't do anything against you if you forbid me absolutely, granny; butshort of that I will go----"

Mrs. Dennistoun looked at the boy with all the heat in him of his firstburst of independence. It is only wise to compute the forces opposed toone before one launches a command which one may not have force to ensureobedience to. He said that he would not disobey her "absolutely" withhis lips; but his eyes expressed a less dutiful sentiment. She had nomind to be beaten in such a struggle. Elinor had complained of hermother in her youth that she was too reasonable, too unwilling tocommand, too reluctant to assume the responsibility of an act; and itwas not to be supposed that she had mended of this, in all the experienceshe had had of her impatient daughter, and under the influence of somany additional years. She looked at Philip, and concluded that he wouldat least find some way of eluding her authority if she exercised it, andit did not consist with her dignity to be either "absolutely" orpartially disobeyed. 

"You forget, " she said, "that I have never taken such authority upon mesince you were a child. I will not forbid you to do what you have setyour heart upon. I can only say, Philip, that I don't think your motherwould wish you to go----"

"If that's all, granny, " said the boy, "I think I can take my motherinto my own hands. But why do you call me Philip? You never call me thatbut when you are angry. "

"Was I ever angry?" she said, with a smile; "but if we are to consideryou a man, looking down upon women, and taking your movements upon yourown responsibility, my dear, it would be ridiculous that you should belittle Pippo any more. "

"Not little Pippo, " he said, with a boyish, complacent laugh, rising upto his full height. A young man nearly six feet high, with a scholarshipin his pocket, how is he to be expected to take the law from his oldgrandmother as to what he is to do?

And young Philip did go to town triumphantly by the night mail. He hadnever done such a thing before, and his sense of manly independence, ofdaring, almost of adventure, was more delightful than words could say. There was not even any one, except the man who had driven him intoPenrith, to see him away, he who was generally accompanied to the lastminute by precautions, and admonitions, and farewells. To feel himselfdart away into the night with nobody to look back to on the platform, no gaze, half smiling, half tearful, to follow him, was of itself anemancipation to Pippo. He was a good boy and no rebel against the doublematernal bond which had lain so lightly yet so closely upon him all hislife. It was only for a year or two that he had suspected that this wasunusual, or even imagined that for a growing man the sway of two ladies, and even their devotion, might make others smile. Perhaps he had been alittle more particular in his notions, in his manners, in his fastidiousdislike to dirt and careless habits, than was common in the somewhatrough north country school which had so risen in scholastic note underthe last head master, but which was very far from the refinements ofEton. And lately it had begun to dawn upon him that a mother and agrandmother to watch over him and care for him in everything might beperhaps a little absurd for a young man of his advanced age. Thus hisescapade, which was against the will of his elder guardian, and withoutthe knowledge of his mother--which was entirely his own act, and onhis own responsibility, went to Philip's head, and gave him a sort ofintoxication of pleasure. That his mother should be displeased, reallydispleased, should not want him--incredible thought! never entered intohis mind save as an accountable delusion of granny's. His mother notwant him! All the arguments in the world would never have got that intoyoung Pippo's head. 

Mrs. Dennistoun waking up in the middle of the night to think of the boyrushing on through the dark on his adventurous way, recollected onlythen with much confusion and pain that she ought to have telegraphed toElinor, who might be so engaged as to make it very embarrassing for herin her strange circumstances to see Pippo--that the boy was coming. Inher agitation she had forgotten this precaution. Was it perhaps true, asthe young ones thought, that she was getting a little slower in hermovements, a little dulled in her thoughts?

CHAPTER XL. 

John Tatham had in vain attempted to persuade Elinor to come to hishouse, to dine there in comfort--he was going out himself--so thatat least in this time of excitement and trouble she might have thecareful service and admirable comfort of his well-managed house. Elinorpreferred her favourite lodgings and a cup of tea to all the luxuries ofHalkin Street. And she was fit for no more consultations that night. Shehad many, many things to think of, and some new which as yet she barelycomprehended. The rooms in Ebury Street were small, and they were moreor less dingy, as such rooms are; but they were comfortable enough, andhad as much of home to Elinor as repeated visits there with all herbelongings could give them. The room in which she slept was next tothat in which her boy had usually slept. That was enough to make itno strange place. And I need not say that it became the scene of manydiscussions during the few days that followed. The papers by this timewere full of the strange trial which was coming on: the romance ofcommercial life and ruin--the guilty man who had been absent so long, enjoying his ill-gotten gains, and who now was dragged back into thelight to give an account of himself--and of other guilt perhaps lessblack than his own, yet dreadful enough to hear of. The story of thedestroyed books was a most remarkable and picturesque incident in thenarrative. The leading papers looked up their own account of the factsgiven at the time, and pointed out how evidently justified by the newfacts made known to the public was the theory they had themselves givenforth. As these theories, however, were very different, and as allclaimed to be right, perhaps the conclusion was less certain thanthis announcement gave warrant to believe. But each and all promised"revelations" of the most surprising kind--involving some of the highestaristocracy, the democratic papers said--bringing to light an excitingstory of the private relations between husband and wife, said those ofsociety, and revealing a piquant chapter of social history hushed up atthe time. It was a modest print indeed that contented itself with thestatement that its readers would find a romance of real life involved inthe trial which was about to take place. Elinor did not, fortunately, see all these comments. The _Times_ and the _Morning Post_ weredignified and reticent, and she did not read, and was indeed scarcelycognisant of the existence of most of the others. But the faintestreference to the trial was enough, it need hardly be said, to make theblood boil in her veins. 

It was a curious thing in her state of mind, and with the feelings shehad towards her husband's family, that one of the first things she didon establishing herself in her Ebury Street rooms, was to look for anold "Peerage" which had lain for several years she remembered on acertain shelf. Genteel lodgings in Ebury Street which did not possesssomewhere an old "Peerage" would be out of the world indeed. She foundit in the same corner as of old, where she had noted it so often andavoided it as if it had been a serpent; but now the first thing she did, as soon as her tray was brought her, and all necessary explanationsgiven, and the door shut, was to take the book furtively from its place, almost as if she were afraid of what she should see. What a list therewas of sons of Lord St. Serf! some she had never known, who died young:and Reginald in India, and Hal, who was so kind--what a good laughhe had, she remembered, not a joyless cackle like Mariamne's, a goodnatural laugh, and a kind light in his eyes: and he had been kind. Shecould remember ever so many things, nothings, things that made a littledifference in the dull, dull cloudy sky of a neglected wife. Poor Hal!and he too was gone, and St. Serf dying, and---- Pippo the heir!--Pippowas perhaps, for any thing she knew, Lord Lomond now. 

To say that this did not startle Elinor, did not make her heart beat, did not open new complications and vistas in life, would be a thingimpossible. Pippo Lord Lomond! Pippo, whom she had feared to expose tohis father's influence, whom she had kept apart, who did not knowanything about himself except that he was her son--had she kept andguarded the boy thus in the very obscurity of life, in the stillestand most protected circumstances, only to plunge him suddenly at last, without preparation, without warning, into the fiery furnace oftemptation, into a region where he might pardonably (perhaps) puthimself beyond her influence, beyond her guidance? Poor Elinor! and yetshe was not wholly to be pitied either. For her heart was fired by thethought of her boy's elevation in spite of herself. It did not occur toher that such an elevation for him meant something also for her. Thatview of the case she did not take into consideration for a moment. Nay, she did not think of it. But that Pippo should be Lord Lomond wentthrough her like an arrow--like an arrow that gave a wound, acute andsharp, yet no pain, if such a thing could be said. That he shoulddiscover his father had been the danger before her all his life, but ifhe must find out that he had a father that was a way in which it mightnot be all pain. I do not pretend that she was very clear in all thesethoughts. Indeed, she was not clear at all. John Tatham, knowing but oneside, had begun to think vaguely of Elinor what Elinor thought of hermother, that her mind was not quite as of old, not so bright nor sovivid, not so clear in coming to a conclusion; had he known everythinghe might not have been so sure even on that point. But then had he knowneverything that Elinor knew, and been aware of what it was which Elinorhad been summoned by all the force of old fidelity and the honour ofher name to do, John would have been too much horrified to have beenable to form an opinion. No, poor Elinor was not at all clear in herthoughts--less clear than ever after these revelations--the way beforeher seemed dark in whatever way she looked at it, complications wereround her on every side. She had instinctively, without a word said, given up that idea of flight. Who was it that said the heir to a peeragecould not be hid? John had said it, she remembered, and John was alwaysright. If she was to take him away to the uttermost end of the earth, they would seek him out and find him. And then there was--his father, who had known all the time, had known and never disturbed her----Nowonder that poor Elinor's thoughts were mixed and complicated. Shewalked up and down the room, not thinking, but letting crowds andflights of thoughts like birds fly through her mind; no longer clearindeed as she had been wont to be, no longer coming to sudden, sharpconclusions, admitting possibilities of which Elinor once upon a timewould never have thought. 

And day by day as he saw her, John Tatham understood her less and less. He did not know what she meant, what she was going to do, what were hersentiments towards her husband, what were her intentions towards herson. He had found out a great deal about the case, merely as a case, andit began to be clear to him where Elinor's part came in. Elinor Comptoncould not have appeared on her husband's behalf, and whether there mightnot arise a question whether, being now his wife, her evidence could betaken on what had happened before she was his wife, was by no meanssure--"Why didn't they call your mother?" John said, as Mrs. Dennistounalso had said--but he did not at all understand, how could he? the dismaythat came over Elinor, and the "Not for the world, " which came from herlips. He had come in to see her in the morning as he went down to hischambers, on the very morning when Pippo, quite unexpected and also notat all desired, was arriving at Euston Square. 

"It would have been much better, " he said, "in every way if they hadcalled your mother--who of course must know exactly what you know, Elinor, in respect to this matter----"

"No, " said Elinor with dry lips. "She knows nothing. She--calculatesback by little incidents--she does not remember: I--do----"

"That's natural, I suppose, " said John, with an impatient sigh and ahalf-angry look. "Still--my aunt----"

"Would do no good at all: you may believe me, John. Don't let us speakof this any more. I know what has to be done: my mother would twistherself up among her calculations--about Alick Hudson's examination andI know not what. Whereas I--there is nothing, nothing more to be said. Ithought I could escape, and it is your doing if I now see that I cannotescape. I can but hope that Providence will protect my boy. He is atschool, where they have little time for reading the papers. He may nevereven see--or at least if he does he may think it is anotherCompton--some one whom he never heard of----"

"And how if he becomes Lord Lomond, as I said, before the secret isout?"

"Oh, John, " cried Elinor, wringing her hands--"don't, don't torment mewith that idea now--let only this be past and then: Oh, I see, I see--Iam not a fool--I perceive that I cannot hide him as you say if thathappens. But oh, John, for pity's sake let this be over first! Let usnot hurry everything on at the same time. He is at school. What doschoolboys care for the newspapers, especially for trials in the lawcourts? Oh, let this be over first! A boy at school--and he need neverknow----"

It was at this moment that a hansom drew up, and a rattling peal came atthe door. Hansoms are not rare in Ebury Street, and how can one tell inthese small houses if the peal is at one's door or the next? Elinorwas not disturbed. She paid no attention. She expected no one, she wasafraid of nothing new for the present. Surely, surely, as she said, there was enough for the present. It did not seem possible that any newincident should come now. 

"I do not want to torment you, Elinor--you may imagine I would be thelast--I would only save you if I could from what must be---- What! what?who's this?--PHILIP! the boy!"

The door had burst open with an eager, impatient hand upon it, and therestood upon the threshold, in all the mingled excitement and fatigue ofhis night journey, pale, sleep in his eyes, yet happy expectation, exultation, the certainty of open arms to receive him, and cries ofdelight--the boy. He stood for a second looking into the strange yetfamiliar room. John Tatham had sprung to his feet and stood startled, hesitating, while young Philip's eyes, noting him with a glance, flashedpast him to the other more important, more beloved, the mother whom hehad expected to rush towards him with an outcry of joy. 

And Elinor sat still in her chair, struck dumb, grown pale like a ghost, her eyes wide open, her lips apart. The sight of the boy, her belovedchild, her pride and delight, was as a horrible spectacle to Elinor. Shestared at him like one horrified, and neither moved nor spoke. 

"Elinor!" cried John, terrified, "there's nothing wrong. Don't you seeit's Philip? Boy, what do you mean by giving her such a fright? She'sfainting, I believe. "

"I--give her a fright!" cried, half in anguish, half in indignation, theastonished boy. 

"No, I'm not fainting. Pippo! there's nothing wrong--at home?" Elinorcried, holding out her hand to him--coming to herself, which meant onlyawakening to the horror of a danger far more present than she had everdreamt, and to the sudden sight not of her boy, but of that Nemesiswhich she had so carefully prepared for herself, and which had beenawaiting her for years. She was not afraid of anything wrong at home. It was the first shield she could find in the shock which had almostparalysed her, to conceal her terror and distress at the sight of himfrom the astonished, disappointed, mortified, and angry boy. 

"I thought, " he said, "you would have been glad to see me, mother! No, there's nothing wrong at home. "

"Thank heaven for that!" cried Elinor, feeling herself more and more ahypocrite as she recovered from the shock. "Pippo, I was saying thismoment that you were at school. The words were scarcely off my lips--andthen to see you in a moment, standing there. "

"I thought, " he repeated again, trembling with the disappointment andmortification, wounded in his cheerful, confident affection, and in hisyoung pride, the monarch of all he surveyed--"I thought you would havebeen pleased to see me, mother!"

"Of course, " said John, cheerfully, "your mother is glad to see you: andso am I, you impetuous boy, though you don't take the trouble of shakinghands with me. He wants to be kissed and coddled, Elinor, and I must beoff to my chambers. But I should like to know first what's up, boy?You've got something to say. "

"Pippo, what is it, my dearest? You did give me a great fright, and I amstill nervous a little. Tell me, Pippo; something has brought you--youruncle John is right. I can see it in your eyes. You've got something totell me!"

The tired and excited boy looked from one to another, two faces bothfull of a veiled but intense anxiety, looking at him as if what theyexpected was no good news. He burst out into a big, hoarse laugh, theonly way to keep himself from crying. "You don't even seem to rememberanything about it, " he cried, flinging himself down in the nearestchair; "and for my part I don't care any longer whether any one knows ornot. "

And Elinor, whose thoughts were on such different things--whose wholemind was absorbed in the question of what he could have heard aboutthe trial, about his father, about the new and strange future beforehim--gazed at him with eyes that seemed hollowed out all round withdevouring anxiety. "What is it?" she said, "what is it? For God's saketell me! What have you heard?"

It goes against all prejudices to imagine that John Tatham, a man whonever had had a child, an old bachelor not too tolerant of youth, shouldhave divined the boy better than his mother. But he did, perhaps becausehe was a lawyer, and accustomed to investigate the human countenance andeye. He saw that Philip was full of something of his own, immediatelyinteresting to himself; and he cast about quickly in his mind what itcould be. Not that the boy was heir to a peerage: he would never havecome like _this_ to announce _that_: but something that Philip wascruelly disappointed his mother did not remember. This passed throughJohn's mind like a flash, though it takes a long time to describe. "Ah, "he said, "I begin to divine. Was not there something abouta--scholarship?"

"Pippo!" cried Elinor, lighting up great lamps of relief, of sudden easeand quick coming joy, in her brightened eyes and face. "My boy! you'vewon your battle! You've got it, you've got it, Pippo! And your foolish, stupid mother that thought for a moment you could rush to her like thiswith anything but good news!"

It took a few moments to soothe Pippo down, and mend his woundedfeelings. "I began to think nobody cared, " he said, "and that made methat I didn't care myself. I'd rather Musgrave had got it, if it had notbeen to please you all. And you never seemed so much as toremember--only Uncle John!" he added after a moment, with a half scornwhich made John laugh at the never-failing candour of youth. 

"Only the least important of all, " he said. "It was atrocious of theladies, Philip. Shake hands, my boy, I owe you five pounds for thescholarship. And now I'll take myself off, which will please you most ofall. "

He went down-stairs laughing to himself all the way, but got suddenlyquite grave as he stepped outside--whether because he remembered that itdoes not become a Q. C. And M. P. To laugh in the street, or for othercauses, it does not become us to attempt to say. 

And Elinor meanwhile made it up to her boy amply, and while her heartached with the question what to do with him, how to dispose of him duringthose dreadful following days, behaved herself as if her head too washalf turned with joy and exultation, only tempered by the regret thatMusgrave, who had worked so hard, could not have got the scholarshiptoo. 

CHAPTER XLI. 

Elinor made much of her boy during that day and the following days, totake away the sense of disappointment which even after the first greatmortification was got over still haunted young Philip's mind. Itsurprised him beyond measure to find that she did not wish to go outwith him, indeed in so far as was possible avoided it altogether, savefor a hurried drive to a few places, during which she kept her veildown and sheltered herself with an umbrella in the most ridiculous way. "Are you afraid of your complexion, mother?" the boy asked of her withdisdain. "It looks like it, " she said, but with a laugh that was full ofembarrassment, "though it is a little late in the day. " Elinor wasperhaps better aware than Pippo was that she had a complexion which agirl might have envied, and was still as fresh as a rose, notwithstandingthat she was a year or two over forty; but I need not say it was not ofher complexion she was thinking. She had been careful to choose her timeon previous visits to London so as to risk as little as possible thechance of meeting her husband. But now there was no doubt that he was intown, and not the least that if he met her anywhere with Pippo, hersecret, so far as it had ever been a secret, would be in his hands. Evenwhen John took the boy out it was with a beating heart that his mothersaw him go, for John was too well known to make any secret possibleabout his movements, or who it was who was with him. Perhaps it was forthis reason that John desired to take him out, and even cut short hisday's work on one or two occasions to act as cicerone to Philip. He tookhim to the House, to the great excitement and delight of the boy, whoonly wished that the entertainment could have been made complete by aspeech from Uncle John, which was a point in which his guide, philosopher, and friend, though in every other way so complaisant, did not humourPippo. On one occasion during the first week they had an encounter whichmade John's middle-aged pulses move a little quicker. When they werewalking along through Hyde Park, having strolled that way in the fadingof the May afternoon, when the carriages were still promenading up anddown, before they returned to Halkin Street to dinner, where Elinorawaited them--it happened to Mr. Tatham to meet the roving eyes ofLady Mariamne, who lay back languidly in her carriage, wrapped in afur cloak, and shivering in the chill of the evening. She was notparticularly interested in anything or any person whom she had seen, and was a little cross and desirous of getting home. But when she sawJohn she roused up immediately, and gave a sign to Dolly, who sat byher, to pull the check-string. "Mr. Tatham!" she cried, in her shrillvoice. Lady Mariamne was not one of the people who object to heartheir voice in public or are reluctant to make their wishes known toeverybody. She felt herself to be of the cast in which everybody isinterested, and that the public liked to know whom she honoured with heracquaintance. "Mr. Tatham! are you going to carry your rudeness so faras not to seem to know me? Oh, come here this moment, you impertinentman!"

"Can I be of any use to you, Lady Mariamne?" said John, gravely, at thecarriage door. 

"Oh, dear no; you can't be of any use. What should I have those men forif I wanted you to be of use? Come and talk a moment, that's all; or getinto the carriage and I'll take you anywhere. Dolly and I have drivenround and round, and we have not seen a creature we cared to see. Yes!there was a darling, darling little Maltese terrier, with white silkcurls hanging over his eyes, on an odious woman's lap; but I cannotexpect you to find that angel for me. Mr. Tatham, who is that tall boy?"

"Pippo, " said John, quickly (though probably he had never in his lifebefore used that name, which he disapproved of angrily, as people oftendo of a childish name which does not please them), "go on. I'll comeafter you directly. The boy is a cousin of mine, Lady Mariamne, justfrom school. "

"Mr. Tatham, I am quite sure it is Nell's boy. Call after him. What'shis name? Bring him back! John Thomas, run after that young gentleman, and say with my compliments----"

"Nothing, " said John, stopping the footman with a lifted hand and astill more emphatic look. "He is hastening home to--an engagement. Andit's evident I had better go too--for your little friend there isshowing his teeth. "

"The darling!" said Lady Mariamne, "did it show its little pearls at thewicked man that will not do what its mummy says? Dolly, can't you jumpdown and run after that boy? I am sure it is your Uncle Philip's boy. "

"He is out of sight, mother, " said Miss Dolly, calmly. 

"You are the most dreadful, wicked, unkind people, all of you. Show itslittle teeth, then, darling! Oo's the only one that has any feeling. Mr. Tatham, do tell me something about this trial. What is going to bedone? Phil is mixed up in it. I know he is. Can they do anything toanybody--after all this time? They can't make you pay up, I know, aftera certain time. Oh, couldn't it all be hushed up and stopped and keptout of the newspapers? I hate the newspapers, always chuckling overevery new discovery. But this cannot be called a new discovery. If it'strue it's old, as old as the old beginning of the world. Don't you thinksomebody could get at the newspaper men and have it hushed up?"

"I doubt if you could get hold of all of them, their name is legion, "said John. 

"Oh, I don't care what their name is. If you will help me, Mr. Tatham, we could get hold of most of them--won't you? You know, don't you, poorSt. Serf is so bad; it may be over any day--and then only think what acomplication! Dolly, turn your head the other way; look at that sillyyoung Huntsfield capering about to catch your eye. I don't want you tohear what I have got to say. "

"I don't in the least way want to hear what you have got to say, dearmamma, " said Dolly. 

"That would have made me listen to every word, " said Lady Mariamne;"but girls are more queer nowadays than anything that ever was. Mr. Tatham"--she put her hand upon his, which was on the carriage door, andbent her perfumed, powdered face towards him--"for goodness' sake--thinkhow awkward it would be--a man just succeeding to a title and that sortof thing put in all the papers about him. Do, do stop it, or trysomething to stop it, for goodness' sake!"

"I assure you, " said John, "I can do nothing to stop it. I am aspowerless as you are. "

"Oh, I don't say that I am powerless, " said Lady Mariamne, with hershrill laugh. "One has one's little ways of influence. " Then she put herhand again upon John with a sudden grip. "Mr. Tatham, " she said, "tellme, in confidence, was that Phil's boy?"

"I have told you, Lady Mariamne, it is a nephew of mine. "

"A nephew--oh, I know what kind of a nephew--_à la mode de Bretagne_!"

She turned her head to the other side, where her daughter was gazingcalmly in front of her. 

"Dolly! I was sure of it, " she cried, "don't you hear? Dolly, don't youhear?"

"Which, mamma?" said Dolly, gravely; "of course I could not help hearingit all. Which part was I to notice? about the newspapers or about theboy?"

Lady Mariamne appealed to earth and heaven with the loud cackle of herlaugh. "He can't deny it, " she said; "he as good as owns it. I amcertain that's the boy that will be Lomond. "

"Uncle St. Serf is not dead yet, " said Dolly, reprovingly. 

"Poor Serf!--but he's so very bad, " said Lady Mariamne, "that it'salmost the same thing. Mr. Tatham, can't we take you anywhere? I'm soglad I've seen Nell's boy. Can't we drive you home? Perhaps you've gotNell there too?"

John stood back from the carriage door, just in time to escape the startof the horses as the remorseless string was touched and the footmanclambered up into his seat. Lady Mariamne's smile went off her face, andshe had forgotten all about it, to judge from appearances, before he hadgot himself in motion again. And a little farther on, behind the nexttree, he found young Philip waiting, full of curiosity and questions. 

"Who was that lady, Uncle John? Was she asking about me? I thought Iheard her call. I had half a mind to run back and say 'Here I am. '"

"It was much better that you didn't do anything of the kind. Never payany attention when you think you hear a fine lady calling you, Philip. It is better not to hear the Siren's call. "

"When they're elderly Sirens like that!" said the boy, with a laugh. "But I say, Uncle John, if you won't tell me who the lady is, who is thegirl? She has a pair of eyes!--not like Sirens though--eyes that gothrough you--like--like a pair of lancets. "

"A surgical operation in fact: and I shouldn't wonder if she meantto be a doctor, " said John. "The mother has done nothing all her life, therefore the daughter means to do much. It is the natural reaction ofthe generations. But I never noticed that Miss Dolly had any eyes--tospeak of, " said the highly indifferent middle-aged man. 

The boy flushed with a sense of indignation. "Perhaps you think the oldlady's were finer?" he said. 

"I never admired the old lady, as you call her, " said John, shortly; andthen he turned Philip's attention to something, possibly with the easilysatisfied conviction of a spectator that the boy thought of it no more. 

"We met my Lady Mariamne in the park, " he said to Elinor when they satat dinner an hour later at that bachelor table in Halkin Street, whereeverything was so exquisitely cared for. It was like Elinor, but mostunlike the place in which she found herself, that she started so violentlyas to shake the whole table, crying out in a tone of consternation, "John!" as if he did not know very well what he might venture to say, or as if he had any intention of betraying her to her son. 

"She was very anxious, " he said, perhaps playing a little with herexcitement, "to have Philip presented to her: but I sent him on--that isto say, I thought I sent him on. The fellow went no farther than to thenext tree, where he stood and watched Miss Dolly, not feeling anyinterest in the old lady, as he said. "

"Well, Uncle John--did you expect me to look at the old lady? You arenot so fond of old ladies yourself. "

"And who is Miss Dolly?" said Elinor, trying to conceal the beating ofher heart and the quiver on her lips with a smile; and then she added, with a little catch of her breath, "Oh, yes, I remember there was alittle girl. "

"You will be surprised to hear that we are by way of being greatfriends. Her ladyship visits me in my chambers----"

Again Elinor uttered that startled cry, "John!" but she tried this timeto cover it with a tremulous laugh. "Are you becoming a flirt in yourold age?"

"It appears so, " said John. And then he added, "That aphorism, whichstruck you as it struck me, Elinor, by its good sense--about the heir toa peerage--is really her production, and not mine. "

"Miss Dolly's? And what was the aphorism, Uncle John?" cried Philip. 

"No, it was not Miss Dolly's, my young man. It was the mother's, and soof course does not interest you any more. "

It did not as a matter of fact: the old lady was supremely indifferentto Pippo; but as he looked up saying something else which did not bearupon the subject, it occurred to the boy, as it will sometimes occur bythe merest chance to a young observer, to notice his mother. She caughthis eye somehow in the most accidental way; and Pippo was too wellacquainted with her looks not to perceive that there was a thrill inevery line of her countenance, a slight nervous tremble in her handsand entire person, such as was in no way to be accounted for (he thought)by anything that had been said or done. There was nothing surely todisquiet her in dining at Uncle John's, the three alone, not even oneother guest to fill up the vacant side of the table. Philip had himselfthought that Uncle John might have asked some one to meet them. He shouldhave remembered that he himself, Philip, was now of an age to dine out, and see a little society, and go into the world. But what in the nameof all that was wonderful was there in this entertainment to agitate hismother? And John Tatham had a look--which Philip did not understand--thelook of a man who was successful in argument, who was almost crushing anopponent. It was as if a duel had been going on between them, and theman was the victor, which, as was natural, immediately threw Philipviolently on the other side. 

"You're not well, mother, " he said. 

"Do you think not, Pippo? Well, perhaps you are right. London is toomuch for me. I am a country bird, " said Elinor, with smiling yettrembling lips. 

"You shall not go to the theatre if you are not up to it, " said the boyin his imperious way. 

She gave him an affectionate look, and then she looked across the tableat John. What did that look mean? There was a faint smile in it: andthere was a great deal which Philip did not understand, things understoodby Uncle John--who was after all what you might call an outsider, nomore--and not by him, her son! Could anything be so monstrous? Philipblazed up with sudden fire. 

"No, " said John Tatham; "I think Philip's right. We'll take her home tobe coddled by her maid, and we'll go off, two wild young fellows, to theplay by ourselves. "

"No, " said Philip, "I'll leave her to be coddled by no maid. I can takecare of my mother myself. "

"My dear boy, " said Elinor, "I want no coddling. But I doubt whether Icould stand the play. I like you to go with Uncle John. "

And then it began to dawn upon Philip that his mother had never meantto be of the party, and that this was what had been settled all along. He was more angry; more wounded and hurt in his spirit than he had ofcourse the least occasion to be. He was of opinion that his motherhad never had any secrets from him, that she had taken him into herconfidence since he was a small boy, even things that Granny did notknow! And here all at once there was rising between them a cloud, amist, which there was no reason for. If he had done anything to make himless worthy he would have understood; had there been a bad report fromschool, had he failed in his work and disappointed her, there might havebeen some reason for it. But he had done nothing of the kind! Neverbefore had he been so deserving of confidence; he had got his scholarship, he had finished the first phase of his education in triumph, andfulfilled all her expectations. And now just at this point of allothers, just when he was most fit to understand, most worthy of trust, she turned from him. His heart swelled as if it would burst, with angerfirst, almost too strong to be repressed, and with that sense of injuredmerit which is of all things the most hard to bear. It is hard enougheven when one is aware one deserves no better. But to be conscious ofyour worth and to feel that you are not appreciated, that is indeed toomuch for any one. There was not even the satisfaction of giving up theplay which he had looked forward to, making a sacrifice of it to hismother, in which there would have been a severe pleasure. But she didnot want him! She preferred that he should leave her by herself to becoddled by her maid, as Uncle John (vulgarly) said. Or perhaps was theresomebody else coming, some old friend whom he knew nothing of, somebody, some one or other like that old witch in the carriage whom Pippo was notmeant to know?

It ended, however, in the carrying out of the plan settled beforehand bythose old conspirators. The old conspirators do generally manage tocarry out their plans for the management of rebellious youth, howeverinjured the latter may feel. Pippo wound himself up in solemn dignityand silence when he understood that it was ordained that he shouldproceed to the play with John Tatham. And the pair had got half way toDrury Lane--or it may have been the Lyceum, or the Haymarket, or any ofhalf-a-dozen other theatres, for here exact information fails--before hecondescended to open his lips for more than Yes or No. But Philip'sgloom did not survive the raising of the curtain, and he had forgottenall offences and had taken his companion into favour again, and wastalking to Uncle John between the acts with all the excitement of acountry youth to whom a play still was the greatest of novelties anddelights, when he suddenly saw a change come over John Tatham'scountenance and a slight bow of recognition directed towards a box, which made Philip turn round and look too. And there was the old witchof the carriage, and, what was more interesting, the girl with the keeneyes, who looked out suddenly from the shade of the draperies, and fixedupon Philip--Philip himself--a look which startled that young hero much. Nor was this all; for later in the evening, after another act of theplay, some one else appeared in the same box, and fixed the dark andimpassive stare of a long pair of opera-glasses upon Philip. It amusedhim at first, and afterwards it half frightened him, and finally madehim very angry. The gazer was a man, of whom, however, Philip could makenothing out but his white shirt front and his tall stature, and the longblack tubes of the opera-glass. Was it at him the man was looking, orperhaps at Uncle John? But the boy thought it on the whole unlikely thatanybody should stare in that way at anything so little out of theordinary as Uncle John. 

"I say, " he said, in the next interval, "who is that fellow staring atus out of your old lady's box?"

"Staring at the ladies behind us, you mean, " said John. "Pippo, do youthink we could make a rush for it the moment the play's over? I've gotsomething to look over when I get home. Are you game to be out the veryfirst before the curtain's down?"

"Certainly I'm game, " said Philip, delighted, "if you wish it, UncleJohn. "

"Yes, I wish it, " said the other, and he put his hand on the boy'sshoulder as the act finished and the characters of the piece drewtogether for the final tableau. And the pair managed it triumphantly, and were the very first to get out at the head of the crowd, to Philip'simmense amusement and John Tatham's great relief. The elder hurried theyounger into the first hansom, all in the twinkling of an eye: and thenfor the first time his gravity relaxed. Philip took it all for a greatjoke till they reached Ebury Street. But when his companion left him, and he had time to think of it, he began to ask himself why?

CHAPTER XLII. 

I will not say that Philip's sleep was broken by this question, but itundoubtedly recurred to his mind the first thing in the morning when hejumped out of bed very late for breakfast, and the events of the pastnight and the lateness of the hour at which he got to rest came backupon him as excuses in the first place for his tardiness. And then, which was remarkable, it was not the scene in the play in which he hadbeen most interested which came to his mind, but a vision of that boxand the man standing in front of it staring at him through the blacktubes of the opera-glass which came before Philip like a picture. UncleJohn had said it was at the ladies behind, but the boy felt sure it wasno lady behind, but himself, on whom that stare was fixed. Who wouldcare to stare so at him? It faintly gleamed across his thoughts that itmight be some one who had heard of the scholarship, but he dismissedthat thought instantly with a blush. It also gleamed upon him withequal vagueness like a momentary but entirely futile light, consciouslyderived from story books, and of which he was much ashamed, that theinexplicable attention given to himself might have something to do withthe girl who had such keen eyes. Philip blushed fiery red at thisinvoluntary thought, and chased it from his mind like a mad dog; but hecould not put away the picture of the box, the girl putting aside thecurtain to look at him, and the opera-glass fixed upon his face. Andthen why was Uncle John in such a hurry to get away? It had seemed acapital joke at that moment, but when he came to think of it, it wasrather strange that a man who might be Solicitor-General to-morrow ifhe liked, and probably Lord Chancellor in a few years, should make aschoolboy rush from the stalls of a theatre with the object of beingfirst out. Philip disapproved of so undignified a step on the part ofhis elderly relation. And he saw now in the serious morning that UncleJohn was very unlikely to have done it for fun. What, then, did it mean?

He came down full of these thoughts, and rather ashamed of being late, wondering whether his mother would have waited for him (which would haveannoyed him), or if she would have finished her breakfast (which wouldhave annoyed him still more). Happily for Elinor, she had hit the goldenmean, and was pouring out for herself a second cup of coffee (but Philipwas not aware it was the second) when the boy appeared. She was quiterestored to her usual serenity and freshness, and as eager to know howhe had enjoyed himself as she always was. He gave her a brief sketch ofthe play and of what pleased him in it as in duty bound. "But, " headded, "what interested me almost more was that we had a sort ofa--little play of our own. "

"What?" she cried, with a startled look in her eyes. One thing thatpuzzled him was that she was so very easily startled, which it seemed toPhilip had never been the case before. 

"Well, " he said, "the lady was there whom Uncle John met in thepark--and the girl with her--and I believe the little dog. She made allsorts of signs to him, but he took scarcely any notice. But that's notall, mother----"

"It's a good deal, Pippo----"

"Is it? Why do you speak in that choked voice, mother? I suppose it isjust one of his society acquaintances. But the thing was that beforethe last act somebody else came forward to the front of the box, andfixed--I was going to say his eyes, I mean his opera-glasses upon us. "

Philip had meant to say upon me--but he had produced already so greatan effect on his mother's face that he moderated instinctively the pointof this description. "And stared at us, " he added, "all the rest of thetime, paying not the least attention to anything that was going on. It's a queer sensation, " he went on, with a laugh, "to feel that blackmysterious-looking thing like the eyes of some monster with no speculationin them, fixed upon you. Now, I want you to tell me---- What's thematter, mother?"

"Nothing, Pippo; nothing, " said Elinor, faintly, stooping to lift up abook she had let fall. "Go on with your story. I am very muchinterested; and then, my dear?"

"Mother, " cried Philip, "I don't know what has come over you, or overme. There's something going on I can't understand. You never used tohave any secrets from me. I was always in your confidence--wasn't I, mother?"

It was not a book she had let fall, but a ring that she had dropped fromher finger, and which had to be followed over the carpet. It made herred and flushed when she half raised her head to say, "Yes, Pippo--youknow--I have always told you----"

Philip did not remark that what his mother said was nothing after all. He got up to help her to look for her ring, and put his arm round herwaist as she knelt on the floor. 

"Yes, mamma, " he said, tenderly, protectingly, "I do know: butsomething's changed; either it's in me that makes you feel you can'ttrust me--or else it is in you. And I don't know which would be worst. "

"There is no change, " she said, after a moment, for she could not helpthe ring being found, and immediately when his quick, young eyes cameto the search: but she did not look him in the face. "There is nochange, dear. There is only some worrying business which involves agreat many troubles of my old life before you were born. You shallhear--everything--in a little while: but I cannot enter into it all atthis moment. It is full of complications and--secrets that belong toother people. Pippo, you must promise me to wait patiently, and tobelieve--to believe--always the best you can--of your mother. "

The boy laughed as he raised her up, still holding her with his arm. "Believe the best I can! Well, I don't think that will be a greateffort, mother. Only to think that you can't trust me as you always havedone makes me wretched. We've been such friends, haven't we, mamma?I've always told you everything, or at least everything except just thenonsense at school: and you've told me everything. And if we are goingto be different now----"

"You've told me everything!" the boy was as sure of it as that he wasborn. She had to hold by him to support herself, and it cost her astrong effort to restrain the shiver that ran through her. "We are notgoing to be different, " she said, "as soon as we leave London--orbefore--you shall know everything about this business of mine, Pippo. Will that satisfy you? In the meantime it is not pleasant business, dear; and you must bear with me if I am abstracted sometimes, andoccupied, and cross. "

"But, mother, " said Philip, bending over her with that young celestialfoolish look of gravity and good advice with which a neophyte willsometimes address the much-experienced and heavily-laden pilgrim, "don'tyou think it would be easier if it was all open between us, and I tookmy share? If it is other people's secrets I would not betray them, youknow that. "

Unfortunately Elinor here murmured, scarcely knowing what words camefrom her lips, "That is what John says. "

"John, " said the boy, furious with the quick rage of injured tendernessand pride, "Uncle John! and you tell him more, him, an outsider, thanyou tell me!"

He let her go then, which was a great relief to Elinor, for she couldcommand herself better when he was a little farther off, and could notfeel the thrill that was in her, and the thumping of her heart. 

"You must remember, Pippo, " she said, "what I have told you, that mypresent very disagreeable, very painful business is about things thathappened before you were born, which John knew everything about. He wasmy adviser then, as far as I would take any advice, which I am afraidnever was much, Pippo, " she said; "never, alas! all my life. Granny willtell you that. But John, always the kindest friend and the best brotherin the world, did everything he could. And it would have been better forus all if I had taken his advice instead of always, I fear, always myown way. "

Strangely enough this cheered Pippo and swept the cloud from his face. "I'm glad you didn't take anybody's advice, mother. I shouldn't haveliked it. I've more faith in you than anybody. Well, then, now aboutthis man. What man in the world--I really mean in the world, in what iscalled society, for that is the kind of people they were--could havesuch a curiosity about--me?"

She had resumed her seat, and her face was turned away from him. Alsothe exquisite tone of complacency and innocent self-appreciation withwhich Philip expressed this wonder helped her a little to surmount thesituation. Elinor could have laughed had her heart been only a trifleless burdened. She said: "Are you sure it was at you?"

"Uncle John said something about ladies behind us, but I am sure it wasno ladies behind. It might, of course, " the boy added, cautiously, "havebeen _him_, you know. I suppose Uncle John's a personage, isn't he? Butafter all, you know, hang it, mother, it isn't easy to believe that afellow like that would stare so at Uncle John. "

"Poor John! It is true there is not much novelty about him, " saidElinor, with a tremble in her voice, which, if it was half agitation, was yet a little laughter too: for there are scarcely any circumstances, however painful, in which those who are that way moved by nature arequite able to quench the unconquerable laugh. She added, with a falterin which there was no laughter, "and what--was the--fellow like?"

"All that I could see was that he was a tall man. I saw his largeshirt-front and his black evening clothes, and something like grey hairabove those two big, black goggles----"

"Grey hair!" Elinor said, with a low suppressed cry. 

"He never took them away from his eyes for a moment, so of course Icould not see his face, or anything much except that he was more thancommon tall--like myself, " Pippo said, with a little air of pleasedvanity in the comparison. 

Like himself! She did not make any remark. It is very doubtful whethershe could have done so. There came before her so many visions of thepast, and such a vague, confused, bewildering future, of which she couldform no definite idea what it would be. Was it with a pang that sheforesaw that drawing towards another influence: that mingled instinct, curiosity, perhaps admiration and wonder, which already seemed to moveher boy's unconscious mind? Elinor did not even know whether that wouldhurt her at all. Even now there seemed a curious pungent sense ofhalf-pleasure in the pain. Like himself! So he was. And if it should bethat it was his father, who for hours had stood there, not taking hiseyes off the boy (for hours her imagination said, though Pippo had notsaid so), his father who had known where she was and never disturbedher, never interfered with her; the man who had summoned her to performher martyrdom for him, never doubting--Phil, with grey hair! To say whatmingled feelings swept through Elinor's mind, with all these elements inthem, is beyond my power. She saw him with his face concealed, standingup unconscious of the crowded place and of the mimic life on the stage, his eyes fixed upon his son whom he had never seen before. Where wasthere any drama in which there was a scene like this? His son, hisonly child, the heir! Unconsciously even to herself that fact had someinfluence, no doubt, on Elinor's thoughts. And it would be impossible tosay how much influence had that unexpected subduing touch of the greyhair: and the strange change in the scene altogether. The foolish, noisy, "fast" woman, with her _tourbillon_ of men and dogs about her, turned into the old lady of Pippo's careless remark, with her daughterbeside her far more important than she: and the tall figure in the frontof the box, with grey hair----

Young Philip had not the faintest light or guidance in the discovery ofhis mother's thoughts. He was much more easy and comfortable now thatthere had been an explanation between them, though it was one of thoseexplanations which explained nothing. He even forgave Uncle John forknowing more than he did, moved thereto by the consolatory thought thatJohn's advice had never been taken, and that his mother had alwaysfollowed her own way. This was an incalculable comfort to Pippo's mind, and gave him composure to wait calmly for the clearing up of themystery, and the restoration of that perfect confidence between hismother and himself which he was so firmly convinced had existed all hislife. He was a great deal happier after, and gave her an excellentaccount of the play, which he had managed to see quite satisfactorily, notwithstanding the other "little play of our own" which ran througheverything. At Philip's age one can see two things at once well enough. I knew a boy who at one and the same moment got the benefit of (1st)his own story book, which he read lying at full length before the fire, half buried in the fur of a great rug; and (2nd) of the novel which wasbeing read out over his head for the benefit of the other members ofthe family--or at least he strenuously asserted he did, and indeedproved himself acquainted with both. Philip in the same way had takenin everything in the play, even while his soul was intent upon theopera-glass in the box. He had not missed anything of either. He gave anaccount of the first, from which the drama might have been written downhad fate destroyed it: and had noticed the _minauderies_ of the heroine, and the eager determination not to be second to her in anything whichdistinguished the first gentleman, as if he had nothing else in hismind: while all the time he had been under the fascination of the twoblack eyeholes _braqués_ upon him, the mysterious gaze as of a ghostfrom eyes which he never saw. 

This occupied some part of the forenoon, and Philip was happy. But whenhe had completed his tale and began to feel the necessity of going out, and remembered that he had nowhere to go and nothing to do, the prospectwas not alluring. He tried very hard to persuade his mother to go outwith him, but this was a risk from which Elinor shrank. She shrank, too, from his proposal at last to go out to the park by himself. 

"To the Row. I sha'n't know the people except those who are in _Punch_every week, and I shall envy the fellows riding--but at least it will besomething to see. "

"I wish you would not go to the Row, Pippo. "

"Why, mother? Doesn't everybody go? And you never were here at this timeof the year before. "

"No, " she said, with a long breath of despair. No; of all times of theyear this was the one in which she had never risked him in London. And, oh! that he had been anywhere in the world except London now!

Philip, who had been watching her countenance with great interest, here patted her on the shoulder with condescending, almost paternal, kindness. "Don't you be frightened, mother. I'll not get into anymischief. I'll neither be rode over, nor robbed, nor run away. I'lltake as great care of myself as if you had been there. "

"I'm not afraid that you will be ridden over or robbed, " she said, forcing a smile; "but there is one thing, Pippo. Don't talk to anybodywhom you--don't know. Don't let yourself be drawn into---- If you shouldmeet, for instance, that lady--who was in the theatre last night. "

"Yes, mother?"

"Don't let her make acquaintance with you; don't speak to her, nor thegirl, nor any one that may be with her. At the risk even of beinguncivil----"

"Why, mother, " he said, elevating his eyebrows, "how could I be uncivilto a lady?"

"Because I tell you, " she cried, "because you must--because I shall sithere in terror counting every moment till you come back, if you don'tpromise me this. "

He looked at her with the most wondering countenance, half disapproving, half pitying. Was she going mad? what was happening to her? was sheafter all, though his mother, no better than the jealous foolish womenin books, who endeavoured at all costs to separate their children fromevery influence but their own? How could Pippo think such things of hismother? and yet what else could he think?

"I had better, " he said, "if that is how you feel, mother, not go to theRow at all. "

"Much better, much better!" she cried. "I'll tell you what we'll do, Pippo--you have never been to see--the Tower. " She had run over all themost far-off and unlikely places in her mind, and this occurred to heras the most impossible of all to attract any visitor of whom she couldbe afraid. "I have changed my mind, " she added. "Well have a hansom, andI will go with you to see the Tower. "

"So long as you go with me, " said Pippo, "I don't care where I go. "

And they set out almost joyfully as in their old happy expeditions ofold, for that long drive through London in the hansom. And yet the boywas only lulled for the moment, and in his heart was more and moreperplexed what his mother could mean. 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

Fortune was favourable to Elinor that day. At the Tower, where she dulywent over everything that was to be seen with Pippo, conscious all thetime of his keen observance of her through all that he was doing, andeven through his interest in what he saw--and feeling for the first timein her life that there was between her boy and her something that hefelt, something that was not explained by anything she had said, andthat awaited the dreadful moment when everything would have to betold--at the Tower, as I say, they met some friends from the north, therector of the parish, who had come up with his son to see town, and wasnaturally taking his boy, as Elinor took hers, to see all that was nottown, in the usual sense of the word. They were going to Woolwich andGreenwich next day, and with a pang of mingled trouble and relief in hermind Elinor contrived to engage Pippo to accompany them. On the secondday I think they were to go to St. Katherine's Docks, or the Isle ofDogs, or some other equally important and interesting sight--far betterno doubt for the two youths than to frequent such places as the Row, andgaze at the stream of gaiety and luxury which they could not join. Pippoin ordinary circumstances would have been delighted to see Woolwich andthe docks--but it was so evident to him that his mother was anxiouslydesirous to dispose of him so, that his satisfaction was much lessened. The boy, however, was magnanimous enough to consent without any appearanceof reluctance. In the many thoughts which filled his mind Philip showedhis fine nature, by having already come to consent to the possibilitythat his mother might have business of her own into which he had noright to enter unless at her own time and with her full consent. Itcost him an effort, I allow, to come to that: but yet he did so, andresolved, a little pride helping him, to inquire no more, and if possibleto wonder or be offended no more, but to wait the time she had promised, when the old rule of perfect confidence should be re-established betweenthem. The old rule! if Pippo had but known! nothing yet had givenElinor such a sense of guilt as his conviction that she had told himeverything, that there had been no secrets between them during all thehappy life that was past. 

How entirely relieved Elinor was when he started to join his friendsnext morning it would be impossible to put into words. She watched allhis lingering movements before he went with eyes in which she tried toquench the impatience, and look only with the fond admiration andinterest she felt upon all his little preparations, his dawning sense ofwhat was becoming in apparel, the flower in his coat, the carefullyrolled umbrella, the hat brushed to the most exquisite smoothness, thehandkerchief just peeping from his breast-pocket. It is always arevelation to a woman to find that these details occupy as much of ayoung man's attention as her own toilette occupies hers; and that he isas tremulously alive to "what is worn" in many small particulars thatnever catch her eye, as she is to details which entirely escape him. Shesmiles at him as he does at her, each in that conscious superiority tothe other, which is on the whole an indulgent sentiment. Underneath allher anxiety to see him go, to get rid of him (was that the dreadfultruth in this terrible crisis of her affairs?), she felt the amusementof the boy's little coquetries, and the mother's admiration of his freshlooks, his youthful brightness, his air of distinction; how differentfrom the Rector's boy, who was a nice fellow enough, and a credit to hisrectory, and whose mother, I do not doubt, felt in his ruddy good lookssomething much superior in robustness, and strength, and manhood to thetoo-tall and too-slight golden youth of the ladies at Lakeside! It evenflitted across Elinor's mind to give him within herself the title thatwas to be his, everybody said--Lord Lomond! And then she asked herselfindignantly what honour it could add to her spotless boy to have such avain distinction; a name that had been soiled by so much ignoble use?Elinor had prided herself all her life on an indifference to, almost acontempt for, the distinctions of rank: and that it should occur to herto think of that title as an embellishment to Pippo--nay, to thinkfurtively, without her own knowledge, so to speak, that Pippo lookedevery inch a lord and heir to a peerage, was an involuntary weaknessalmost incredible. She blushed for herself as she realised it:--apeerage which had meant so little that was excellent--a name connectedwith so many undesirable precedents: still I suppose when it is his owneven the veriest democrat is conscious at least of the picturesqueness, the superiority, as a mode of distinguishing one man from another, ofanything that can in the remotest sense be called a historical name. 

When Pippo was out of sight Elinor turned from the window with a sigh, and came back to the dark chamber of her own life, full at this momentof all the gathered blackness of the past and of the future. She put herhands over her eyes, and sank down upon a seat, as if to shut out fromherself all that was before her. But shut it out as she might, there itwas--the horrible court with the judgment-seat, the rows of faces bentupon her, the silence through which her own voice must rise alone, saying--what? What was it she was called there to say? Oh, how littlethey knew who suggested that her mother should have been called insteadof her, with all her minute old-fashioned calculations and exact memory, who even now, when all was over, would probably convict Elinor of amistake! Even at that penalty what would not she give to have it over, the thing said, the event done with, whatever it might bring after it!And it could now be only a very short time till the moment of theordeal would come, when she should stand up in the face of her country, before the solemn judge on his bench, before all the gaping, wonderingpeople--before, oh! thought most dreadful of all, which we would not, could not, contemplate--before one who knew everything, and say---- Shepicked herself up trembling as it were, and uncovered her eyes, andprotested to herself that she would say nothing that was not true. Nothing that was not true! She would tell her story--so well remembered, so often conned; that story that had been put into her lips twenty yearsago which she had repeated then confused, not knowing how it was thatwhat was a simple fact should nevertheless not be true. Alas! she knewthat very well now, and yet would have to repeat it before God and theworld. But thinking would make it no better--thinking could only make itworse. She sprang up again, and began to occupy herself with somethingshe had to do: the less it was thought over the better: for now thetrial had begun, and her ordeal would soon be done too. If only the boycould be occupied, kept away--if only she could be left alone to do whatshe had to do! That he should be there was the last aggravation of whichher fate was capable; there in idleness, reading the papers in themorning, which was a thing she had so lately calculated a boy at schoolwas unlikely to do; and what so likely as that his eye would be caughtby his own name in the report of the trial, which would be an excitingtrial and fully reported--a trial which interested society. The boywould see his own name: she could almost hear him cry out, looking upfrom his breakfast, "Hallo, mother! here's something about a PhilipCompton!" And all the questions that would follow--"Is he the sameComptons that we are? What Comptons do we belong to? You never toldme anything about my family. Is this man any relation, I wonder?Both surname and Christian name the same. It's strange if there is noconnection!" She could almost hear the words he would say--all thatand more--and what should she reply?

"I have only one thing to say, Elinor, " said John, to whom in herdesperation she turned again, as she always did, disturbing him, poorman, in his chambers as he was collecting his notes and his thoughtsin the afternoon after his work was over: "it is the same as I havealways said; even now make a clean breast of it to the boy. Tell himeverything; better that he should hear it from your own lips than thatit should burst upon him as a discovery. He has but to meet LadyMariamne in the park, the most likely thing in the world----"

"No, John, " cried Elinor, "no; the Marshalls are here, our Rector fromLakeside, and he is taking his boy to see all the sights. I have gotPippo to go with them. They are going to Woolwich to-day, and afterwardsto quite a long list of things--oh, entirely out of everybody's way. "

Her little look of uneasy triumph and satisfaction made John smile. Shewas not half so sure as she tried to look; but, all the same, had a littlepride, a little pleasure in her own management, and in the happy chanceof the Marshalls being in London, which was a thing that could not havebeen planned, an intervention of Providence. He could not refuse tosmile--partly with her, partly at her simplicity--but, all the same, heshook his head. 

"The only way in which there is any safety--the only chance of preservinghim from a shock, a painful shock, Elinor, that may upset him forlife----"

"How do you mean, upset him for life?"

"By showing him that his mother, whom he believes in like heaven, hasdeceived him since ever he was born. "

She covered her face with her hands, and burst into a sobbing cry. "Oh, John, you don't know how true that is! He said to me only yesterday, 'You have always told me everything, mother. There has never been anysecret between us. ' Oh! John, John, only think of having that said tome, and knowing what I know!"

"Well, Elinor; believe me, my dear, there is but one thing to do. Theboy is a good boy, full of love and kindness. "

"Oh, isn't he, John? the best boy, the dearest----"

"And adores his mother, as a boy should, " John got up from his chair andwalked about the room for a little, and then he came behind her and puthis hand on her shoulder. "Tell him, Elinor: my dear Nelly, as if I hadnever said a word on the subject before, I beseech you tell him, trusthim fully, even now, at the eleventh hour. "

She raised her head with a quivering, wistful smile. "The moment thetrial is over, the moment it is over! I give you my word, John. "

"Do not wait till it is over, do it now; to-night when he comes home. "

She began to tremble so that John Tatham was alarmed--and kept lookingat him with an imploring look, her lips quivering and every line in hercountenance. "Oh, not to-night. Spare me to-night! After the trial;after my part of it. At least--after--after--oh, give me till to-morrowto think of it!"

"My dear Elinor, I count for nothing in it. I am not your judge; I amyour partisan, you know, whatever you do. But I am sure it will be thebetter done, and even the easier done, the sooner you do it. "

"I will--I will: at the very latest the day after I have done my part atthe trial. Is not that enough to think of at one time, for a poor womanwho has never stood up before the public in all her life, never had aquestion put to her? Oh, John! oh, John!"

"Elinor, Elinor! you are too sensible a woman to make a fuss about asimple duty like this. "

"There speaks the man who has stood before the world all his life, andis not afraid of any public, " she said, with a tremulous laugh. But shehad won her moment's delay, and thus was victorious after a fashion, asit was her habit to be. 

I do not know that young Philip much amused himself at Woolwich thatday. He did and he did not. He could not help being interested inall he saw, and he liked the Marshalls well enough, and in ordinarycircumstances would have entered very heartily into any sight-seeing. But he kept thinking all the time what his mother was doing, andwondering over the mysterious business which was to be explained to himsooner or later, and which he had so magnanimously promised to wait forthe revelation of, and entertain no suspicions about in the meantime. The worst of such magnanimity is that it is subject to dreadful failingsof the heart in its time of waiting--never giving in, indeed, but yetfeeling the pressure whenever there is a moment to think. This mattermixed itself up so with all Philip saw that he never in after lifesaw a great cannon, or a pyramid of balls (which is not, to be sure, anevery-day sight) without a vague sensation of trouble, as of somethinglying behind which was concealed from him, and which he would scarcelyendure to have concealed. When he left his friends in the evening, however, it was with another engagement for to-morrow, and severalto-morrows after, and great jubilation on the part of both father andson, as to their good luck in meeting, and having his companionship intheir pleasures. And, in fact, these pleasures were carried on forseveral days, always with the faint bitter in them to Philip, of thatconsciousness that his mother was pleased to be rid of him, glad to seehis back turned, the most novel, extraordinary sensation to the boy. And it must also be confessed that he kept a very keen eye on all thepassing carriages, always hoping to see that one in which the witch, as he called her, and the girl with the keen eyes were--for he had notpicked up the name of Lady Mariamne, keen as his young ears were, andthough John had mentioned it in his presence, partly, perhaps, becauseit was so very unlikely a name. As for the man with the opera-glasses, he had not seen his face at all, and therefore could not hope torecognise him. And yet he felt a little thrill run through him when anytall man with grey hair passed in the street. He almost thought he couldhave known the tall slim figure with a certain swaying movement in it, which was not like anybody else. I need not say, however, that even hadthese indications been stronger, Woolwich and the Isle of Dogs wereunlikely places in which to meet Lady Mariamne, or any gentleman likelyto be in attendance on her. In Whitechapel, indeed, had he but known, hemight have met Miss Dolly: but then in Whitechapel there were nosights which virtuous youth is led to see. And Philip's man with theopera-glass was, during these days, using that aid to vision in a verydifferent place, and had neither leisure nor inclination to move vaguelyabout the world. 

For three days this went on successfully enough: young Philip Comptonand Ralph Marshall saw enough to last them all the rest of their lives, and there was no limit to the satisfaction of the good country clergyman, who felt that he never could have succeeded so completely in improvinghis son's mind, instead of delivering him over to the frivolous amusementsof town, if it had not been for the companionship of Philip, who madeRalph feel that it was all right, and that he was not being victimisedfor nothing. But on the fourth day a hitch occurred. John Tatham hadbeen made to give all sorts of orders and admissions for the partyto see every nook and corner of the Temple, much to Elinor's alarm, who felt that place was too near to be safe; but she was herself incircumstances too urgent to permit her dwelling upon it. She had leftthe house on that particular morning long before Philip was ready, andevery anxiety was dulled in her mind for the moment by the overwhelmingsense of the crisis arrived. She went to his room before he had left it, and gave him a kiss, and told him that she might be detained for a longtime; that she did know exactly at what hour she should return. Shewas very pale, paler than he had ever seen her, and her manner had asuppressed agitation in it which startled Philip; but she managed tosmile as she assured him she was quite well, and that there was nothingtroubling her. "Nothing, nothing that has to do with us--a littledisturbed for a friend--but that will be all over, " she said, "to-night, I hope. " Philip made a leisurely breakfast after she was gone, and ithappened to him that morning for the first time as he was alone to makea study of the papers. And the consequence was that he said to himselfreally those words which his mother in imagination had so often heardhim say, "Hallo! Philip Compton, my name! I wonder if he is any relation. I wonder if we have anything to do with those St. Serf Comptons. " Thenhe reflected, but vaguely, that he did not know to what Comptons hebelonged, nor even what county he came from, to tell the truth. And thenit was time to hurry over his breakfast, to swallow his cup of tea, tosnatch up his hat and gloves, and to rush off to meet his friends. Buton that day Philip was unlucky. When he got to the place of meeting hefound nothing but a telegram from Ralph, announcing that his father wasso knocked up with his previous exertions that they were obliged to takea quiet day. And thus Philip was left in the Temple, of all places inthe world, on the day when his mother was to appear in the law-courtsclose by--on the day of all others when if she could have sent him fortwenty-four hours to the end of the earth she would have done so--on theday when so terrible was the stress and strain upon herself that foronce in the world even Pippo had gone as completely out of her mind asif he had not been. 

The boy looked about him for awhile, and reflected what to do, andthen he started out into the Strand, conscientiously waiting for theMarshalls before he should visit the Temple and all its historical ways;and then he was amused and excited by seeing a barrister or two in wigand gown pass by; and then he thought of the trial in the newspapers, in which somebody who, like himself, was called Philip Compton, wasinvolved. Philip was still lingering, wondering if he could get into thecourt, a little shy of trying, but gradually growing eager, thinking atleast that he would try and get a sight of the wonderful grand building, still so new, when he suddenly saw Simmons, his uncle John's clerk, passing through the quadrangle of the law-courts. Here was his chance. He rushed forward and caught the clerk by the arm, who was in a greathurry, as everybody seemed to be. "Oh, Simmons, can you get me into thatBrown trial?" cried Philip. "Brown!" Simmons said. "Mr. Tatham is not onin that. " "Oh, never mind about Mr. Tatham, " said the boy. "Can't youget me in? I have never seen a trial, and I take an interest in that. ""I advise you, " said Simmons, "to wait for one that your uncle's in. ""Can't you get me in?" said Philip, impatiently: and this touched thepride of Simmons, who had many friends, if not in high places, yet inlow. 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

Philip had never been in a court of law before. I am almost as ignorantas he was, yet I cannot imagine anything more deeply interesting thanto find one's self suddenly one of a crowded assembly trying more orless--for is not the public but a larger jury, sometimes contradictingthe verdict of the other, and when it does so almost invariably winningthe cause?--a fellow-creature, following out the traces of his crime orhis innocence, looking on while a human drama is unrolled, often farmore interesting than any dramatic representation of life. He wasconfused for the moment by the crowd, by the new and unusual spectacle, by the bewilderment of seeing for the first time what he had so oftenheard of, the judge on the bench, the wigged barristers below, the onewho was speaking, so different from any other public speaker Philip hadever heard, addressing not the assembly, but the smaller circle roundhim, interrupted by other voices: the accused in his place and thewitness--standing there more distinctly at the bar than the culpritwas--bearing his testimony before earth and heaven, with the fateof another hanging on his words. The boy was so full of the novelsight--which yet he had heard of so often that he could identify everypart of it, and soon perceived the scope of what was going on--that hedid not at first listen, so full was he of the interest of what he saw. The imperturbable judge, grave, letting no emotion appear on his face;the jury, just the reverse, showing how this and that piece of evidenceaffected them; the barristers who were engaged, so keenly alive toeverything, starting up now and then when the witness swerved from thesubject, when the opposition proposed a leading question, or one thatwas irrelevant to the issue; the others who were not "in it, " as Simmonssaid, so indifferent; and then the spectators who had places about ornear the central interest. Philip saw, with a sudden leap of his heart, the ladies of the theatre and park, the witch and the girl with the keeneyes, in a conspicuous place; the old lady, as he called her, full ofmovement and gesture, making signs to others near her, keeping up aninterrupted whispering, the girl at her side as impassive as the judgehimself. And then Pippo's roving eye caught a figure seated among thebarristers with an opera-glass, which made his heart jump still more. Was that the man? He had, at the moment Philip perceived him, hisopera-glass in his hand: a tall man leaning back with a look ofinterest, very conspicuous among the wigged heads about him, with greyhair in a mass on his forehead as if it had grown thin and had beencoaxed to cover some denuded place, and a face which it seemed to Philiphe had seen before, a face worn--was it with study, was it with trouble?Pippo knew of no other ways in which the eyes could be so hollowed out, and the lines so deeply drawn. A man, perhaps, hard worn with life andlabor and sorrow. A strange sympathy sprang up in the boy's mind: he wassure he knew the face. It was a face full of records, though youngPhilip could not read them--the face, he thought, of a man who had hadmuch to bear. Was it the same man who had fixed so strange a gaze uponhimself at the theatre? And what interest could this man have in thetrial that was going on?

The accused at the bar was certainly not of a kind to arouse theinterest which sprang into being at sight of this worn and noble hero. He had the air of a comfortable man of business, a man evidently welloff, surprised at once and indignant to find himself there, sometimesbursting with eagerness to explain, sometimes leaning back with an airof affected contempt--not a good man in trouble, as Philip would haveliked to think him, nor a criminal fully conscious of what might beawaiting him; but a man of the first respectability, indignant andincredulous that anything should be brought against him. Philip felthimself able to take no interest whatever in Mr. Brown. 

It was not till he had gone through all these surprises and observationsthat he began to note what was being said. Philip was not learned in theprocedure of the law, nor did he know anything about the case; but itbecame vaguely apparent to him after awhile that the immediate questionconcerned the destruction of the books of a joint-stock company, ofwhich Brown was the manager, an important point which the prosecutionhad some difficulty in bringing home to him. After it had been provedthat the books had been destroyed, and that so far as was known itwas to Brown's interest alone to destroy them, the evidence as to whathad been seen on the evening on which this took place suddenly took anew turn, and seemed to introduce a new actor on the scene. Some onehad been seen to enter the office in the twilight who could not beidentified with Brown; whom, indeed, even Philip, with his boyishinterest in the novelty of the proceedings, vaguely perceived to beanother man. The action of the piece, so to speak (for it was like aplay to Philip), changed and wavered here--and he began to be sensibleof the character of the different players in it. The counsel for theprosecution was a well-known and eminent barrister, one of the mostnoted of the time, a man before whom witnesses trembled, and even theBench itself was sometimes known to quail. That this was the case on thepresent occasion Philip vaguely perceived. There were points continuallyarising which the opposing counsel made objections to, appealing to thejudge; but it rarely failed that the stronger side, which was that ofthe prosecution, won the day. The imperious accuser, whose resources ofprecedent and argument seemed boundless, carried everything with ahigh hand. The boy, of course, was not aware of the weakness of therepresentative of the majesty of the law, nor the inferiority, in forceand skill, of the defence; but he gradually came to a practicalperception of how the matter stood. 

Philip listened with growing interest, sometimes amused, sometimesindignant, as the remorseless prosecutor ploughed his way through thewitnesses, whom he bullied into admissions that they were certain ofnothing, and that in the dusk of that far-off evening, the man whom theyhad sworn at the time to be quite unlike him, might in reality have beenBrown. Philip got greatly interested in this question. He took up theopposite side himself with much heat, feeling as sure as if he had beenthere that it was not Brown: and he was delighted in his excitement, when there stood up one man who would not be bullied, a man who had theair of a respectable clerk of the lower class, and who held his own. Hehad been an office boy, the son apparently of the housekeeper in chargeof the premises referred to when the incident occurred, and the gist ofhis evidence was that the prisoner at the bar--so awful a personage onceto the little office boy, so curtly discussed now as Brown--had left theoffice at four o'clock in the afternoon of the 6th of September, and hadnot appeared again. 

"A different gentleman altogether came in the evening, a much tallerman, with a large moustache. "

"Where was it that you saw this man?"

"Slipping in at the side door of the office as if he didn't want to beseen. "

"Was that a door which was generally open, or used by the public?"

"Never, sir; but none of the doors were used at that time of night. "

"And how, then, could any one get admittance there?"

"Only those that had private keys; the directors had their privatekeys. "

"Then your conclusion was that it was a director, and that he had aright to be there?"

"I knew it was a director, sir, because I knew the gentleman, " thewitness said. 

"You say it was late in the evening of the 6th of September. Was itdaylight at the time?"

"Oh, no, sir; nearly dark--a sort of a half light. "

"Did the person you saw go in openly, or make any attempt at concealment?"

"He had a light coat on, like the coats gentlemen wear when they go tothe theatre, and something muffled round his throat, and his hat pulleddown over his face. "

"Like a person who wished to conceal himself?"

"Yes, sir, " said the witness. 

"And how, then, if he was muffled about the throat, and his hat pulledover his face, in the half light late in the evening, could you see thathe had a large moustache?"

The witness stood and stared with his mouth open, and made no reply. 

The counsel, with a louder voice and those intonations of contemptuousinsinuation which are calculated to make a man feel that he is convictedof the basest perjury, and is being held up to the reprobation of theworld, repeated the question, "How could you see that he had a largemoustache?"

"I saw it, " said the witness, hotly, "because I knew the gentleman. "

"And how did you know the gentleman? You thought you recognised thegentleman, and therefore, though you could not possibly perceive it, yousaw his moustache? I fear that is not an answer that will satisfy thejury. "

"I submit, " said the counsel for the defence, "that it is very evidentwhat the witness means. He recognised a man with whose appearance he wasperfectly familiar. "

"I saw him, " said the witness, "as clear as I see you, sir. "

"What! in the dark, late on a September night, with a coat collar up tohis ears, and a hat pulled down over his face! You see my learned friendin broad daylight, and with the full advantage of standing oppositeto him and studying his looks at your leisure. You might as well saybecause you know the gentleman that you could see his half was dark andabundant under his wig. "

At this a laugh ran through the court, at which Philip, listening, wasfuriously indignant, as it interrupted the course of the investigation. It was through the sound of this laugh that he heard the witness demandloudly, "How could I be mistaken, when I saw Mr. Compton every day?"

Mr. Compton! Philip's heart began to beat like the hammers of asteam-engine. Was this, then, the real issue? And who was Mr. Compton?He could not have told how it was that he somehow identified the manwhom the witness had seen, or had not seen, with the man who had theopera-glass, and who had fixed a dreadful blank stare upon the other inthe witness-box during a great part of this discussion. Was it he whowas on his trial, and not Brown? And who was he? And where was it thatPhilip had known and grown familiar with that face, which, so far as hecould remember, he had never seen before, but which belonged to the manwho bore his own name?

When the counsel for the prosecution had turned the unfortunate witnessoutside in, and proved that he knew nothing and had seen nobody: andthat, besides, he was a man totally unworthy of credit, who had liedfrom his cradle, and whose own mother and friends put no trust in him, the court adjourned for lunch. But Philip forgot that he required anylunch. His mind was filled with echoes of that name. He began to feel astrange certainty that it was the same man who had fixed him with thesame gaze in the theatre. Who was Mr. Compton, and what was he? Thequestion took the boy's breath away. 

He sat through the interval, finding a place where he could see better, through the kind offices of the usher to whom Simmons had commended him, and waiting with impatience till the trial should be resumed. Nobodyremarked the boy among the crowd of the ordinary public, many of whomremained, as he did, to see it out, Philip cared nothing about Brown:all that he wanted to know was about this namesake of his--this Compton, this other man, who was not Brown. If it was the man with the opera-glass, he was not so much excited as his young namesake, for he went toluncheon with the rest; while the boy remained counting the minutes, eager to begin the story, the drama, again. The impression left, however, on Philip's impartial mind was that the last witness, thoughdriven and badgered out of what wits he had by the examination, hadreally seen a man whom he perfectly knew, his recognition of whom wasnot really affected either by the twilight or the disguise. 

The thrill of interest which he felt running through all his veins asthe court filled again was like, but stronger than, the interest withwhich he had ever seen the curtain rise in the theatre. His heart beat:he felt as if in some sort it was his own fate that was going to bedecided: all his prepossessions were in favour of that other accused, yet not openly accused, person who was not Brown; and yet he felt almostas sure as if he had been there that the office boy of twenty years agohad seen that man stealing in at the side door. 

Young Philip did not catch the name of the next witness who was called;such a thing will happen sometimes even with the quickest ear at amoment when every whisper is important. If he had heard he wouldprobably have thought that he was deceived by his excitement, impossibleas it was that such a name should have anything to do with this or anyother trial. The shock therefore was unbroken when, watching with allthe absorbed interest of a spectator at the most exciting play, the boysaw a lady come slowly forward into the witness-box. Philip had thesame strange sense of knowing who it was that he had felt the previouswitness to have in respect to the man whom he could not see, but yet hadinfallibly recognised: but he said to himself, No! it was not possible!No! it was not possible! She came forward slowly, put up the veil thathad covered her face, and grasped the bar before her to support herself;and then the boy sprang to his feet, in the terrible shock whichelectrified him from head to feet! His movements, and the stifled cryhe uttered, made a little commotion in the crowd, and called forth thecry of "Silence in the court. " His neighbours around him hustled himback into his place, where he sank down incapable indeed of movement, knowing that he could not go and pluck her from that place--could notrush to her side, could do nothing but sit there and gasp and gazeat his mother. His mother, in such a place! in such a case! withwhich--surely, surely--she could have nothing to do. Elinor Compton, atthe time referred to Elinor Dennistoun, of Windyhill, in Surrey--therewas no doubt about the name now. And Philip had time enough toidentify everything, name and person, for there rose a vague surgingof contention about the first questions put to her, which were notevidence, according to the counsel on the other side, which he felt withfury was done on purpose to prolong the agony. During this time shestood immovable, holding on by the rail before her, her eyes fixed uponit, perfectly pale, like marble, and as still. Among all the moving, rustling, palpitating crowd, and the sharp volleys of the lawyers'voices, and even the contradictory opinions elicited from the harassedjudge himself--to look at that figure standing there, which scarcelyseemed to breathe, had the most extraordinary effect. For a time Philipwas like her, scarcely breathing, holding on in an unconscious sympathyto the back of the seat before him, his eyes wide open, fixed upon her. But as his nerves began to accustom themselves to that extraordinary, inconceivable sight, the other particulars of the scene came out ofthe mist, and grew apparent to him in a lurid light that did not seemthe light of day. He saw the eager looks at her of the ladies in theprivileged places, the whispers that were exchanged among them. He sawunderneath the witness-box, almost within reach of her, John Tatham, with an anxious look on his face. And then he saw, what was the mostextraordinary of all, the man--who had been the centre of his interesttill now--the man whose name was Philip Compton, like his own; he whofixed the last witness with the stare of his opera-glass, who had keptit in perpetual use. He had put it down now on the table before him, hisarms were folded on his breast, and his head bent. Philip thought hedetected now and then a furtive look under his brows at the motionlesswitness awaiting through the storm of words the moment when her turnwould come; but though he had leant forward all the time, followingevery point of the proceedings with interest, he now drew back, effacedhimself, retired as it were from the scene. What was there between thesetwo? Was there any link between them? What was the drama about to beplayed out before Pippo's innocent and ignorant eyes? At last the stormand wrangling seemed to come to an end, and there came out low but clearthe sound of her voice. It seemed only now, when he heard his motherspeak, that he was certified that so inconceivable a thing as that sheshould be here was a matter of fact: his mother here! Philip fixed hiswhole being upon her--eyes, thoughts, absorbed attention, he scarcelyseemed to breathe except through her. Could she see him, he wondered, through all that crowd? But then he perceived that she saw nothing withthose eyes that looked steadily in front of her, not turning a glanceeither to the right or left. 

For some time Philip was baffled completely by the questions put, whichwere those to which the counsel on the other side objected as notevidence, and which seemed, even to the boy's inexperienced mind, to bemere play upon the subject, attempts to connect her in some way with thequestion as to Brown's guilt or innocence. Something in the appearance, at this stage, of a lady so unlike the other witnesses, seemed toexercise a certain strange effect, however, quickening everybody'sinterest, and when the examining counsel approached the question of thedate which had already been shown to be so momentous, all interruptionswere silenced, and the court in general, like Philip, held its breath. There were many there expecting what are called in the newspapers"revelations:" the defence was taken by surprise, and did not know whatnew piece of evidence was about to be produced: and even the examiningcounsel was, for such a man, subdued a little by the other complicatingthreads of the web among which he had to pick his way. 

"You recollect, " he said in his most soothing tones; "the evening of the6th September, 1863?"

She bowed her head in reply. And then as if that was sparing herself toomuch, added a low "Yes. "

"As I am instructed, you were not then married, but engaged to Mr. Philip Compton. Is that so?"

"Yes. "

"One of the directors of the company of which the defendant wasmanager?"

"I believe so. "

"I am sorry to have to enter upon matters so private: but there was somequestion, I believe, about an investment to be made of a portion of yourfortune in the hands of this company?"

"Yes. "

"You received a visit from Mr. Compton on the subject on the day I havementioned. "

The witness made a slight movement and pause: then answered as before, but more firmly, "Yes:" she added, "not on this subject, " in a lowertone. 

"You can recollect, more or less exactly, the time of his arrival?"

"Yes. It was in the evening, after dinner; in the darkening before thelamps were lit. "

"Were you looking for him on that night?"

"No; it was an unexpected visit. He was going to Ireland, and paused onhis way through town to come down to Windyhill. "

"You have particular reasons for remembering the date, which make itimpossible that there could be any mistake?"

"No; there could be no mistake. "

"You will perhaps inform the court, Mrs. Compton, why your memory is soexact on this point. "

Once more she hesitated for a moment, and then replied--

"It was exactly ten days before my marriage. "

"I think that will do, Mrs. Compton. I will trouble you no further, " thecounsel said. 

The hubbub which sprang up upon this seemed to Philip for the moment asif it were directed against his mother, which, of course, was not thecase, but intended to express the indignant surprise of the defence atthe elaborate examination of a witness who had nothing to say on themain subject. 

The leader on the other side, however, though taken by surprise, anddenouncing the trick which his learned brother had played upon the courtby producing evidence which had really nothing to do with the matter, announced his intention to put a further question or two to Mrs. Compton. Young Philip in the crowd started again from his seat with thefeeling that he would like to fly at that man's throat. 

"Twenty years is a long time, " he said, "and it is difficult to be sureof any circumstance at such a distance. Perhaps the witness will kindlyinform us what were the circumstances which fixed this, no doubt one ofmany visits, on her mind?"

Elinor turned for the first time to the side from which the questioncame with a little movement of that impatience which was habitual toher, which three persons in that crowd recognised in a moment ascharacteristic. One of these was John Tatham, who had brought her to thecourt, and kept near that she might feel that she was not alone; theother was her son, of whose presence there nobody knew; the third, satwith his eyes cast down, and his arms folded on his breast, not lookingat her, yet seeing every movement she made. 

"It was a very simple circumstance, " she said with the added spirit ofthat impetuous impulse: but then the hasty movement failed her, and shecame back to herself and to a consciousness of the scene in which shestood. A sort of tremulous shiver came into her voice. She paused andthen resumed, "There was a calendar hanging in the hall; it caught Mr. Compton's eye, and he pointed it out to me. It marked the 6th. He said, 'Just ten days----'"

Here her voice stopped altogether. She could say no more. And there wasan answering pause throughout the whole crowded court, a holding of thegeneral breath, the response to a note of passion seldom struck in sucha place. Even in the cross-examination there was a pause. 

"Till when? What was the other date referred to?"

"The sixteenth of September, " she said in a voice that was scarcelyaudible to the crowd. She added still more low so that the judge curvedhis hand over his ear to hear her, "Our wedding-day. "

"I regret to enter into private matters, Mrs. Compton, but I believe itis not a secret that your married life came to a--more rapid conclusionthan could have been augured from such a beginning. May I ask what yourreasons were for----"

But here the other counsel sprang to his feet, and the contention aroseagain. Such a question was not clearly permissible. And the prosecutionwas perfectly satisfied with the evidence. It narrowed the question bythe production of this clear and unquestionable testimony--the gentlemanwhom it had been attempted to involve being thus placed out of thequestion, and all the statements of the previous witness about themoustache which he could not see, etc. , set aside. 

Philip, it may be supposed, paid little attention to this furtherdiscussion. His eyes and thoughts were fixed upon his mother, who for aminute or two stood motionless through it, as pale as ever, but with herhead a little thrown back, facing, though not looking at, the circlinglines of faces. Had she seen anything she must have seen the tall boystanding up as pale as she, following her movements with an unconsciousrepetition which was more than sympathy, never taking his gaze from herface. 

And then presently her place was empty, and she was gone. 

Philip was not aware how the discussion of the lawyers ended, but onlythat in a moment there was vacancy where his mother had been standing, and his gaze seemed thrown back to him by the blank where she had been. He was left in the midst of the crowd, which, after that one keensensation, fell back upon the real trial with interest much less keen. 

CHAPTER XLV. 

Philip did not know how long he remained, almost paralysed, in thecourt, dazed in his mind, incapable of movement. He was in the centre ofa long row of people, and to make his way out was difficult. He feltthat the noise would call attention to him, and that he might be somehowidentified--identified, as what? He did not know--his head was not clearenough to give any reason. When he came more to himself, and his eyesregained a little their power of vision, it seemed to him that everybodyhad stolen away. There was the judge, indeed, still sitting imperturbable, the jury restless in their box, the lawyers going on with their eternalquarrel over a bewildered witness, all puppets carrying on someunintelligible, wearisome, automaton process, contending, contending forever about nothing. But all that had secured Philip's attention wasgone. John Tatham's head was no longer visible under the witness-box;the ladies had disappeared from their elevated seats; the man with theopera-glass was gone. They were all gone, and the empty husks of aquestion which only concerned the comfort and life of the commonplaceculprit in the dock were being turned over and over like chaff bythe wind. And yet it was some time before poor young Pippo, shy ofattracting attention, feeling some subtle change even in himself whichhe did not understand, afraid to have people look at him and divine him, knowing more of him perhaps than he himself knew, could make up his mindto move. He might have remained there till the court broke up but forthe movement of some one beside him, who gathered up his hat andumbrella, and with some commotion pushed his way between the rowsof seats. Philip followed, thankful of the opportunity, and, as ithappened, the sensation of the day being over, many others followed too, and thus he got out into the curious, wondering daylight, which seemedto look him in the face, as if this Philip had never been seen by itbefore. That was the impression given him--that when he first came outthe atmosphere quivered round him with a strange novelty, as if he weresome other being, some one without a name, new to the world, new tohimself. He did not seem sure that he would know his way home, and yethe did not call a passing hansom, as he would have done yesterday, witha schoolboy's pleasure in assuming a man's careless, easy ways. It is along way from the Law Courts to Ebury Street, but it seemed a kind ofsatisfaction to be in motion, to walk on along the crowded streets. And, as a matter of fact, Philip did lose his way, and got himself entangledin a web of narrow streets and monotonous little openings, all so likeeach other that it took him a long time to extricate himself and findagain the thread of a locality known to him. He did not know what he wasto do when he got in. Should he find her there, in the little dingydrawing-room as usual, with the tea on the table? Would she receive himwith her usual smile, and ask where he had been and what he had seen, and if the Musgraves had enjoyed it, exactly as if nothing had happened?Even this wonder was faint in Philip's mind, for the chief wonder to himwas himself, and to find out how he had changed since the morning--whathe was now, who he was? what were the relations to him of other people, of that other Philip Compton who had been seated in the court with theopera-glass, who had arrived at Windyhill to visit Elinor Dennistoun onthe 6th of September, 1863, twenty years ago? Who was that man? and whatwas he, himself Philip Compton, of Lakeside, named Pippo, whom hismother had never once in all his life called by his real name?

To his great wonder, and yet almost relief, Philip found that his motherhad not yet returned when he got to Ebury Street. "Mrs. Compton said asshe would very likely be late. Can I get you some tea, sir? or, perhapsyou haven't had your lunch? you're looking tired and worrited, " said thelandlady, who had known Pippo all his life. He consented to have tea, partly to fill up the time, and went up languidly to the deserted room, which looked so miserable and desert a place without her who put a soulinto it and made it home. He did not know what to do with himself, poor boy, but sat down vacantly, and stared into empty space, seeing, wherever he turned, the rows of faces, the ladies making signs to eachother, the red robes of the judge, the lawyers contending, and thatmotionless pale figure in the witness-box. He shut his eyes and saw thewhole scene, then opened them again, and still saw it--the dingy wallsdisappearing, the greyness of the afternoon giving a depth and distanceto the limited space. Should he always carry it about with him whereverhe went, the vision of that court, the shock of that revelation? And yethe did not yet know what the revelation was; the confusion in his mindwas too great, and the dust and mist that rose up about him as all theold building of his life crumbled and fell away. 

"I'm sure as it's that nasty trial, sir, as has been turning your mammaall out of her usual ways, " said the landlady, appearing with her tray. 

"Oh, the trial! Did you know about the trial?" said Philip. 

"Not, Mr. Pippo, as ever she mentioned it to me. Mrs. Compton is a ladyas isn't that confidential, though always an affable lady, and not a bitproud; but when you've known folks for years and years, and take aninterest, and put this and that together---- Dear, dear, I hope as youdon't think it's taking a liberty. It's more kindness nor curiosity, andI hope as you won't mention it to your mamma. "

Pippo shook his head and waved his hand, at once to satisfy the womanand dismiss her if possible; but this was not so easy to do. 

"And Lord St. Serf so bad, sir, " she said. "Lord, to think that beforewe know where we are there may be such changes, and new names, and noknowing what to say! But it's best not to talk of it till it comes topass, for there's many a slip between the cup and the lip, and there'sno saying what will happen with a man that's been a-dying for years andyears. "

What did the woman mean? He got rid of her at length, chiefly by dint ofmaking no reply: and then, to tell the truth, Pippo's eye had beencaught by the pile of sandwiches which the kind woman, pitying his tiredlooks, had brought up with the tea. He was ashamed of himself for beinghungry in such a dreadful emergency as this, but he was so, and couldnot help it, though nothing would have made him confess so much, or eventouch the sandwiches till she had gone away. He pretended to ignore themtill the door was shut after her, but could not help vividly rememberingthat he had eaten nothing since the morning. The sandwiches did him alittle good in his mind as well as in his body. He got rid of the visionof the faces and of the red figure on the bench. He began to believethat when he saw her she would tell him. Had she not said so? That afterawhile he should hear everything, and that all should be as it wasbefore? All as it was before--in the time when she told him everything, even things that Granny did not know. But she had never told him this, and the other day she had told him that it was other people's secrets, not her own, that she was keeping from him. "Other people's secrets"--thesecrets of the man who was Philip Compton, who went to Windyhill on the6th of September, ten days before Elinor Dennistoun's marriage day. "What Philip Compton? Who was he? What had he to do with her? What, oh, what, " Pippo said to himself, "has he to do with me?" After all, thatwas the most tremendous question. The others, or anything that hadhappened twenty years ago, were nothing to that. 

Meanwhile Elinor, of all places in the world, was in John Tatham'schambers, to which he had taken her to rest. I cannot tell how Mr. Tatham, a man so much occupied, managed to subtract from all he had todo almost a whole day to see his cousin through the trial, and stand byher, sparing her all the lesser annoyances which surround and exaggeratesuch a great fact. He had brought her out into the fresh air, feelingthat movement was the best thing for her, and instead of taking her homein the carriage which was waiting, had made her walk with him, supportedon his arm, on which she hung in a sort of suspended life, across thestreet to the Temple, hoping thus to bring her back, by the necessity ofexertion, to herself. And indeed she was almost more restored to herselfby this remedy than John Tatham had expected or hoped. For though heplaced her in the great easy-chair, in which her slender person wasengulfed and supported, expecting her to rest there and lie motionless, perhaps even to faint, as women are supposed to do when it is particularlyinconvenient and uncomfortable, Elinor had not been there two minutesbefore she rose up again and began to walk about the room, with anaspect so unlike that of an exhausted and perhaps fainting woman, thateven John, used as he was to her capricious ways, was confounded. Instead of being subdued and thankful that it was over, and thisdreadful crisis in her life accomplished, Elinor walked up and down, wringing her hands, moaning and murmuring to herself; what was it shewas saying? "God forgive me! God forgive me!" over and over and over, unconscious apparently that she was not alone, that any one heard orobserved her. No doubt there is in all our actions, the very best, muchfor God to forgive; mingled motives, imperfect deeds, thoughts full ofalloy and selfishness; but in what her conscience could accuse hernow he could not understand. She might be to blame in respect to herhusband, though he was very loth to allow the possibility; but in thisact of her life, which had been so great a strain upon her, it wassurely without any selfishness, for his interest only, not for her own. And yet John had never seen such a fervour of penitence, so strong aconsciousness of evil done. He went up to her and laid his hand upon herarm. 

"Elinor, you are worn out. You have done too much. Will you try and resta little here, or shall I take you home?"

She started violently when he touched her. "What was I saying?" shesaid. 

"It does not matter what you were saying. Sit down and rest. You willwear yourself out. Don't think any more. Take this and rest a little, and then I will take you home. "

"It is easy to say so, " she said, with a faint smile. "Don't think! Isit possible to stop thinking at one's pleasure?"

"Yes, " said John, "quite possible; we must all do it or we should die. And now your trial's over, Nelly, for goodness' sake exert yourself andthrow it off. You have done your duty. "

"My duty! do you think that was my duty? Oh, John, there are so manyways to look at it. "

"Only one way, when you have a man's safety in your hands. "

"Only one way--when one has a man's safety--his honour, honour! Do youthink a woman is justified in whatever she does, to save that?"

"I don't understand you, Elinor; in anything you have done, or could do, certainly you are justified. My dear Nelly, sit down and take this. Andthen I will take you home. "

She took the wine from his hand and swallowed a little of it; and thenlooking up into his face with the faint smile which she put on when sheexpected to be blamed, and intended to deprecate and disarm him, as shehad done so often: "I don't know, " she said, "that I am so anxious toget home, John. You were to take Pippo to dine with you, and to theHouse to-night. "

"So I was, " he said. "We did not know what day you would be called. Itis a great nuisance, but if you think the boy would be disappointed notto go----"

"He would be much, much disappointed. The first chance he has had ofhearing a debate. "

"He would be much better at home, taking care of you. "

"As if I wanted taking care of! or as if the boy, who has always beenthe object of everybody's care himself, would be the proper person to doit! If he had been a girl, perhaps--but it is a little late at this timeof day to wish for that now. "

"You were to tell him everything to-night, Elinor. "

"Oh, I was to tell him! Do you think I have not had enough for one day?enough to wear me out body and soul? You have just been telling me so, John. "

He shook his head. "You know, " he said, "and I know, that in any caseyou will have it your own way, Elinor; but you have promised to tellhim. "

"John, you are unkind. You take advantage of me being here, and sobroken down, to say that I will have my own way. Has this been my ownway at all? I would have fled if I could, and taken the boy far, faraway from it all; but you would not let me. Yes, yes, I have promised. But I am tired to death. How could I look him in the face and tellhim----" She hid her face suddenly in her hands with a moan. 

"It will be in the papers to-morrow morning, Elinor. "

"Well! I will tell him to-morrow morning, " she said. 

John shook his head again; but it was done behind her, where she couldnot see the movement. He had more pity of her than words could say. Whenshe covered her face with her hands in that most pathetic of attitudes, there was nothing that he would not have forgiven her. What was tobecome of her now? Her position through all these years had never beenso dangerous, in John's opinion, never so sad, as now. Philip Comptonhad been there looking on while she put his accusers to silence, at whatcost to herself John only began dimly to guess--to divine, to forbidhimself to inquire. The fellow had been there all the time. He hadthe grace not to look at her, not to distract her with the sight ofhim--probably for his own sake, John thought bitterly, that she mightnot risk breaking down. But he was there, and knew where she was to befound. And he had seen the boy, and had cared enough to fix his gazeupon him, that gaze which John had found intolerable at the theatre. Andhe was on the eve of becoming Lord St. Serf, and Pippo his heir. Whatwas to be the issue of these complications? What was to happen to herwho had hid the boy so long, who certainly could hide him no more?

He took her home to Ebury Street shortly after, where Philip, weary ofwaiting, and having made a meal he much wanted off the sandwiches, hadgone out again in his restlessness and unhappiness. Elinor, who hadbecome paler and paler as the carriage approached Ebury Street, and whoby the time she reached the house looked really as if at last she mustswoon, her heart choking her, her breathing quick and feverish, hadtaken hold of John to support herself, clutching at his arm, when shewas told that Philip was out. She came to herself instantly on thestrength of that news. "Tell him when he comes in to make haste, " shesaid, "for Mr. Tatham is waiting for him. As for me I am fit for nothingbut bed. I have had a very tiring day. "

"You do look tired, ma'am, " said the sympathetic landlady. "I'll run upand put your room ready, and then I'll make you a nice cup of tea. "

John Tatham thought that, notwithstanding her exhaustion, her anxiety, all the realities of troubles present and to come that were in her mindand in her way, there was a flash something like triumph in Elinor'seyes. "Tell Pippo, " she said, "he can come up and say good-night to mebefore he goes. I am good for nothing but my bed. If I can sleep I shallbe able for all that is before me to-morrow. " The triumph was quenched, however, if there had been triumph, when she gave him her hand, with awistful smile, and a sigh that filled that to-morrow with the terror andthe trouble that must be in it, did she do what she said. John went upto the little drawing-room to wait for Pippo, with a heavy heart. Itseemed to him that never had Elinor been in so much danger. She hadexposed herself to the chance of losing the allegiance of her son: shewas at the mercy of her husband, that husband whom she had renounced, yet whom she had not refused to save, whose call she had obeyed to helphim, though she had thrown off all the bonds of love and duty towardshim. She had not had the strength either way to be consistent, to carryout one steady policy. It was cruel of John to say this, for but for himand his remonstrances Elinor would, or might have, fled, and avoidedthis last ordeal. But he had not done so, and now here she was in themiddle of her life, her frail ship of safety driven about among therocks, dependent upon the magnanimity of the husband from whom she hadfled, and the child whom she had deceived. 

"Your mother is very tired, Philip, " he said, when the boy appeared. "Iwas to tell you to go up and bid her good-night before you went out; forit will probably be late before you get back, if you think you are gameto sit out the debate. "

"I will sit it out, " said Philip, with no laughter in his eye, withan almost solemn air, as if announcing a grave resolution. He wentup-stairs, not three steps at a time, as was his wont, but soberly, as if his years had been forty instead of eighteen. And he showed nosurprise to find the room darkened, though Elinor was a woman who lovedthe light. He gave his mother a kiss and smoothed her pillow with atender touch of pity. "Is your head very bad?" he said. 

"It is only that I am dreadfully tired, Pippo. I hope I shall sleep: andit will help me to think you are happy with Uncle John. "

"Then I shall try to be happy with Uncle John, " he said, with a sort ofsmile. "Good-night, mother; I hope you'll be better to-morrow. "

"Oh, yes, " she said. "To-morrow is always a new day. "

He seemed in the half light to nod his head, and then to shake it, asone that assents, but doubts--having many troubled thoughts andquestions in his mind. But Pippo did not at all expect to be happy withUncle John. 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

It cannot be said that Uncle John was very happy with Philip, but thatwas a thing the others did not take into account. John Tatham was doingfor the boy as much as a man could do. A great debate was expected thatevening, in which many eminent persons were to speak, and Mr. Tathamgave Philip a hasty dinner in the House so that he should lose nothing, and he found him a corner in the distinguished strangers' gallery, telling him with a smile that he expected him hereafter to prove histitle to such a place. But Philip's smile in return was very unlike theflush of pleasure that would have lighted it up only yesterday. Johnfelt that the boy was not at all the delightful young companion, full ofinterest in everything, that he had been. Perhaps he was on his goodbehaviour, on his dignity, bent upon showing how much of a man he wasand how little influenced by passing sentiments, as some boys do. Anyhowit was certain that he was much less agreeable in his self-subduedcondition. But John was fortunately much interested in the discussion, in which, indeed, he took himself a slight part, and, save for a passingwonder and the disappointment of the moment, did not occupy himself sovery much with Pippo. When he looked into the corner, however, in a lullof the debate, when one of those fools who rush in at unguarded moments, when the Speaker chances to look their way, had managed to get upon hisfoolish feet to the despair of all around, the experienced man of theworld received a curious shock from the sight of young Philip's intensegravity, and the self-absorbed, unconscious look he wore. The boy hadthe look of hearing nothing, seeing nothing that was around him, ofbeing lost in thoughts of his own, thoughts far too serious and troubledfor his age. Had he discovered something? What did he know? This was theinstinctive question that rose in John's mind, and not an amusedanticipation of Pippo's original boyish view of the question and thespeakers, such as had delighted him on the boy's previous visits to theHouse. And indeed Philip's attention was little fixed upon the debate. He tried hard to bring it back, to keep it there, to get the questioninto his mind, but in spite of himself his thoughts flew back to theother public assembly in which he had sat unnoticed that day: tillgradually the aspect of things changed to him, the Speaker became thejudge, the wigged secretaries the pleaders, and he almost expected tosee that sudden apparition, that sight that had plucked him out of hiscareless life of boyhood and trust, the sight of his mother standingbefore the world on trial for her life. Oh, no, no, not on trial at all!he was aware of that: a harmless witness, doing only good. The judgecould have nothing but polite regard for her, the jury admiration andthanks for the clear testimony which took a weight from their shoulders. But before her son she was on her trial, her trial for more thanlife--and he who said with so much assurance that his mother had nosecrets from him! until the moment arrived, without any warning, in themidst of his security, which proved that everything had been secret, andthat all was mystery--all mystery! and nothing sure in life. 

It crossed Philip's mind more than once to question John Tatham uponthis dreadful discovery of his--John, who was a relation, who had beenthe universal referee of the household as long as he could remember, Uncle John must know. But there were two things which held him back:first, the recollection of his own disdainful offence at the suggestionthat Uncle John, an outsider, could know more than he did of the familyconcerns; and partly from the proud determination to ask no questions, to seek no information that was not freely given to him. He made up hismind to this while he looked out from his corner upon the lighted House, seeing men move up and down, and voices going on, and the sound ofrestless members coming and going, while the business of the countrywent on. It was far more important than any private affairs that couldbe passing in an individual brain, and Philip knew with what high-handedcertainty he would have put down the idea that to himself at his agethere could be anything private half so exciting, half so full ofinterest, as a debate on the policy of the country which might carrywith it the highest issues. But conviction comes readily on suchsubjects when the personal interest comes which carries every otheraway. It was while a minister was speaking, and everything hanging onhis words, that the boy made up his mind finally that he would ask noquestions. He would ignore that scene in the Law Courts, as if it hadnot been. He would say nothing, try to look as if nothing had passed, and wait to see if any explanation would come. 

It was not, perhaps, then to be wondered at if John found him a muchless interesting companion than ever before, as they walked hometogether in the small hours of the night. Mr. Tatham's own speech hadbeen short, but he had the agreeable consciousness that it had been aneffective one, and he was prepared to find the boy excited by it, andfull of applause and satisfaction. But Philip did not say a word aboutthe speech. He was only a boy, and it may be supposed that any applausefrom him would have had little importance for the famous lawyer--thehighly-esteemed member who kept his independence, and whose speechesalways secured the attention of the House, and carried weight as amongthe few utterances which concerned the real import of a question and notits mere party meaning. But John was hurt more than he could have thoughtpossible by Philip's silence. He even tried to lead the conversationartfully to that point in the debate, thinking perhaps the boy was shyof speaking on the subject--but with no effect. It was exceedinglystrange. Had he been deceived in Philip? had the boy really no interestin subjects of an elevated description? or was he ill? or what was thematter with him? It troubled John to let him go on alone from HalkinStreet to his lodging, with a vague sense that something might happen. But that was, of course, too absurd. "Tell your mother I'll come roundin the afternoon to-morrow, as soon as I am free, " he said, holdingPhilip's hand. And then he added, paternally, still holding that hand, "Go to bed at once, boy. You've had a tiring day. "

"Yes--I suppose so, " said Philip, drawing his hand away. 

"I hope you haven't done too much, " said John, still lingering. "You'retoo young for politics--and to sit up so late. I was wrong to keep youout of bed. "

"I hope I'm not such a child as that, " said Philip, with a half-smile:and then he went away, and John Tatham, with an anxious heart, closedbehind him his own door. If it were not for Elinor and her boy what alife free of anxiety John would have had! Never any need to think withsolicitude of anything outside that peaceful door, no trouble with otherpeople's feelings, with investigations what this or that look or wordmeant. But perhaps it was Elinor and her boy, after all (none of his!thinking of him as an outsider, having nothing to do with their mostintimate circle of confidence and natural defence), who, by means ofthat very anxiety, kept alive the higher principles of humanity in JohnTatham's heart. 

Philip went home, walking quickly through the silent streets. They werevery silent at that advanced hour, yet not so completely but that therewas a woman who came up to the boy at the corner. Philip neither knewnor desired to know what she said. He thought nothing about her one wayor another. He took a shilling out of his pocket and threw it to her ashe passed--walking on with the quick, elastic step which the suddenacquaintance he had made with care had not been able to subdue. He sawthat there was still a faint light in his mother's window when hereached the house, but he would not disturb her. How little would hehave thought of disturbing her on any other occasion! "Are you asleep, mother?" he would have said, looking in; and the time had never beenwhen Elinor was asleep. She had always heard him, always replied, always been delighted to hear the account of what he had been doing, and how he had enjoyed himself. But not to-night. With a heart full oflonging, yet of a sick revolt against the sight of her, he went past herdoor to his room. He did not want to see her, and yet--oh, if she hadonly called to him, if she had but said a word!

Elinor for her part was not asleep. She had slept a little while she wassure that Philip was safely disposed of and herself secured from allinterruption; but when the time came for his return she slept no longer, and had been lying for a long time holding her breath, listening toevery sound, when she heard his key in the latch and his foot on thestair. Would he come in as he always did? or would he remember hercomplaint of being tired, a complaint she so seldom made? It was as ablow to Elinor when she heard his step go on past her door: and yet shewas glad. Had he come in there was a desperate thought in her mind thatshe would call him to her bedside and in the dark, with his hand inhers, tell him--all that there was to tell. But it was again a reliefwhen he passed on, and she felt that she was spared for an hour or two, spared for the new day, which perhaps would give her courage. It was anendless night, long hours of dark, and then longer hours of morninglight, too early for anything, while still nobody in the house wasstirring. She had scarcely slept at all during that long age of wearyand terrible thought. For it was not as if she had but one thing tothink of. When her mind turned, like her restless body, from one side toanother, it was only to a change of pain. What was it she had said, standing up before earth and heaven, and calling God to witness thatwhat she said was true? It had been true, and yet she knew that it wasnot, and that she had saved her husband's honour at the cost of her own. Oh, not in those serious and awful watches of the night can such adefence be accepted as that the letter of her testimony was true! Shedid not attempt to defend herself. She only tried to turn to anotherthought that might be less bitter: and then she was confronted by theconfession that she must make to her boy. She must tell him that she haddeceived him all his life, hid from him what he ought to have known, separated him from his father and his family, kept him in ignorance, despite all that had been said to her, despite every argument. And whenElinor in her misery fled from that thought, what was there else tothink of? There was her husband, Pippo's father, from whom he could nolonger be kept. If she had thought herself justified in stealing herchild away out of fear of the influence that father might have upon him, how would it be now when they must be restored to each other, at an agemuch more dangerous for the boy than in childhood, and with all theattractions of mystery and novelty and the sense that his father hadbeen wronged! When she escaped from that, the most terrible thought ofall, feeling her brain whirl and her heart burn as she imagined herchild turning from the mother who had deceived him to the father who hadbeen deprived of him, her mind went off to that father himself, fromwhom she had fled, whom she had judged and condemned, but who had repaidher by no persecution, no interference, no pursuit, but an acceptance ofher verdict, never molesting her, leaving her safe in the possessionof her boy. Perhaps there were other ways in which Phil Compton'smagnanimity have been looked at, in which it would have shown in lessfavourable colours. But Elinor was not ready to take that view. Hertower of justice and truth and honour had crumbled over her head. Shewas standing among her ruins, feeling that nothing was left to her, nothing upon which she could build herself a structure of self-defence. All was wrong; a series of mistakes and failures, to say no worse. Shehad driven on ever wilful all through, escaping from every pang shecould avoid, throwing off every yoke that she did not choose to bear:until now here she stood to face all that she had fled from, unable toelude them more, meeting them as so many ghosts in her way. Oh, how trueit was what John had said to her so long, so long ago--that she was notone who would bear, who if she were disappointed and wronged couldendure and surmount her trouble by patience! Oh, no, no! She had beenone who had put up with nothing, who had taken her own way. And now shewas surrounded on every side by the difficulties she had thrust awayfrom her, but which now could be thrust away no more. 

It may be imagined what the night was which Elinor spent sleepless, struggling one after another with these thoughts, finding no comfortanywhere wherever she turned. She had not been without many a struggleeven in the most quiet of the years that had passed--in one long dreamof peace as it seemed now; but never as now had she been met wherevershe turned by another and another lion in the way. She got up veryearly, with a feeling that movement had something lulling and soothingin it, and that to lie there a prey to all these thoughts was like lyingon the rack--to the great surprise of the kind landlady, who camestealing into her room with the inevitable cup of tea, and whose inquiryhow the poor lady was, was taken out of her mouth by the unexpectedapparition of the supposed invalid, fully dressed, moving about theroom, with all the air of having been up for hours. Elinor asked, with asudden precaution, that the newspapers might be brought up to her, notso much for her own satisfaction--for it made her heart sick to thinkof reading over in dreadful print, as would be done that morning atmillions of breakfast-tables, her own words: perhaps with comments onherself and her history, which might fall into Pippo's hands, and beread by him before he knew: which was a sudden spur to herself andevidence of the dread necessity of letting him know that story from herown lips, which had not occurred to her before. She glanced over thereport with a sickening sense that all the privacy of sheltered life andhonourable silence was torn off from her, and that she was exposed as ona pillory to the stare and the remarks of the world, and crushed thepaper away like a noxious thing into a drawer where the boy at leastwould never find it. Vain thought! as if there was but one paper in theworld, as if he could not find it at every street corner, thrust intohis hand even as he walked along; but at all events for the moment hewould not see it, and she would have time--time to tell him before thatrevelation could come in his way. She went down-stairs, with what atremor in her and sinking of her heart it would be impossible to say. Tohave to condemn herself to her only child; to humble herself before him, her boy, who thought there was no one like his mother; to let him knowthat he had been deceived all his life, he who thought she had alwaystold him everything. Oh, poor mother! and oh, poor boy!

She was still sitting by the breakfast-table, waiting, in a chill fever, if such a thing can be, for Philip, when a thing occurred which no onecould have thought of, and yet which was the most natural thing in theworld--which came upon Elinor like a thunderbolt, shattering all herplans again just at the moment when, after so much shrinking and delay, she had at last made up her mind to the one thing that must be done atonce. The sound of the driving up of a cab to the door made her go tothe window to look out, without producing any expectation in her mind:for people were coming and going in Ebury Street all day long. She saw, however, a box which she recognised upon the cab, and then the door wasopened and Mrs. Dennistoun stepped out. Her mother! the wonder was notthat she came now, but that she had not come much sooner. No letters forseveral days, her child and her child's child in town, and trouble inthe air! Mrs. Dennistoun had borne it as long as she could, but therehad come a moment when she could bear it no longer, and she too hadfollowed Pippo's example and taken the night mail. Elinor stoodmotionless at the window, and saw her mother arrive, and did not feelcapable of going to meet her, or of telling whether it was some dreadfulaggravation of evil, or an interposition of Providence to save her foranother hour at least from the ordeal before her. 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

Mrs. Dennistoun had a great deal to say about herself and the motiveswhich had at the last been too much for her, which had forced her tocome after her children at a moment's notice, feeling that she couldbear the uncertainty about them no longer; and it was a thing so unusualwith her to have much to say about herself that there was certainlysomething apologetic, something self-defensive in this unaccustomedoutburst. Perhaps she had begun to feel a little the unconsciouscriticism that gathers round the elder person in a house, the inclinationinvoluntarily--which every one would repudiate, yet which neverthelessis true--to attribute to her a want of perception, perhaps--oh, notunkindly!--a little blunting of the faculties, a suggestion quiteunintentional that she is not what she once was. She explained herselfso distinctly that there was no doubt there was some self-defence in it. "I had not had a letter for three days. "

And Elinor was far more humble than her wont. "I know, mother: I felt asif it were impossible to write--till it was over----"

"My darling! I thought at last I must come and stand by you. I felt thatI ought to have seen that all the time--that you should have had yourmother by your side to give you countenance. "

"I had John with me, mother. "

"Then it is over!" Mrs. Dennistoun cried. 

And at that moment Pippo, very late, pale, and with eyes which were redwith sleeplessness, and perhaps with tears, came in. Elinor gave hermother a quick look, almost of blame, and then turned to the boy. Shedid not mean it, and yet Mrs. Dennistoun felt as if the suggestion, "Hemight never have known had you not called out like that, " was in herdaughter's eyes. 

"Pippo!" she said. "Why, Elinor! what have you been doing to the boy?"

"He does not look well, " said Elinor, suddenly waking up to that anxietywhich had been always so easily roused in respect to Pippo. "He was verylate last night. He was at the House with John, " she added, involuntarily, with an apology to her mother for the neglect which had extended toPippo too. 

"There is nothing the matter with me, " he said, with a touch ofsullenness in his tone. 

The two women looked at each other with all the vague trouble in theireyes suddenly concentrated upon young Philip, but they said nothingmore, as he sat down at table and began to play with the breakfast, forwhich he had evidently no appetite. No one had ever seen that sullenlook in Pippo's face before. He bent his head over the table as if hewere intent upon the food which choked him when he tried to eat, andwhich he loathed the very sight of--and did not say a word. They hadcertainly not been very light-hearted before, but the sight of the boythus obscured and changed made all the misery more evident. There wasalways a possibility of over-riding the storm so long as all was wellwith Pippo: but his changed countenance veiled the very sun in theskies. 

"You don't seem surprised to see me here, " his grandmother said. 

"Oh!--no, I am not surprised. I wonder you did not come sooner. Have youbeen travelling all night?" he said. 

"Just as you did, Pippo. I drove into Penrith last night and caught themail train. I was seized with a panic about you, and felt that I mustsee for myself. "

"It is not the first time you have taken a panic about us, mother, " saidElinor, forcing a smile. 

"No; but it is almost the first time I have acted upon it, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, with that faint instinct of self-defence; "but I think youmust have needed me more than usual to keep you in order. You must havebeen going out too much, keeping late hours. You are pale enough, Elinor, but Pippo--Pippo has suffered still more. "

"I tell you, " said Philip, raising his shoulders and stooping his headover the table, "granny, that there is nothing the matter with me. "

And he took no part in the conversation as they went on talking, of anysubjects but those that were most near their hearts. They had, indeed, no thoughts at all to spare but those that were occupied with thesituation, and with this new feature in it, Pippo's worn and troubledlooks, yet had to talk of something, of nothing, while the meal went on, which was no meal at all for any of them. When it was over at last Pipporose abruptly from the table. 

"Are you going out?" Elinor said, alarmed, rising too. "Have you anyengagement with the Marshalls for to-day?"

"I don't know, " Philip said; "Mr. Marshall was ill yesterday. I didn'tsee them. I'm not going out. I am going to my room. "

"You've got a headache, Pippo!"

"Nothing of the kind! I tell you there is nothing the matter with me. I'm only going to my room. "

Elinor put her hands on his arm. "Pippo, I have something to say to youbefore you go out. Will you promise to let me know before you go out? Idon't want to keep you back from anything, but I have something that Imust say. "

He did not ask with his usual interest what it was. He showed nocuriosity; on the contrary, he drew his arm out of her hold almostrudely. "Of course, " he said, "I will come in here before I go out. Ihave no intention of going out now. "

And thus he left them, and went with a heavy step, oh, how differentfrom Pippo's flying foot: so that they could count every step, up-stairs. 

"What is the matter, what is the matter, Elinor?"

"I know nothing, " she said; "nothing! He was like himself yesterdaymorning, full of life. Unless he is ill, I cannot understand it. But, mother, I have to tell him--everything to-day. "

"God grant it may not be too late, Elinor!" Mrs. Dennistoun said. 

"Too late? How can it be too late? Yes; perhaps you are right, John andyou. He ought to have known from the beginning; he ought to have beentold when he was a child. I acknowledge that I was wrong; but it is nouse, " she said, wiping away some fiery tears, "to go back upon thatnow. "

"John could not have told him anything?" Mrs. Dennistoun said, doubtfully. 

"John! my best friend, who has always stood by me. Oh, never, never. Howlittle you know him, mother! He has been imploring me every day, almostupon his knees, to tell Pippo everything; and I promised to do it assoon as the time was come. And then last night I was so glad to thinkthat he was engaged with John, and I so worn out, not fit for anything. And then this morning----"

"Then--this morning I arrived, just when I would have been better away!"

"Don't say that, mother. It is always, always well you should be withyour children. And, oh, if I had but taken your advice years and yearsago!"

How easy it is to wish this when fate overtakes us, when the thing solong postponed, so long pushed away from us, has to be done at last!There is, I fear, no repentance in it, only the intolerable sense thatthe painful act might have been over long ago, and the soul free now ofa burden which is so terrible to bear. 

Philip did not leave his room all the morning. His mother, overwhelmednow by the new anxiety about his health, which had no part in herthoughts before, went to his door and knocked several times, always withthe intention of going in, of insisting upon the removal of allbarriers, and of telling her story, the story which now was as fire inher veins and had to be told. But he had locked his door, and onlyanswered from within that he was reading--getting up something that hehad forgotten--and begged her to leave him undisturbed till lunch. PoorElinor! Her story was, as I have said, like fire in her veins; butwhen the moment came, and a little more delay, an hour, a morning waspossible, she accepted it like a boon from heaven, though she knew verywell all the same that it was but prolonging the agony, and that to getit accomplished--to get it over--was the only thing to desire. Shetried to arrange her thoughts, to think how she was to tell it, in thehurrying yet flying minutes when she sat alone, listening now and thento Philip's movements over her head, for he was not still as a boyshould be who was reading, but moved about his room, with a nervousrestlessness that seemed almost equal to her own. Mrs. Dennistoun, toleave her daughter free for the conversation that ought to take placebetween Elinor and her son, had gone to lie down, and lay in Elinor'sroom, next door to the boy, listening to every sound, and hoping, hopingthat they would get it over before she went down-stairs again. She didnot believe that Philip would stand out against his mother, whom heloved. Oh, if they could but get it over, that explanation--if the boybut knew! But it was apparent enough, when she came down to luncheon, where Elinor awaited her, pale and anxious, and where Philip followed, so unlike himself, that no explanation had yet taken place between them. And the luncheon was as miserable a pretence at a meal as the breakfasthad been--worse as a repetition, yet better in so far that poor Pippo, with his boyish wholesome appetite, was by this time too hungry to berestrained even by the unusual burden of his unhappiness, and ateheartily, although he was bitterly ashamed of so doing: which perhapsmade him a little better, and certainly did a great deal of good to theladies, who thus were convinced that whatever the matter might be, hewas not ill at least. He was about to return up-stairs after luncheonwas over, but Elinor caught him by the arm: "You are not going to yourroom again, Pippo?"

"I--have not finished my reading, " he said. 

"I have a claim before your reading. I have a great deal to say to you, and I cannot put it off any longer. It must be said----"

"As you please, mother, " he replied, with an air of endurance. And heopened the door for her and followed her up to the drawing-room, thethree generations going one before the other, the anxious grandmotherfirst, full of sympathy for both; the mother trembling in every limb, feeling the great crisis of her life before her; the boy with his heartseared, half bitter, half contemptuous of the explanation which he hadforestalled, which came too late. Mrs. Dennistoun turned and kissedfirst one and then the other with quivering lips. "Oh, Pippo, be kindto your mother; she never will have such need of your kindness again inall your life. " The boy could almost have struck her for this advice. It raised a kind of savage passion in him to be told to be kind to hismother--kind to her, when he had held her above all beings on the earth, and prided himself all his life upon his devotion to her! What Mrs. Dennistoun said to Elinor I cannot tell, but she clasped her hands andgave her an imploring look, which was almost as bitterly taken as herappeal to Philip. It besought her to tell everything, to hide nothing;and what was Elinor's meaning but to tell everything, to lay bare herheart?

But once more at this moment an interruption--the most wonderful andunthought-of of all interruptions--came. I suppose it must have beenannounced by the usual summons at the street-door, and that in theiragitation they had not heard it. But all that I know is, that when Mrs. Dennistoun turned to leave the mother and son to their conversation, which was so full of fate, the door of the drawing-room opened almostupon her as she was about to go out, and with a little demonstration andpride, as of a name which it was a distinction even to be permittedto say, of a visitor whose arrival could not be but an honour anddelightful surprise, the husband of the landlady--the man of the house, once a butler of the highest pretensions, now only condescending toserve his lodgers when the occasion was dignified--swept into the room, noiseless and solemn, holding open the door, and announced "Lord St. Serf. " Mrs. Dennistoun fell back as if she had met a ghost; and Elinor, too, drew back a step, becoming as pale as if she had been the ghost hermother saw. The gasp of the long breath they both drew made a sound inthe room where the very air seemed to tingle; and young Philip, raisinghis head, saw, coming in, the man whom he had seen in court--the man whohad gazed at him in the theatre, the man of the opera-glass. But wasthis then not the Philip Compton for whom Elinor Dennistoun had stoodforth, and borne witness before all the world?

He came in and stood without a word, waiting for a moment till theservant was gone and the door closed; and then he advanced with a step, the very assurance and quickness of which showed his hesitation anduncertainty. He did not hold out his hands--much less his arms--to her. "Nell?" he said, as if he had been asking a question, "Nell?"

She seemed to open her lips to speak, but brought forth no sound; andthen Mrs. Dennistoun came in with the grave voice of every day, "Willyou sit down?"

He looked round at her, perceiving her for the first time. "Ah, " hesaid, "mamma! how good that you are here. It is a little droll though, don't you think, when a man comes into the bosom of his family afteran absence of eighteen years, that the only thing that is said to himshould be, 'Will you sit down?' Better that, however, a great deal, than'Will you go away?'"

He sat down as she invited him, with a short laugh. He was perfectlycomposed in manner. Looking round him with curious eyes, "Was this oneof the places, " he said, "Nell, that we stayed in in the old times?"

She answered "No" under her breath, her paleness suddenly giving wayto a hot flush of feverish agitation. And then she took refuge in avacant chair, unable to support herself, and he sat too, and the partylooked--but for that agitation in Elinor's face, which she could notmaster--as if the ladies were receiving and he paying a morning call. The other two, however, did not sit down. Young Philip, confused andexcited, went away to the second room, the little back drawing-room ofthe little London house, which can never be made to look anything butan anteroom--never a habitable place--and went to the window, and stoodthere as if he were looking out, though the window was of colouredglass, and there was nothing to be seen. Mrs. Dennistoun stood with herhand upon the back of a chair, her heart beating too, and yet the mostcollected of them all, waiting, with her eyes on Elinor, for a sign toknow her will, whether she should go or stay. It was the visitor who wasthe first to speak. 

"Let me beg you, " he said, with a little impatience in his voice, "tosit down too. It is evident that Nell's reception of me is not likely tobe so warm as to make it unpleasant for a third party. There was afourth party in the room a minute ago, if my eyes did not deceive me. Ah!"--his glance went rapidly to where Philip's tall boyish figure, withhis back turned, was visible against the further window--"that's allright, " he said, "now I presume everybody's here. "

"Had we expected your visit, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, faltering, after amoment, as Elinor did not speak, "we should have been--better preparedto receive you, Mr. Compton. "

"That's not spoken with your usual cleverness, " he said, with a laugh. "You used to be a great deal too clever for me, you and Nell too. But ifshe did not expect to see me, I don't know what she thought I was madeof--everything that is bad, I suppose: and yet you know I could haveworried your life out of you if I had liked, Nell. "

She turned to him for the first time, and, putting her hands together, said almost inaudibly, "I know--I know. I have thought of that, and I amnot ungrateful. "

"Grateful! Well, perhaps you have not much call for that, poor littlewoman. I don't doubt I behaved like a brute, and you were quite right indoing what you did; but you've taken it out of me since, Nell, all thesame. "

Then there was again a silence, broken only by the labouring, which shecould not quite conceal, of her breath. 

"You wouldn't believe me, " he resumed after a moment, "if I were to setup a sentimental pose, like a sort of a disconsolate widower, eh, wouldyou? Of course it was a position that was not without its advantages. Iwas not much made for a family man, and both in the way of expense andin--other ways, it suited me well enough. Nobody could expect me tomarry them or their daughters, don't you see, when they knew I had awife alive? So I was allowed my little amusements. You never went in forthat kind of thing, Nell? Don't snap me up. You know I told you I neverwas against a little flirtation. It makes a woman more tolerant, in myopinion, just to know how to amuse herself a little. But Nell was neverone of that kind----"

"I hope not, indeed, " said Mrs. Dennistoun, to whom he had turned, withindignation. 

"I don't see where the emphasis comes in. She was one that a man couldbe as sure of as of Westminster Abbey. The heart of her husband restsupon her--isn't that what the fellow in the Bible says, or words to thateffect? Nell was always a kind of a Bible to me. And you may say thatin that case to think of her amusing herself! But you will allow shealways did take everything too much _au grand serieux_. No? to be sure, you'll allow nothing. But still that was the truth. However, I'll allowsomething if you won't. I'm past my first youth. Oh, you, not a bit ofit! You're just as fresh and as pretty, by George! as ever you were. When I saw you stand up in that court yesterday looking as if--not aweek had passed since I saw you last, by Jove! Nell---- And how you werehating it, poor old girl, and had come out straining your poor littleconscience, and saying what you didn't want to say--for the sake of aworthless fellow like me----"

A sob came out of Elinor's breast, and something half inaudible besides, like a name. 

"I can tell you this, " he said, turning to Mrs. Dennistoun again, "Icouldn't look at her. I'm an unlikely brute for that sort of thing, butif I had looked at her I should have cried. I daresay you don't believeme. Never mind, but it's true. "

"I do believe you, " said the mother, very low. 

"Thank you, " he said, with a laugh. "I have always said for amother-in-law you were the least difficult to get on with I ever saw. Doyou remember giving me that money to make ducks and drakes of? It wasawfully silly of you. You didn't deserve to be trusted with money tothrow it away like that, but still I have not forgotten it. Well! I cameto thank you for yesterday, Nell. And there are things, you know, thatwe must talk over. You never gave up your name. That was like yourpluck. But you will have to change it now. It was indecent of me to havemyself announced like that and poor old St. Serf not in his grave yet. But I daresay you didn't pay any attention. You are Lady St. Serfnow, my dear. You don't mind, I know, but it's a change not withoutimportance. Well, who is that fellow behind there, standing in thewindow? I think you ought to present him to me. Or I'll present him toyou instead. I saw him in the theatre, by Jove! with that fellow Tatham, that cousin John of yours that I never could bear, smirking and smilingat him as if it were _his_ son! but _I_ saw the boy then for the firsttime. Nell, I tell you there are some things in which you have taken itwell out of me----"

"Mr. Compton, " she said, labouring to speak. "Lord St. Serf. Oh, Phil, Phil!----"

"Ah, " he said, with a start, "do you remember at last? the garden atthat poky old cottage with all the flowers, and the days when you lookedout for wild Phil Compton that all the world warned you against? Andhere I am an old fogey, without either wife or child, and Tatham takingmy boy about and Nell never looking me in the face. "

Philip, at the window looking out at nothing through thehideous-coloured glass, had heard every word, with wonder, with horror, with consternation, with dreadful disappointment and sinking of theheart. For indeed he had a high ideal of a father, the highest, such asfatherless boys form in their ignorance. And every word made it moresure that this was his father, this man who had so caught his eyes andfilled him with such a fever of interest. But to hear Phil Compton talkhad brought the boy's soaring imagination down, down to the dust. He hadnot been prepared for anything like this. Some tragic rending asunder hecould have believed in, some wild and strange mystery. But this man ofcareless speech, of chaff and slang, so little noble, so little serious, so far from tragic! The disappointment had been too sudden and dreadfulto leave him with any ears for those tones that went to his mother'sheart. He had no pity or sense of the pathos that was in them. He stoodin his young absolutism disgusted, miserable. This man his father!--thisman! so talking, so thinking. Young Philip stood with his back to thegroup, more miserable than words could say. He heard some movementbehind, but he was too sick of heart to think what it was, until suddenlyhe felt a hand on his shoulder, and most unwillingly suffered himself tobe turned round to meet his father's eyes. He gave one glance up at theface, which he did not now feel was worn with study and care--whichnow that he saw it near was full of lines and wrinkles which meantsomething else, and which even the emotion in it, emotion of a kindwhich Pippo did not understand, hidden by a laugh, did not make moreprepossessing--and then he stood with his eyes cast down, not caring tosee it again. 

The elder Philip Compton had, I think, though he was, as he said, anunlikely subject for that mood, tears in his eyes--and he had noinclination to see anything that was painful in the face of his son, whose look he had never read, whose voice he had never heard, till now. He held the boy with his hands on his shoulders, with a grasp more fullperhaps of the tender strain of love (though he did not know him) thanever he had laid upon any human form before. The boy's looks were notonly satisfactory to him, but filled his own heart with an unaccustomedspring of pride and delight--his stature, his complexion, his features, making up as it were the most wonderful compliment, the utmost sweetnessof flattery that he had ever known. For the boy was himself over again, not like his mother, like the unworthy father whom he had never seen. It took him some time to master the sudden rush of this emotion whichalmost overwhelmed him: and then he drew the boy's arm through his ownand led him back to where the two ladies sat, Elinor still too muchagitated for speech. "I said I'd present my son to you, Nell--if youwouldn't present him to me, " he said, with a break in his voice whichsounded like a chuckle to that son's angry ears. "I don't know what youcall the fellow--but he's big enough to have a name of his own, and he'sLomond from this day. "

Pippo did not know what was meant by those words: but he drew his armfrom his father's and went and stood behind Elinor's chair, forgettingin a moment all grievances against her, taking her side with an energyimpossible to put into words, clinging to his mother as he had done whenhe was a little child. 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

It was while this conversation was going on that John Tatham, anxiousand troubled about many things, knocked at the door in Ebury Street. He was anxious to know how the explanations had got accomplished, howthe boy took it, how Elinor had borne the strain upon her of such arevelation. Well as he knew Elinor, he still thought, as is generallythought in circumstances so painful, that a great crisis, a great mentaleffort, would make her ill. He wanted to know how she was, he wanted toknow how Pippo had borne it, what the boy thought. It had glanced acrosshim that young Philip might be excited by so wonderful a new thing, and form some false impression of his father (whom doubtless she wouldrepresent under the best light, taking blame upon herself, not todestroy the boy's ideal), and be eager to know him--which was a thing, John felt, which would be very difficult to bear. 

The door was opened to him not by good Mrs. Jones, the kind landlady, but by the magnificent Jones himself, who rarely appeared. John said"Mrs. Compton?" as a matter of course, and was about to pass in, in hisusual familiar way. But something in the man's air made him pause. Helooked at Jones again, who was bursting with importance. "Perhaps she'sengaged?" he said. 

"I think, sir, " said John, "that her ladyship is engaged--his lordshipis with her ladyship up-stairs. "

"His--what?" John Tatham cried. 

"His lordship, Mr. Tatham. I know, sir, as the title is not usuallyassumed till after the funeral; but in the very 'ouse where her ladyshipis residing for the moment, there's allowances to be made. Naturallywe're a little excited over it, being, if I may make so bold as to sayso, a sort of 'umble friends, and long patronized by her ladyship, andyoung Lord Lomond too. "

"Young Lord Lomond too!" John Tatham stood for a moment and stared atMr. Jones; and then he laughed out, and turned his back and walked away. 

Young Lord Lomond too! The boy! who had been more like John's boy thananything else, but now tricked out in a new name, a new position, hisfather's heir. Oh, yes, it was John himself who had insisted on thatonly a few days ago! "The heir to a peerage can't be hid. " It was hethat had quoted this as an aphorism worthy of a social sage. But whenthe moment came and the boy was taken from him, and introduced intothat other sphere, by the side of that man who had once been the_dis_-Honourable Phil! Good heavens, what changes life is capableof! What wrongs, what cruelties, what cuttings-off, what twists andalterations of every sane thought and thing! John Tatham was a sensibleman as well as an eminent lawyer, and knew that between Elinor's son, who was Phil Compton's son, and himself, there was no external link atall--nothing but affection and habit, and the ever-strengthening linkthat had been twisted closer and closer with the progress of theseyears; but nothing real, the merest shadow of relationship, a cousin, who could count how often removed? And it was he who had insisted, forced upon Elinor the necessity of making his father known to Philip, of informing him of his real position. Nobody had interfered in thisrespect but John. He had made himself a weariness to her by insisting, never giving over, blaming her hourly for her delay. And yet now, whenthe thing he had so worked for, so constantly urged, was done----!

He smiled grimly to himself as he walked away: they were all together, the lordship and the ladyship, young Lord Lomond too!--and Phil Compton, whitewashed, a peer of the realm, and still, the scoundrel! a handsomefellow enough: with an air about him, a man who might still dazzle ayoungster unaccustomed to the world. He had re-entered the bosom of hisfamily, and doubtless was weeping upon Philip's neck, and bandying aboutthat name of "Nell" which had always seemed to John an insult--an insultto himself. And in that moment of bitterness John did not know how shewould take it, what effect it would produce upon her. Perhaps the verysight of the fellow who had once won her heart, the lover of her youth, with whom John had never for a moment put himself in competition, notwithstanding the bitter wonder in his heart that Elinor--Elinor ofall people!--could ever have loved such a man. Yet she had loved him, and the sight of him again after so many years, what effect might itnot produce? As he walked away, it was the idea of a happy family thatcame into John Tatham's mind--mutual forgiveness, mutual return tothe old traditions which are the most endearing of all; expansions, confessions, recollections, and lives of reunion. Something more thana prodigal's return, the return of a sinner bringing a coronet in hishand, bringing distinction, a place and position enough to dazzle anyboy, enough to make a woman forgive. And was not this what John wishedabove all things, every advancement for the boy, and an assured place inthe world, as well as every happiness that might be possible--happiness!yet it was possible she might think it so--for Elinor? Yes, this waswhat he had wished for, been ready to make any sacrifice to secure. In the sudden shock Mr. Tatham thought of the only other person whoperhaps--yet only perhaps--might feel a little as he did--the mother, Mrs. Dennistoun, upon whom he thought all this would come like athunder-clap, not knowing that she was up-stairs in the family party, among the lordships and the ladyship too. 

He went home and into his handsome library, and shut the door uponhimself, to have it out there--or rather to occupy himself in some moresensible way and shut this foolish subject out of his mind. It occurredto him, however, when he sat down that the best thing to do would beto write an account of it all to Mrs. Dennistoun, who doubtless in theexcitement would have a long time to wait for news of this great change. He drew his blotting-book towards him with this object, and opened it, and dipped his pen in the ink, and wrote "My dear Aunt;" but he did notget much further. He raised his head, thinking how to introduce hisnarrative, for which she would in all likelihood be wholly unprepared, and in so doing looked round upon his book-cases, on one shelf of whichthe reflection of a ray of afternoon sunshine caught in the old LouisTreize mirror over the mantelpiece was throwing a shaft of light. He gotup to make sure that it was only a reflection, nothing that would harmthe binding of a particular volume upon which he set great store--thoughof course he knew very well that it could only be a reflection, noimpertinent reality of sunshine being permitted to penetrate there. Andthen he paused a little to draw his hand lovingly over the line ofchoice books--very choice--worth a little fortune, which he laughed athimself a little for being proud of, fully knowing that what was insidethem (which generally is the cream of a book, as of a letter, accordingto Tony Lumpkin) was in many cases worth nothing at all. And then Johnwent and stood upon the hearth-rug, and looked round him upon this theheart of his domain. It was a noble library, any man might have beenproud of it. He asked himself whether it did not suit him better, withall the comforts and luxuries beyond it, than if he had been like othermen, with an entirely different centre of life up-stairs in the emptydrawing-room, and the burden upon him of setting out children, boys andgirls, upon the world. 

When a man asks himself this question, however complacent may be thereply, it betrays perhaps a doubt whether the assurance he has is sovery sure after all; and he returned to his letter to Mrs. Dennistoun, which would be quite easy to write if it were only once well begun. Buthe had not written above a few words, having spent some time in hisprevious reflections, when he paused again at the sound of a tumultuoussummons at the street-door. As may be well supposed, his servant tookmore time than usual to answer it, resenting a noise so out of characterwith the house, during which John listened half-angrily, fearing, yetwishing for, a diversion. And then his own door burst open, not, I neednot say, by any intervention of legitimate hands, but by the sudden rushof Philip, who seemed to come in in a whirl of long limbs and eager eyes, flinging himself into a chair and fixing his gaze across the corner ofthe table upon his astonished yet expectant friend. "Oh, Uncle John!"the boy cried, and had not breath to say any more. 

John put forth his hand across the table, and grasped the young flexiblewarm hand that wanted something to hold. "Well, my boy, " he said. 

"I suppose you know, " said Philip. "I have nothing to tell you, thoughit is all so strange to me. "

"I know--nothing about what interests me most at present--yourself, Pippo, and what has happened to you. "

John had always made a great stand against that particular name, butseveral times had used it of late, not knowing why. 

"I don't know what you thought of me last night, " said the boy, "I wasso miserable. May I tell you everything, Uncle John?"

What balm that question was! He clasped Pippo's hand in his own, butscarcely could answer to bid him go on. 

"It was unnecessary, all she wanted to tell me. I fought it off all themorning. I was there yesterday in the court and heard it all. "

"In the court! At the trial?"

"I had no meaning in it, " said Philip. "I went by chance, as people say, because the Marshalls had not turned up. I got Simmons to get me intothe court. I had always wanted to see a trial. And there I saw my motherstand up--my mother, that I never could bear the wind to blow on, standing up there alone with all these people staring at her to betried--for her life. "

"Don't be a fool, Philip, " said John Tatham, dropping his hand; "tried!she was only a witness. And she was not alone. I was there to take careof her. "

"I saw you--but what was that? She was alone all the same; and for me, it was she who was on her trial. What did I know about any other? Iheard it, every word. "

"Poor boy!"

"So what was the use of making herself miserable to tell me? She triedto all this morning, and I fought it off. I was miserable enough. Whyshould I be made more miserable to hear her perhaps excusing herself tome? But at last she had driven me into a corner, angry as I was--UncleJohn, I was angry, furious, with my mother--fancy! with my mother. "

John did not say anything, but he nodded his head in assent. How well heunderstood it all!

"And just then, at that moment, he came. I am angry with her no more. I know whatever happened she was right. Angry with her, my poor dear, dearest mother! Whatever happened she was right. It was best that sheshould not tell me. I am on her side all through--all through! Do youhear me, Uncle John! I have seen you look as if you blamed her. Don'tagain while I am there. Whatever she has done it has been the rightthing all through!"

"Pippo, " said John, with a little quivering about the mouth, "give meyour hand again, old fellow, you're my own boy. "

"Nobody shall so much as look as if they blamed her, " cried the boy, "while I am alive!"

Oh, how near he was to crying, and how resolute not to break down, though something got into his throat and almost choked him, and his eyeswere so full that it was a miracle they did not brim over. Excitement, distress, pain, the first touch of human misery he had ever known almostovermastered Philip. He got up and walked about the room, and talked andtalked. He who had never concealed anything, who had never had anythingto conceal. And for four-and-twenty hours he had been silent with agreat secret upon his soul. John was too wise to check the outpouring. He listened to everything, assented, soothed, imperceptibly led him togentler thoughts. 

"And what does he mean, " cried the boy at last, "with his new name? Ishall have no name but my own, the one my mother gave me. I am PhilipCompton, and nothing else. What right has he, the first time he ever sawme, to put upon me another name?"

"What name?"

"He called me Lomond--or something like that, " said young Philip: andthen there came a sort of stillness over his excitement, a lull in thestorm. Some vague idea what it meant came all at once into the boy'smind: and a thrill of curiosity, of another kind of excitement, ofrising thoughts which he did not hardly understand, struggled up throughthe other zone of passion. He was half ashamed, having just poured forthall his feelings, to show that there was something else, somethingthat was no longer indignation, nor anger, nor the shock of discovery, something that had a tremor perhaps of pleasure in it, behind. But Johnwas far too experienced a man not to read the boy through and through. He liked him better in the first phase, but this was natural too. 

"It happens very strangely, " he said, "that all these things shouldcome upon you at once: but it is well you should know now all about it. Lomond is the second title of the Comptons, Earls of St. Serf. Haven't Iheard you ask what Comptons you belonged to, Philip? It has all happenedwithin a day or two. Your father was only Philip Compton yesterday atthe trial, and a poor man. Now he is Lord St. Serf, if not rich, atleast no longer poor. Everything has changed for you--your position, your importance in the world. The last Lord Lomond bore the namecreditably enough. I hope you will make it shine. " He took the boy bythe hand and grasped it heartily again. "I am thankful for it, " saidJohn. "I would rather you were Lord Lomond than----"

"What! Uncle John?"

"Steady, boy. I was going to say Philip Compton's son; but Lord St. Serfis another man. "

There was a long pause in the room where John Tatham's life was centredamong his books. He had so much to do with all this business, and yet solittle. It would pass away with all its tumults, and he after beingabsorbed by it for a moment would be left alone to his own thoughts andhis own unbroken line of existence. So much the better! It is not goodfor any man to be swept up and put down again at the will of others inmatters in which he has no share. As for Philip, he was silent chieflyto realise this great thing that had come upon him. He, Lord Lomond, a peer's son, who was only Pippo of Lakeside like any other lad inthe parish, and not half so important at school as Musgrave, who did notget that scholarship. What the school would say! the tempest that wouldarise! They would ask a holiday, and the head master would grant it. Compton a lord! Philip could hear the roar and rustle among the boys, the scornful incredulity, the asseverations of those who knew it wastrue. And a flush that was pleasure had come over his musing face. Itwould have been strange if in the wonder of it there had not been somepleasure too. 

He had begun to tolerate his father before many days were over, tocease to be indignant and angry that he was not the ideal father of hisdreams. That was not Lord St. Serf's fault, who was not at all awareof his son's dreams, and had never had an ideal in his life. But JohnTatham was right in saying that Lord St. Serf was another man. The shockof a new responsibility, of a position to occupy and duties to fulfil, were things that might not have much moved the dis-Honourable Phil twoyears before. But he was fifty, and beginning to feel himself an oldfogey, as he confessed. And his son overawed Lord St. Serf. His son, whowas so like him, yet had the mother's quick, impetuous eyes, so rapid tosee through everything, so disdainful of folly, so keen in perception. He was afraid to bring upon himself one of those lightning flashes fromthe eyes of his boy, and doubly afraid to introduce his son anywhere, toshow him anything that might bring upon him the reproach of doing harmto Pippo. His house, which had been very decent and orderly in the lateLord St. Serf's time, became almost prim in the terror Phil had lestthey should say that it was bad for the boy. 

As for Lady St. Serf, it was popularly reported that the reason why shealmost invariably lived in the country was her health, which kept herout of society--a report, I need not say, absolutely rejected by societyitself, which knew all the circumstances better than you or I do: butwhich sufficed for the outsiders who knew nothing. When Elinor didappear upon great occasions, which she consented to do, her maturedbeauty gave the fullest contradiction to the pretext on which shecontinued to live her own life. But old Lord St. Serf, who got oldso long before he need to have done, with perhaps the same sort ofconstitutional weakness which had carried off all his brothers beforetheir time, or perhaps because he had too much abused a constitutionwhich was not weak--grew more and more fond in his latter days of thecountry too, and kept appearing at Lakeside so often that at last theladies removed much nearer town, to the country-house of the St. Serfs, which had not been occupied for ages, where they presented at lastthe appearance of a united family; and where "Lomond" (who would havethought it very strange now to be addressed by any other name) broughthis friends, and was not ill-pleased to hear his father discourse, in away which sometimes still offended the home-bred Pippo, but which theother young men found very amusing. It was not in the way of morals, however, that Lord St. Serf ever offended. The fear of Elinor kept himas blameless as any good-natured preacher of the endless theme, thatall is vanity, could do. 

These family arrangements, however, and the modified happiness obtainedby their means, were still all in the future, when John Tatham, a littleafraid of the encounter, yet anxious to have it over, went to Ebury Streetthe day after these occurrences, to see Elinor for the first time underher new character as Lady St. Serf. He found her in a languor andexhaustion much unlike Elinor, doing nothing, not even a book near, lying back in her chair, fallen upon herself, as the French say. Some ofthose words that mean nothing passed between them, and then she said, "John, did Pippo tell you that he had been there?"

He nodded his head, finding nothing to say. 

"Without any warning, to see his mother stand up before all the world tobe tried--for her life. "

"Elinor, " said John, "you are as fantastic as the boy. "

"I was--being tried for my life--before him as the judge. And he hasacquitted me; but, oh, I wonder, I wonder if he would have done so hadhe known all that I know?"

"I do so, " said John, "perhaps a little more used to the laws ofevidence than Pippo. "

"Ah, you!" she said, giving him her hand, with a look which John didnot know how to take, whether as the fullest expression of trust, or anaffectionate disdain of the man in whose partial judgment no justicewas. And then she asked a question which threw perhaps the greatestperplexity he had ever known into John Tatham's life. "When you tell afact--that is true: with the intention to deceive: John, you that knowthe laws of evidence, is that a lie?"

THE END. 

 BY THE SAME AUTHOR IN UNIFORM STYLE

 MARRIAGE OF ELINOR WHITELADIES THE MAKERS OF VENICE

 CHICAGO W. B. CONKEY COMPANY

 We are the Sole Publishers of Ella Wheeler Wilcox's Books

 The Poetical and Prose Works of

 _ELLA WHEELER WILCOX_

 Mrs. Wilcox's writings have been the inspiration of many young men and women. Her hopeful, practical, masterful views of life give the reader new courage in the very reading and are a wholesome spur to flagging effort. Words of truth so vital that they live in the reader's memory and cause him to think--to his own betterment and the lasting improvement of his own work in the world, in whatever line it lies--flow from this talented woman's pen. 

 MAURINE

 Is a love story told in exquisite verse. "An ideal poem about as true and lovable a woman as ever poet created. " It has repeatedly been compared with Owen Meredith's _Lucile_. In point of human interest it excels that noted story. 

 "Maurine" is issued in an _edition de luxe_, where the more important incidents of the story are portrayed by means of photographic studies from life. 

 Presentation Edition, 12mo, olive green cloth $1. 00 De Luxe Edition, white vellum, gold top 1. 50 New Illustrated Edition, extra cloth, gold top 1. 50 De Luxe New Illustrated Edition, white vellum, gold top 2. 00

 POEMS OF POWER. 

 New and revised edition. This beautiful volume contains more than _one hundred new poems_, displaying this popular poet's well-known taste, cultivation, and originality. The author says: "The final word in the title of the volume refers to the Divine power in every human being, the recognition of which is the secret of all success and happiness. It is this idea which many of the verses endeavor to inculcate and to illustrate. "

 "The lines of Mrs. Wilcox show both sweetness and strength. "--_Chicago American_. "Ella Wheeler Wilcox has a strong grip upon the affections of thousands all over the world. Her productions are read to-day just as eagerly as they were when her fame was new, no other divinity having yet risen to take her place. "--_Chicago Record-Herald. _

 Presentation Edition, 12mo, dark blue cloth $1. 00 De Luxe Edition, white vellum, gold top 1. 50

 THREE WOMEN. A STORY IN VERSE. 

 "THREE WOMEN is the best thing I have ever done. "--_Ella Wheeler Wilcox. _

 This marvelous dramatic poem will compel instant praise because it touches every note in the scale of human emotion. It is intensely interesting, and will be read with sincere relish and admiration. 

 Presentation Edition, 12mo, light red cloth $1. 00 De Luxe Edition, white vellum, gold top 1. 50

 AN ERRING WOMAN'S LOVE. 

 There is always a fascination in Mrs. Wilcox's verse, but in these beautiful examples of her genius she shows a wonderful knowledge of the human heart. 

 "Ella Wheeler Wilcox has impressed many thousands of people with the extreme beauty of her philosophy and the exceeding usefulness of her point of view. "--_Boston Globe. _

 "Mrs. Wilcox stands at the head of feminine writers, and her verses and essays are more widely copied and read than those of any other American literary woman. "--_New York World. _ "Power and pathos characterize this magnificent poem. A deep understanding of life and an intense sympathy are beautifully expressed. "--_Chicago Tribune. _

 Presentation Edition, 12mo, light brown cloth $1. 00 De Luxe Edition, white vellum, gold top 1. 50

 MEN, WOMEN AND EMOTIONS. 

 A skilful analysis of social habits, customs, and follies. A common-sense view of life from its varied standpoints, . .. Full of sage advice. 

 "These essays tend to meet difficulties that arise in almost every life. .. . Full of sound and helpful admonition, and is sure to assist in smoothing the rough ways of life wherever it be read and heeded. "--_Pittsburg Times. _

 12mo, heavy enameled paper $0. 50 Presentation Edition, dark brown cloth 1. 00

 THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF NOD. 

 A collection of poems, songs, stories, and allegories dealing with child life. The work is profusely illustrated with dainty line engravings and photographs from life. 

 "The delight of the nursery; the foremost baby's book in the world. "--_N. O. Picayune. _

 Quarto, sage green cloth $1. 00

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE

Contemporary spellings have been retained even when inconsistent. Asmall number of obvious typographical errors have been corrected, andmissing punctuation has been silently added. The list of additionalworks by the author has been moved to the end. 

The following additional changes have been made:

I seemed too dear _It_ seemed too dear

do a thing that its do a thing that _is_

three tittle escapades three _little_ escapades

"you gave me a fright, " "you gave me a fright, "she she said _she_ said

waiting, with her eyes waiting, with her eyeson Elinora, sign on Elinor, for a sign