Time went on quickly enough amid all these preparations and the little
attendant excitements of letters, congratulations, and presents which
came in on every side. Elinor complained mildly of the fuss, but it was
a new and far from unpleasant experience. She liked to have the packets
brought in by the post, or the bigger boxes that arrived from the
station, and to open them and produce out of the wadding or the
saw-dust one pretty thing after another. At first it was altogether
fresh and amusing, this new kind of existence, though after a while she
grew _blasée_, as may be supposed. Lady Mariamne’s present she was a
little ashamed of: not that she cared much, but because of the look on
her mother’s face when those inferior articles were unpacked; and at the
ring which old Lord St. Serf sent her she laughed freely.
“I will put it with my own little old baby rings in this little silver
tray, and they will all look as if they were antiques, or something
worth looking at,” said Elinor. Happily there were other people who
endowed her more richly with rings fit for a bride to wear. The
relations at a distance were more or less pleased with Elinor’s
prospects. A few, indeed, from different parts of the world wrote in the
vein of Elinor’s home-advisers, hoping that it was not the Mr. Compton
who was so well known as a betting man whom she was going to marry; but
the fact that she was marrying into a noble family, and would
henceforward be known as the Honourable Mrs. Compton, mollified even
these critics. Only three brothers--one a great invalid, and two
soldiers--between him and the title. Elinor’s relations promptly
inaugurated in their imaginations a great war, in which two noble
regiments were cut to pieces, to dispose of the two Captains Compton;
and as for the invalid, that he would obligingly die off was a
contingency which nobody doubted--and behold Elinor Dennistoun Lady St.
Serf! This greatly calmed criticism among her relations, who were all
at a distance, and whose approval or disapproval did not much affect her
spirits anyhow. John Tatham’s father, Mrs. Dennistoun’s cousin, was of
more consequence, chiefly as being John’s father, but also a little
for himself, and it was remarked that he said not a word against
the marriage, but sent a very handsome present, and many
congratulations--chiefly inspired (but this Elinor did not divine) by an
unfeigned satisfaction that it was not his son who was the bridegroom.
Mr. Tatham, senr., did not approve of early marriages for young men
pushing their way at the bar, unless the bride was, so to speak, in the
profession and could be of use to her husband. Even in such cases, the
young man was better off without a wife, he was of opinion. How could he
get up his cases properly if he had to drag about in society at the tail
of a gay young woman? Therefore he sent Elinor a very nice present in
gratitude to her and providence. She was a danger removed out of his
boy’s way.
All this kept a cheerful little commotion about the house, and often
kept the mother and daughter from thinking more than was good for them.
These extraneous matters did not indeed preserve Elinor altogether from
the consciousness that her _fiancé’s_ letters were very short and a
little uncertain in their arrival, sometimes missing several days
together, and generally written in a hurry to catch the post. But they
kept Mrs. Dennistoun from remarking that fact, as otherwise she would
have been sure to do. If any chill of disappointment was in Elinor’s
mind, she said to herself that men were generally bad correspondents,
not like girls, who had nothing else to do, and other consolations of
this kind, which to begin with beg the question, and show the beginning
of that disenchantment which ought to be reserved at least for a later
period. Elinor had already given up a good deal of her own ideal. She
would not, as she said, put herself in competition with the grouse, she
would not give him the choice between her and a cigar; but already the
consciousness that he preferred the grouse, and even a cigar, to her
society, had come an unwilling intruder into Elinor’s mind. She would
not allow to herself that she felt it in either case. She said to
herself that she was proud of it, that it showed the freedom and
strength of a man, and that love was only one of many things which
occupied his life. She rebelled against the other deduction that “’tis
woman’s sole existence,” protesting loudly (to herself) that she too had
a hundred things to do, and did not want him always at her apron-strings
like a tame curate. But as a matter of fact, no doubt the girl would
have been flattered and happy had he been more with her. The time was
coming very quickly in which they should be together always, even when
there was grouse in hand, when his wife would be invited with him, and
all things would be in common between them; so what did it matter for a
few days? The marriage was fixed for the 16th of September, and that
great date was now scarcely a fortnight off. The excitement quickened
as everything grew towards this central point. Arrangements had to be
made about the wedding breakfast and where the guests were to be placed.
The Hudsons had put their spare rooms at the disposition of the Cottage,
and so had the Hills. The bridegroom was to stay at the Rectory. Lady
Mariamne must of course, Mrs. Dennistoun felt, be put up at the Cottage,
where the two rooms on the ground floor--what were called the
gentlemen’s rooms--had to be prepared to receive her. It was with a
little awe indeed that the ladies of the Cottage endeavoured, by the aid
of Elinor’s recollections, to come to an understanding of what a fine
lady would want even for a single night. Mrs. Dennistoun’s experiences
were all old-fashioned, and of a period when even great ladies were less
luxurious than now; and it made her a little angry to think how much
more was required for her daughter’s future sister-in-law than had been
necessary to herself. But after all, what had herself to do with it? The
thing was to do Elinor credit, and make the future sister-in-law
perceive that the Cottage was no rustic establishment, but one in which
it was known what was what, and all the requirements of the most refined
life. Elinor’s bridesmaid, Mary Tatham, was to have the spare room
up-stairs, and some other cousins, who were what Mrs. Dennistoun called
“quiet people,” were to receive the hospitalities of the Hills, whose
house was roomy and old-fashioned. Thus the arrangements of the crisis
were more or less settled and everything made smooth.
Elinor and her mother were seated together in the drawing-room on one of
those evenings of which Mrs. Dennistoun desired to make the most, as
they would be the last, but which, as they actually passed, were--if not
occupied with discussions of how everything was to be arranged, which
they went over again and again by instinct as a safe subject--heavy,
almost dull, and dragged sadly over the poor ladies whose hearts were so
full, but to whom to be separated, though it would be bitter, would also
at the same time almost be a relief. They had been silent for some time,
not because they had not plenty to say, but because it was so difficult
to say it without awaking too much feeling. How could they talk of the
future in which one of them would be away in strange places, exposed to
the risks and vicissitudes of a new life, and one of them be left alone
in the unbroken silence, sitting over the fire, with nothing but that
blaze to give her any comfort? It was too much to think of, much more to
talk about, though it need not be said that it was in the minds of
both--with a difference, for Elinor’s imagination was most employed upon
the brilliant canvas where she herself held necessarily the first place,
with a sketch of her mother’s lonely life, giving her heart a pang, in
the distance; while Mrs. Dennistoun could not help but see the lonely
figure in her own foreground, against the brightness of all the
entertainments in which Elinor should appear as a queen. They were
sitting thus, the mother employed at some fine needlework for the
daughter, the daughter doing little, as is usual nowadays. They had been
talking over Lady Mariamne and her requirements again, and had come to
an end of that subject. What a pity that it was so hard to open the door
of their two hearts, which were so close together, so that each might
see all the tenderness and compunction in the other; the shame and
sorrow of the mother to grudge her child’s happiness, the remorse and
trouble of the child to be leaving that mother out in all her
calculations for the future! How were they to do it on either side? They
could not talk, these poor loving women, so they were mostly silent,
saying a word or two at intervals about Mrs. Dennistoun’s work (which of
course, was for Elinor), or of Elinor’s village class for sewing, which
was to be transferred to her mother, skirting the edges of the great
separation which could neither be dismissed nor ignored.
Suddenly Elinor looked up, holding up her finger. “What was that?” she
said. “A step upon the gravel?”
“Nonsense, child. If we were to listen to all these noises of the night
there would always be a step upon---- Oh! I think I did hear something.”
“It is someone coming to the door,” said Elinor, rising up with that
sudden prevision of trouble which is so seldom deceived.
“Don’t go, Elinor; don’t go. It might be a tramp; wait at least till
they knock at the door.”
“I don’t think it can be a tramp, mamma. It may be a telegram. It is
coming straight up to the door.”
“It will be the parcel porter from the station. He is always coming and
going, though I never knew him so late. Pearson is in the house, you
know. There is not any cause to be alarmed.”
“Alarmed!” said Elinor, with a laugh of excitement; “but I put more
confidence in myself than in Pearson, whoever it may be.”
She stood listening with a face full of expectation, and Mrs. Dennistoun
put down her work and listened too. The step advanced lightly,
scattering the gravel, and then there was a pause as if the stranger had
stopped to reconnoitre. Then came a knock at the window, which could
only have been done by a tall man, and the hearts of the ladies jumped
up, and then seemed to stop beating. To be sure, there were bolts and
bars, but Pearson was not much good, and the house was full of valuables
and very lonely. Mrs. Dennistoun rose up, trembling a little, and went
forward to the window, bidding Elinor go back and keep quite quiet. But
here they were interrupted by a voice which called from without, with
another knock on the window, “Nell! Nell!”
“It is Phil,” said Elinor, flying to the door.
Mrs. Dennistoun sat down again and said nothing. Her heart sank in her
breast. She did not know what she feared; perhaps that he had come to
break off the marriage, perhaps to hurry it and carry her child away.
There was a pause as was natural at the door, a murmur of voices, a fond
confusion of words, which made it clear that no breach was likely, and
presently after that interval, Elinor came back beaming, leading her
lover. “Here is Phil,” she said, in such liquid tones of happiness as
filled her mother with mingled pleasure, gratitude, and despite. “He has
found he had a day or two to spare, and he has rushed down here, fancy,
with an apology for not letting us know!”
“She thinks everyone is like herself, Mrs. Dennistoun, but I am aware
that I am not such a popular personage as she thinks me, and you have
least reason of all to approve of the man who is coming to carry her
away.”
“I am glad to see you, Mr. Compton,” she said, gravely, giving him her
hand.
The Hon. Philip Compton was a very tall man, with very black hair. He
had fine but rather hawk-like features, a large nose, a complexion too
white to be agreeable, though it added to his romantic appearance. There
was a furtive look in his big dark eyes, which had a way of surveying
the country, so to speak, before making a reply to any question, like a
man whose response depended upon what he saw. He surveyed Mrs.
Dennistoun in this way while she spoke; but then he took her hand,
stooped his head over it, and kissed it, not without grace. “Thank you
very much for that,” he said, as if there had been some doubt on his
mind about his reception. “I was glad enough to get the opportunity, I
can tell you. I’ve brought you some birds, Mrs. Dennistoun, and I hope
you’ll give me some supper, for I’m as hungry as a hawk. And now, Nell,
let’s have a look at you,” the lover said. He was troubled by no false
modesty. As soon as he had paid the required toll of courtesy to the
mother, who naturally ought to have at once proceeded to give orders
about his supper, he held Elinor at arm’s length before the lamp, then,
having fully inspected her appearance, and expressed by a “Charming, by
Jove!” his opinion of it, proceeded to demonstrations which the presence
of the mother standing by did not moderate. There are few mothers to
whom it would be agreeable to see their child engulfed in the arms of a
large and strong man, and covered with his bold kisses. Mrs. Dennistoun
was more fastidious even than most mothers, and to her this embrace was
a sort of profanation. The Elinor who had been guarded like a flower
from every contact--to see her gripped in his arms by this stranger,
made her mother glow with an indignation which she knew was out of the
question, yet felt to the bottom of her soul Elinor was abashed before
her mother, but she was not angry. She forced herself from his embrace,
but her blushing countenance was full of happiness. What a revolution
had thus taken place in a few minutes! They had been so dull sitting
there alone; alone, though each with the other who had filled her life
for more than twenty years; and now all was lightened, palpitating with
life. “Be good, sir,” said Elinor, pushing him into a chair as if he
had been a great dog, “and quiet and well-behaved; and then you shall
have some supper. But tell us first where you have come from, and what
put it into your head to come here.”
“I came up direct from my brother Lomond’s shooting-box. Reply No. 1.
What put it into my head to come? Love, I suppose, and the bright eyes
of a certain little witch called Nell. I ought to have been in Ireland
for a sort of a farewell visit there; but when I found I could steal two
days, you may imagine I knew very well what to do with them. Eh? Oh,
it’s mamma that frightens you, I see.”
“It is kind of you to give Elinor two days when you have so many other
engagements,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, turning away.
But he was not in the least abashed. “Yes, isn’t it?” he said; “my last
few days of freedom. I consider I deserve the prize for virtue--to cut
short my very last rampage; and she will not as much as give me a kiss!
I think she is ashamed before you, Mrs. Dennistoun.”
“It would not be surprising if she were,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, gravely.
“I am old-fashioned, as you may perceive.”
“Oh, you don’t need to tell me that,” said he; “one can see it with half
an eye. Come here, Nell, you little coquette: or I shall tell the Jew
you were afraid of mamma, and you will never hear an end of it as long
as you live.”
“Elinor, I think you had better see, perhaps, what there is to make up
as good a meal as possible for Mr. Compton,” said her mother, sitting
down opposite to the stranger, whose long limbs were stretched over half
the floor, with the intention of tripping up Elinor, it seemed; but she
glided past him and went on her way--not offended, oh, not at
all--waving her hand to him as she avoided the very choice joke of his
stretched-out foot.
“Mr. Compton,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, “you will be Elinor’s husband in
less than a fortnight.”
“I hope so,” he said, displaying the large cavern of a yawn under his
black moustache as he looked her in the face.
“And after that I will have no right to interfere; but, in the meantime,
this is my house, and I hope you will remember that these ways are not
mine, and that I am too old-fashioned to like them. I prefer a little
more respect to your betrothed.”
“Oh, respect,” he said. “I have never found that girls like too much
respect. But as you please. Well, look here, Nell,” he said, catching
her by the arm as she came back and swinging her towards him, “your
mother thinks I’m too rough with you, my little dear.”
“Do you, mamma?” said Elinor, faltering a little; but she had the
sweetest rose-flush on her cheeks and the moisture of joy in her eyes.
In all her twenty-three years she had never looked as she looked now.
Her life had been a happy one, but not like this. She had been always
beloved, and never had known for a day what it was to be neglected; yet
love had never appeared to her as it did now, so sweet, nor life so
beautiful. What strange delusion! what a wonderful incomprehensible
mistake! or so at least the mother thought, looking at her beautiful
girl with a pang at her heart.
“It is only his bad manners,” said Elinor, in a voice which sounded like
a caress. “He knows very well how to behave. He can be as nice as any
one, and as pretty spoken, and careful not to offend. It is only
arriving so suddenly, and not being expected--or that he has forgotten
his nice manners to-night. Phil, do you hear what I say?”
Phil made himself into the semblance of a dog, and sat up and begged for
pardon. It was a trick which made people “shriek with laughing;” but
Mrs. Dennistoun’s gravity remained unbroken. Perhaps her extreme
seriousness had something in it that was rather ridiculous too. It was a
relief when he went off to his supper, attended by Elinor, and Mrs.
Dennistoun was left alone over her fire. She had a slight sense that she
had been absurd, as well as that Philip Compton had lacked breeding,
which did not make her more comfortable. Was it possible that she would
be glad when it was all over, and her child gone--her child gone, and
with that man! Her child, her little delicately bred, finely nurtured
girl, who had been wrapped in all the refinements of life from her
cradle, and had never heard a rough word, never been allowed to know
anything that would disturb her virginal calm!--yet now in a moment
passed away beyond her mother to the unceremonious wooer who had no
reverence for her, none of the worship her mother expected. How strange
it was! Yet a thing that happened every day. Mrs. Dennistoun sat over
the fire, though it was not cold, and listened to the voices and
laughter in the next room. How happy they were to be together! She did
not, however, dwell upon the fact that she was alone and deserted, as
many women would have done. She knew that she would have plenty of time
to dwell on this in the lonely days to come. What occupied her was the
want of more than manners, of any delicate feeling in the lover who had
seized with rude caresses upon Elinor in her mother’s presence, and the
fact that Elinor did not object, nor dislike that it should be so. That
she should feel forlorn was no wonderful thing; that did not disturb her
mind. It was the other matter about Elinor that pained and horrified
her, she could not tell why; which, perhaps, was fantastic, which,
indeed, she felt sure must be so.
They were so long in the dining-room, where Compton had his supper, that
when that was over it was time to go to bed. Still talking and laughing
as if they could never exhaust either the fountain of talk or the mirth,
which was probably much more sheer pleasure in their meeting than
genuine laughter produced by any wit or _bon mot_, they came out into
the passage, and stood by Mrs. Dennistoun and the housemaid, who had
brought her the keys and was now fastening the hall door. A little
calendar hung on the wall beneath the lamp, and Phil Compton walked up
to it and with a laugh read out the date. “Sixth September,” he said,
and turned round to Elinor. “Only ten days more, Nell.” The housemaid
stooping down over the bolt blushed and laughed too under her breath in
sympathy; but Mrs. Dennistoun turning suddenly round caught Compton’s
eye. Why had he given that keen glance about him? There was nothing to
call for his usual survey of the company in that sentiment. He might
have known well enough what were the feelings he was likely to call
forth. A keen suspicion shot through her mind. Suspicion of what? She
could not tell. There was nothing that was not most natural in his
sudden arrival, the delightful surprise of his coming, his certainty of
a good reception. The wonder was that he had come so little, not that he
should come now.
The next morning the visitor made himself very agreeable: his raptures
were a little calmed. He talked over all the arrangements, and entered
into everything with the interest of a man to whom that great day
approaching was indeed the greatest day in his life. And it turned out
that he had something to tell which was of practical importance. “I may
relieve your mind about Nell’s money,” he said, “for I believe my
company is going to be wound up. We’ll look out for another investment
which will pay as well and be less risky. It has been found not to be
doing quite so well as was thought, so we’re going to wind up.”
“I hope you have not lost anything,” said Mrs. Dennistoun.
“Oh, nothing to speak of,” he said, carelessly.
“I am not fond of speculative companies. I am glad you are done with
it,” Mrs. Dennistoun said.
“And I’m glad to be done with it. I shall look out for something
permanent and decline joint-stock companies. I thought you would like to
know. But that is the last word I shall say about business. Come, Nell,
I have only one day; let’s spend it in the woods.”
Elinor, who felt that the day in the woods was far more important than
any business, hurried to get her hat and follow him to the door. It
chanced to her to glance at the calendar as she passed hastily out to
where he stood awaiting her in the porch. Why that should have happened
to anyone in the Cottage twice in the twenty-four hours is a coincidence
which I cannot explain, but so it was. Her eye caught the little white
plaque in passing, and perceived with surprise that it had moved up two
numbers, and that it was the figure 8 which was marked upon it now.
“We cannot have slept through a day and night,” she said, laughing as
she joined him. “The calendar says the eighth September now.”
“But I arrived on the sixth,” he said. “Mind that, Nell, whatever
happens. You saw it with your own eyes. It may be of consequence to
remember.”
“Of what consequence could it be?” said Elinor, wondering.
“One can never tell. The only thing is I arrived on the sixth--that you
know. And, Nell, my darling, supposing any fellow should inquire too
closely into my movements, you’ll back me up, won’t you, and agree in
everything I say?”
“Who should inquire into your movements? There is no one here who would
be so impertinent, Phil.”
“Oh,” he said, “there is never any telling how impertinent people may
be.”
“And what is there in your movements that any one dare inquire about? I
hope you are not ashamed of coming to see me.”
“That is just what is the saving of me, Nell. I can’t explain what I
mean now, but I will later on. Only mind you don’t contradict me if we
should meet any inquisitive person. I arrived on the sixth, and you’ll
back me like my true love in everything I say.”
“As far as--as I know, Phil.”
“Oh, we must have no conditions. You must stand by me in everything I
say.”