“Funny old poop!” said Compton. “And that is your Rector, Nell. I shall
tell Dick there’s rare fun to be had in that house: but not for me. I
know what I shall be thinking of all the time I’m there. Odious little
Nell! to interfere like this with a fellow’s fun. But I say, who’s that
woman who knows me or my family?--much good may it do her, as I said
before. Tell me, Nell, did she speak ill of me?”
“Oh, Phil, how could you ask? or what would it matter if she spoke ever
so ill?”
“She did then,” he said with a graver face. “Somebody was bound to do
it. And what did she say?”
“Oh, what does it matter, Phil? I don’t remember; nothing of any
consequence. We paid no attention, of course, neither mamma nor I.”
“That was plucky of the old girl,” said Compton. “I didn’t suppose you
would give ear, my Nell. Ain’t so sure about her. If I’d been your
father, my pet, I should never have given you to Phil Compton. And
that’s the fact: I wonder if the old lady would like to reconsider the
situation now.”
“Phil!” said Elinor, clinging to his arm.
“Perhaps it would be best for you if you were to do so, Nell, or if she
were to insist upon it. Eh! You don’t know me, my darling, that’s the
fact. You’re too good to understand us. We’re all the same, from the
old governor 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 man
think 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 to
tell you we’re a bad lot, and bid you throw me over, when I know all
along you won’t.”
“I should think not indeed,” she said, clinging to him and looking up in
his face. “Do you know what my cous--I mean a friend, said to me on that
subject?”
“You mean your cousin John, whom you are always quoting. Let’s hear what
the fellow said.”
“He said--that I wasn’t a girl to put up with much, Phil. That I wasn’t
one of the patient kind, that I would not bear---- I don’t know what it
was I would not bear; but you see you must consider my defects, which
you 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 him
instead 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 his
opinion’s no good. So you’re a spitfire, are you? Can’t put up with
anything that doesn’t suit you? I don’t know that I should have found
that out.”
“I am afraid though that it is true,” she said, half-laughingly looking
up 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?” he
cried hastily, changing his expression and attitude in a moment. “Is
that one of your neighbours at the gate?”
Elinor looked round, starting away a little from his side, and saw some
one--a man she had never seen before--approaching along the path. She
was just about to say she did not know who it was when Phil, to her
astonishment, stepped past her, advancing to meet the newcomer. But as
he did so he put out his hand and caught her as he passed, leading her
along 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, yet
astonishment. “I thought it looked like you, but I could not believe my
eyes.”
“Mr. Compton!” said the other. “So you are here. I have been hunting
after you all over the place. I heard only this morning this was a
likely spot.”
“A very likely spot!” said Phil. “I suppose you know the good reason I
have for being in these parts. Elinor, this is Mr. Stanfield, who has to
do with our company, don’t you know. But I say, Stanfield, what’s all
this row in the papers? Is it true that Brown’s bolted? I should have
taken the first train to see if I could help; but my private affairs are
most urgent just at this moment, as I suppose you know.”
“I wish you had come,” said the other; “it would have looked well, and
pleased the rest of the directors. There has been some queer
business--some of the books abstracted or destroyed, we can’t tell
which, and no means of knowing how we stand.”
“Good Heavens!” said Phil, “to cover that fellow’s retreat.”
“If you mean Brown, it was not he. They were all there safe enough after
he 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, but
that’s all. It’s supposed there must have been something compromising
others besides Brown. He could not have cheated the company to such an
extent by himself.”
“Good Heavens!” cried Phil again in natural horror; “I wish I had
followed my impulse and gone up to town straight: but it was very vague
what 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 had
disengaged herself from Compton’s arm; she perceived vaguely that the
stranger paused before he replied, and that Phil, facing him with a
certain square attitude of opposition which affected her imagination
vaguely, though she did not understand why--was waiting with keen
attention 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 anyone
suspected 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 paused
and turned upon Elinor a look which gave the girl the most curious
incomprehensible pang. It was a look of love; but, oh! heaven, was it a
look 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 did
it mean? It was yesterday, she was about to say, but something stopped
her, something in Phil’s eye--in the touch of his hand. There was
something warning, almost threatening, in his eye. Stand by me; mind you
don’t contradict me; say what I say. All these things which he had
repeated again and again were said once more in the look he gave her.
“Yes,” she said timidly, with a hesitation very unlike Elinor, “it was
the sixth.” She seemed to see suddenly as she said the words that
calendar with the date hanging in the hall: the big 6 seemed to hang
suspended in the air. It was true, though she could not tell how it
could be so.
“Oh,” said Stanfield, in a tone which betrayed a little surprise, and
something 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 should
have 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 be
here. Winding up affairs in the bachelor line, don’t you know; but I had
to come on my way west to see this young lady first. It plays the deuce
and 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 have
not gone to Ireland at all; I am here. Depends upon your motive, I
suppose, which way you go.”
“It is a good way roundabout,” said the other, without relaxing the
intent look on his face.
“Well,” said Phil, “that’s as one feels. I go by Holyhead wherever I may
be--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 the
stranger, pointedly. He turned to Elinor, and it seemed to the girl that
his eyes, though they were not remarkable eyes, went through and through
her. He spoke very slowly, with a curious meaning. “But it was on the
sixth, you say, that he got here?”
That big 6 on the calendar stood out before her eyes; it seemed to cover
all the man’s figure that stood before her. Elinor’s heart and mind went
through the strangest convulsion. Was it false--was it true? What was
she saying? What did it all mean? She repeated mechanically, “It was on
the sixth,” and then she recovered a kind of desperate courage, and
throwing off the strange spell that seemed to be upon her, “Is there any
reason,” she asked, suddenly, with a little burst of impatience, looking
from one to another, “why it should not be the sixth, that you repeat it
so?”
“I beg your pardon,” said the stranger, visibly startled. “I did not
mean to imply--only thought---- Pray, Mr. Compton, tell the lady I had
no intention 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, “but I 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 have
gone 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 natural
rural sense of hospitality came over Elinor. She turned back to find the
two men looking after her, standing where she had left them. “I am
sure,” she said, “that mamma would wish me to ask the gentleman if he
would stay to dinner--or at least come in with you, Phil, to tea.”
Mr. Stanfield took off his hat with anxious politeness, and exclaimed
hastily that he must go back to town by the next train, and that the cab
from the station was waiting to take him. And then she left them, and
walked quietly away. She was almost out of hearing before they resumed
their conversation; that is, she was beyond the sound, not of their
voices, but of what they said. The murmur of the voices was still
audible when she got to her favourite seat on the side of the copse
looking down the combe. It was a very retired and silent place, not
visible from either the cottage or the garden. And there Elinor took
refuge in the quiet and hush of the declining day. She was in a great
tremor of agitation and excitement as she sat down upon the rustic
seat--so great a tremor that she had scarcely been able to walk steadily
down the roughly-made steps--a tremor which had grown with every step
she took. She did not in the least understand the transaction in which
she had been engaged. It was something altogether strange to her
experiences, without any precedent in her life. What was it she had been
called upon to do? What had she said, and why had she been made to say
it? Her heart beat so that she put her two hands upon it crossed over
her breast to keep it down, lest it should burst away. She had the
sensation of having been brought before some tribunal, put suddenly to
the last shift, made to say--what, what? She was so bewildered that she
could not tell. Was it the truth, said with the intention to
deceive--was it----? She could not tell. There was that great numeral
wavering in the air, stalking along with her like a ghost. 6--. She had
read it in all innocence, they had all read it, and nobody had said it
was wrong. No one was very careful about the date in the cottage. If it
was right, if it was wrong, Elinor could not tell. But yet somehow she
was 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, to
stand by him, not to contradict him? Elinor’s mind was in such a wild
commotion that she could not answer these inquiries. She could not feel
that she had one solid step of ground to place herself upon in the
whirlwind which swept her about and about. Had she--lied? And why had he
asked her to lie? And what, oh, what did it all mean?
One thing that at last appeared to her in the chaos which seemed like
something solid that she could grasp at was that Phil had never changed
in his aspect. The other man had been very serious, staring at her as if
to intimidate her, like a man who had something to find out; but Phil
had been as careless, as indifferent, as he appeared always to be. He
had not changed his expression. It is true there was that look in which
there was at once an entreaty and a command--but only she had seen that,
and perhaps it was merely the emotion, the excitement, the strange
feeling of having to face the world for him, and say---- what, what? Was
it simply the truth, nothing but the truth, or was it---- Again Elinor’s
mind began to whirl. It was the truth: she could see now that big 6 on
the calendar distinct as the sunshine. And yet it was only
yesterday--and there was 8 this morning. Had she gone through an
intervening 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 for
Phil? And why should he want her to tell a lie?
Elinor got up from her seat, and stood uncertain, with a cold dew on her
forehead, and her hands clasping and holding each other. Should she go
back to them and say there must be some mistake--that though she had
said the truth it was not true, that there was some mistake, some
dreadful mistake! There was no longer any sound of voices where she was.
The whole incident seemed to have died out. The sudden commotion of
Phil’s visit and everything connected with it had passed away. She was
alone 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 winding
over the slopes for some one whom he had expected to come after him all
the time? Had he ever told her to stand by him? to say what he said, to
back him up? Had there ever been another man standing with that big 6
wavering between her and him like a ghost? Had all that been at all, or
was it merely a foolish dream? And ought she to go back now, and find
the man before he disappeared, and tell him it was all true, yet somehow
a dreadful, dreadful mistake?
Elinor sat down again abruptly on her seat, and put her handkerchief to
her forehead and pushed back the damp clusters of her hair, turning her
face to the wind to get a little refreshment and calm, if that were
possible. She heard in the sunny distance behind her, where the garden
and the peaceful house lay in the light, the clang of the gate, a sound
which could not be mistaken. The man then had gone--if there was
anything to rectify in what she said it certainly could not be rectified
now--he was gone. The certainty came to her with a feeling of relief. It
had been horrible to think of standing before the two men again and
saying--what could she have said? She remembered now that it was not her
assertion alone, but that it all hung together, a whole structure of
incidents, which would be put wrong if she had said it was a mistake--a
whole account of Phil’s time, how it had been passed--which was quite
true, which he had told them on his arrival; how he had been going to
Ireland, 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 came
for her to fetch her away. He had told the ladies at the cottage the
very same, and of course it was true. Had he not come straight from
Scotland with his big bundle of game, the grouse and partridges which
had already been shared with all the friends about? Was he not going off
to Ireland to-morrow to fulfil his first intention? It was all quite
right, quite true, hanging perfectly together--except that curious
falling out of a day. And then again Elinor’s brain swam round and
round. 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’s
paradise having him there, that she had not marked the passage of
time--had it all been one hour of happiness flying like the wind? A
blush, partly of sweet shame to think that this was possible, that she
might have been such a happy fool as to ignore the divisions of night
and day, and partly of stimulating hope that such might be the case, a
wild snatch at justification of herself and him flushed over her from
head to foot, wrapping her in warmth and delight; and then this all
faded away again and left her as in ashes--black and cold. No!
everything, she saw, now depended upon what she had been impelled to
say; the whole construction, Phil’s account of his time, his story of
his doings--all would have fallen to pieces had she said otherwise. Body
and soul, Elinor felt herself become like a machine full of clanging
wheels and beating pistons, her heart, her pulses, her breath, all
panting, beating, bursting. What did it mean? What did it mean? And then
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 the
westering sunshine, one answering another, everything softened in the
golden outdoor light. At first as she raised herself up she thought with
horror that it was the man, the visitor whom she had supposed to be
gone, returning with Phil to give her the opportunity of contradicting
herself, of bringing back that whirlwind of doubt and possibility. But
presently her excited senses perceived that it was her mother who was
walking calmly through the garden talking with Phil. There was not a
tone of excitement in the quiet voices that came gradually nearer and
nearer, till she could hear what they were saying. It was Phil who was
speaking, while her mother now and then put in a word. Elinor did not
wish on ordinary occasions for too many private talks between her mother
and Phil. They rubbed each other the wrong way, they did not understand
each other, words seemed to mean different things in their comprehension
of them. She knew that her lover would laugh at “the old girl,” which
was a phrase which offended Elinor deeply, and Mrs. Dennistoun would
become stiffer and stiffer, declaring that the very language of the
younger generation had become unintelligible to her. But to hear them
now together was a kind of anodyne to Elinor, it stayed and calmed her.
The cold moisture dried from her forehead. She smoothed her hair
instinctively with her hand, and put herself straight in mind as she did
with that involuntary action in outward appearance, feeling that no sign
of agitation, no trouble of demeanour must meet her mother’s eye. And
then 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, that
somebody went there the night before last and cleared off the books.
Well, not all the books, some that are supposed to contain the secret
transactions. Deucedly cleverly done it must have been, if it was done
at all, for nobody saw the fellow, or fellows, if there were more than
one----”
“Why do you doubt?” said Mrs. Dennistoun. “Is there any way of
accounting for it otherwise?”
“Oh, a very good way--that Brown, the manager, simply took them with
him, as he would naturally do, if he wasn’t a fool. Why should he go off
and leave papers that would convict him, for the pleasure of involving
other fellows, and ruining them too?”
“Are there others, then, involved with him?” Oh, how calm, how
inconceivably calm, was Mrs. Dennistoun’s voice! Had she been asking the
gardener about the slugs that eat the young plants it would have been
more disturbed.
“Well, Stanfield seemed to think so. He’s a sort of head clerk, a fellow
enormously trusted. I shouldn’t wonder if he was at the bottom of it
himself, they’re so sure of him,” said Phil, with a laugh. “He says
there’s a kind of suspicion of two or three. Clumsy wretches they must
be if they let themselves be found out like that. But I don’t believe
it. I believe Brown’s alone in it, and that it’s him that’s taken
everything away. I believe it’s far the safest way in those kind of
dodges to be alone. You get all the swag, and you’re in no danger of
being rounded on, don’t you know--till you find things are getting too
hot, and you cut away.”
“I don’t understand the words you use, but I think I know what you
mean,” said Mrs. Dennistoun. “How dreadful it is to think that in
business, where honesty is the very first principle, there should be
such terrible plots and plans as those!”
“’Tis awful, isn’t it?” said Phil, with a laugh that seemed to ring all
down the combe, and came back in echoes from the opposite slope, where
in the distance the cab from the station was seen hastening back towards
the railway in a cloud of dust. The laugh was like a trumpet of triumph
flung across the distance at the discomfited enemy thus going off
drooping in the hurry of defeat. He added, “But you may imagine, even if
I had known anything, he wouldn’t have got much out of me. I didn’t know
anything, however, I’m very glad to say.”
“That is always the best,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, with a certain grave
didactic tone. “And here is Elinor, as I thought. When one cannot find
her anywhere else she’s sure to be found here.”