THE drawing-room after dinner always looked cheerful. Perhaps the fact that it was a sort of little oasis in the desert, and that the light from those windows shone into three counties, made the interior more cosy and bright. (There are houses now upon every knoll, and the wind cannot blow on Windyhill for the quantity of obstructions it meets with.) There was the usual log burning on the hearth, and the party in general kept away from it, for the night was warm. Only Mr. Sharp, the London lawyer, was equal to bearing the heat. He stood with his back to it, and his long legs showing against the glow behind, a sharp-nosed, long man in black, who had immediately suggested Mephistopheles to Elinor, even though he was on the Compton side. He had taken his coffee after dinner, and now he stood over the fire slowly sipping a cup of tea. There was a look of acquisitiveness about him which suggested an inclination to appropriate anything from the unnecessary heat of the fire to the equally unnecessary tea. But Mr. Sharp had been on the winning side. He had demonstrated the superior sense of making the money—which was not large enough sum to settle—of real use to the young pair by an investment which would increase Mr. Compton’s importance in his company, besides producing very good dividends—much better dividends than would be possible if it were treated in the old-fashioned way by trustees. This was how the bride wished it, which was the most telling of arguments: and surely, to insure good interest and an increase of capital to her, through her husband’s hands, was better than to secure some beggarly hundred and fifty pounds a year for her portion, though without any risks at all.
Mr. Sharp had also taken great pains to point out that there were only three brothers—one an invalid and the other two soldiers—between Mr. Phil and the title, and that even to be the Honourable Mrs. Compton was something for a young lady, who was, if he might venture to say so, nobody—not to say a word against her charms. Lord St. Serf was hourly getting an old man, and the chances that his client might step over a hecatomb of dead relations to the height of fortune was a thing quite worth taking into account. It was a much better argument, however, to return to the analogy of other poor young people, where the bride’s little fortune would be put into the husband’s business, and thus their joint advantage considered. Mr. Sharp, at the same time, did not hesitate to express politely his opinion that to call him down to the country for a discussion which could have been carried on much better in one or other of their respective offices was a most uncalled for proceeding, especially as even now the other side was wavering, and would not consent to conclude matters, and make the signatures that were necessary at once. Mr. Lynch, it must be allowed, was of the same opinion too.
“Your country is a little bleak at night,” said Mr. Sharp, partially mollified by a good dinner, but beginning to remember unpleasantly the cold drive in a rattletrap of a little rustic pony carriage over the hills and hollows. “Do you really remain here all the year? How wonderful? Not even a glimpse of the world in summer, or a little escape from the chills in winter? How brave of you! What patience and powers of endurance must be cultivated in that way!”
“One would think Windyhill was Siberia at least,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, laughing; “we do not give ourselves credit for all these fine qualities.”
“Some people are heroes—or heroines—without knowing it,” said Mr. Sharp, with a bow.
“And yet,” said the mother, with a little indignation, “there was some talk of Mr. Compton doing me the honour to share my hermitage for a part of the year.”
“Mr. Compton! my dear lady! Mr. Compton would die of it in a week,” said Mr. Sharp.
“I am quite well aware of it,” said Mrs. Dennistoun; and she added, after a pause, “so should I.”
“What a change it will be for your daughter,” said Mr. Sharp. “She will see everything that is worth seeing. More in a month than she would see here in a dozen years. Trust Mr. Compton for knowing all that’s worth going after. They have all an instinct for life that is quite remarkable. There’s Lady Mariamne, who has society at her feet, and the old lord is a most remarkable old gentleman. Your daughter, Mrs. Dennistoun, is a very fortunate young lady. She has my best congratulations, I am sure.”
“Sharp,” said Mr. Lynch from the background, “you had better be thinking of starting, if you want to catch that train.”
“I’ll see if the pony is there,” said John.
Mr. Sharp, put down his teacup with precipitation. “Is it as late as that?” he cried.
“It is the last train,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, with great satisfaction. “And I am afraid, if you missed it, as the house is full, there would be nothing but a bed at the public-house to offer——”
“Oh, not another word,” the lawyer said: and fortunately he never knew how near that rising young man at the bar, John Tatham, who had every object in conciliating a solicitor, was to a charge of manslaughter, if killing an attorney can thus be called. But the feelings of the party were expressed only in actions of the greatest kindness. They helped him on with his coat, and covered him with rugs as he got in, shivering, to the little pony carriage. It was a beautiful night, but the wind is always a thing to be considered on Windyhill.
“Well, that’s a good thing over,” said Mr. Lynch, going to the fire as he came in from the night air at the door and rubbing his hands.
“It would have been a relief to one’s feeling to have kicked that fellow all the way down and up the other side of the combe, and kept him warm,” said John, with a laugh of wrath.
“It is a pity a man should have so little taste,” said Mrs. Dennistoun.
Elinor still stood where she had been standing, with every feeling in her breast in commotion. She had not taken any part in the insidious kindnesses of speeding the parting guest; and now she remembered that he was her Phil’s representative: whatever she might herself think of the man, how could she join in abuse of one who represented Phil?
“He is no worse, I suppose, than others,” she said. “He was bound to stand up for those in whose interest he was. Mr. Lynch would have made himself quite as disagreeable for me.”
“Not I,” said the old gentleman; “for what is the good of standing up for you? You would throw me over on the first opportunity. You have taken all the force out of my sword-arm, my dear, as it is. How can I make myself disagreeable for those who won’t stand up for themselves? I suppose you must have it your own way.”
“Yes, I suppose it will be the best,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, in subdued tones.
“It would come to about the same thing, however you settled it,” said John.
Elinor looked from one to another with eyes that began to glow. “You are a cheerful company,” she said. “You speak as if you were arranging my funeral. On the whole I think I like Mr. Sharp best; for if he was contemptuous of me and my little bit of money, he was at all events cheerful about the future, and that is always something; whereas you all——”
There was a little pause, no one responding. There was no pleasant jest, no bright augury for Elinor. The girl’s heart rose against this gloom that surrounded her. “I think,” she said, with an angry laugh, “that I had better run after Mr. Sharp and bring him back, for he had at least a little sympathy with me!”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” said Mr. Lynch, “for if we think you are throwing yourself away, Elinor, so does he on his side. He thinks the Honourable Mr. Compton is going dreadfully cheap for five thousand pounds.”
“Elinor need not take any of us au pied de la lettre—of course we are all firm for our own side,” said John.
Elinor turned her head from one to another, growing pale and red by turns. There was a certain surprise in her look, as she found herself thus at bay. The triumph of having got the better of their opposition was lost in the sense of isolation with which the girl, so long the first object of everybody about her, felt herself thus placed alone. And the tears were very ready to start, but were kept back by jealous pride which rose to her help. Well! if they put her outside the circle she would remain so; if they talked to her as one no longer of them, but belonging to another life, so be it! Elinor determined that she would make no further appeal. She would not even show how much it hurt her. After that pale look round upon them all, she went into the corner of the room where the piano stood, and where there was little light. She was too proud to go out of the room, lest they should think she was going to cry. She went with a sudden, quick movement to the piano instead, where perhaps she might cry too, but where nobody should see. Poor Elinor! they had made her feel alone by their words, and she made herself more alone by this little instinctive withdrawal. She began to play softly one thing after another. She was not a great performer. Her little “tunes” were of the simplest—no better indeed than tunes, things that every musician despises: they made a little atmosphere round her, a voluntary hermitage which separated her as if she had been a hundred miles away.
“I wish you could have stayed for the marriage,” Mrs. Dennistoun said.
“My dear lady, it would spoil my holiday—the middle of September. You’ll have nobody except, of course, the people you have always. To tell the truth,” John added. “I don’t care tuppence for my holiday. I’d have come—like a shot: but I don’t think I could stand it. She has always been such a pet of mine. I don’t think I could bear it, to tell the truth.”
“I shall have to bear it, though she is more than a pet of mine,” said Mrs. Dennistoun.
“I know, I know! the relatives cannot be let off—especially the mother, who must put up with everything. I trust,” said Mr. Lynch, with a sigh, “that it may all turn out a great deal better than we hope. Where are they going after the marriage?”
“Some one has lent them a place—a very pretty place—on the Thames, where they can have boating and all that—Lord Sudbury, I think. And later they are going on a round of visits, to his father, Lord St. Serf, and to Lady Mariamne, and to his aunt, who is Countess of—something or other.” Mrs. Dennistoun’s voice was not untouched by a certain vague pleasure in these fine names.
“Ah,” said the old lawyer, nodding his head at each, “all among the aristocracy, I see. Well, my dear lady, I hope you will be able to find some satisfaction in that; it is better than to fall among—nobodies at least.”
“I hope so,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, with a sigh.
They were speaking low, and fondly hoped that they were not heard; but Elinor’s ears and every faculty were quickened and almost every word reached her. But she was too proud to take any notice. And perhaps these dreary anticipations, on the whole, did her good, for her heart rose against them, and any little possible doubts in her own mind were put to sudden flight by the opposition and determination which flooded her heart. This made her playing a little more unsteady than usual, and she broke down several times in the middle of a “tune;” but nobody remarked this: they were all fully occupied with their own thoughts.
All, at least, except John, who wandered uneasily about the room, now studying the names of the books on the bookshelves—which he knew by heart, now pulling the curtain aside to look out at the moonlight, now pulling at the fronds of the great maidenhair in his distraction till the table round was scattered with little broken leaves. He wanted to keep out of that atmosphere of emotion which surrounded Elinor at the piano. But it attracted him, all the same, as the light attracts a moth. To get away from that, to make the severance which so soon must be a perfect severance, was the only true policy he knew; for what was he to her, and what could she be to him? He had already said everything which a man in his position ought to say. He took out a book at last, and sat down doggedly by the table to read, thus making another circle of atmosphere, so to speak, another globe of isolated being in the little room, while the two elder people talked low in the centre, conventionally inaudible to the girl who was playing and the young man who was reading. But John might as well have tried to solve some tremendous problem as to read that book. He too heard every word the elders were saying. He heard them with his own ears, and also he heard them through the ears of Elinor, gauging the effect which every word would have upon her. At last he could bear it no longer. He was driven to her side to bear a part of her burden, even to prevent her from hearing, which would be something. He resisted the impulse to throw down his book, and only placed it very quietly on the table, and even in a deliberate way, that there might be no appearance of feeling about him—and made his way by degrees, pausing now and then to look at a picture, though he knew them all by heart. Thus he arrived at last at the piano, in what he flattered himself was an accidental way.
“Elinor, the stars are so bright over the combe, do come out. It is not often they are so clear.”
“No,” she said, more with the movement of her lips than with any sound.
“Why not? You can’t want to play those old pieces just at this moment. You will have plenty of time to play them to-morrow.”
She said “No” again, with a little impatient movement of her hands on the keys and a look towards the others.
“You are listening to what they are saying? Why should you? They don’t want you to hear. Come along, Elinor. It’s far better for you not to listen to what is not intended——”
“Oh, go away, John.”
“I must say no in my turn. Leave the tunes till to-morrow, and come out with me.”
“I thought,” she said, roused a little, “that you were fond of music, John.”
This brought John up suddenly in an unexpected way. “Oh, as for that,”—he said, in a dubious tone. Poor Elinor’s tunes were not music in his sense, as she very well knew.
She laughed in a forlorn way. “I know what you mean; but this is quite good enough for what I shall want. I am going down, you know, to a different level altogether. Oh, you can hear for yourself what mamma and Mr. Lynch are saying.”
“Going up you mean, Elinor. I thought them both very complaisant over all those titles.”
“Ah,” she said, “they say that mocking. They think I am going down; so do you, too, to the land of mere fast people, people with no sense. Well; there is nothing but the trial will teach any of us. We shall see.”
“It is rather a dreadful risk to run, if it’s only a trial, Elinor.”
“A trial—for you, not for me—I am not the one that thinks so, except so far as the tunes are concerned,” she said with a laugh. “I confess so far as that Lady Mariamne is fond of a comic song. I don’t think she goes any further. I shall be good enough for them in the way of music.”
“I should be content never to hear another note of music all my life, Elinor, if——”
“Ah, there you begin again. Not you, John, not you! I can’t bear any more. Neither stars, nor walks, nor listening; no more! This rather,” and she brought down her hands with a great crash upon the piano, making every one start. Then Elinor rose, having produced her effect. “I think it must be time to go to bed, mamma. John is talking of the stars, which means that he wants his cigar, and Mr. Lynch must want just to look at the tray in the dining-room. And you are tired by all this fuss, all this unnatural fuss about me, that am not worth—— Come, mother, to bed.”