“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.”