IN the morning John accompanied Elinor to church. Mrs. Dennistoun had found an excuse for not going, which I am sorry to say was a way she had. She expressed (and felt) much sorrow for it herself, saying, which was quite true, that not to go was a great distress to her, and put the household out, and was a custom she did not approve of. But somehow it had grown upon her. She regretted this, but did it, saying that everybody was illogical, and that when Elinor had some one to go with she thought herself justified at her age in this little indulgence. Neither Elinor nor John objected to the arrangement. There are things that can be said in a walk while both parties are in motion, and when it is not necessary to face each other and to be subjected each to the other’s examination of feature and expression. It is easier in this way to say many things, to ask questions which might be embarrassing, to receive the fire of an examination which it might be otherwise difficult to 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 old place—but not the trim and restored and well-decorated edifice it is nowadays—tinkling its little bells into the sweet moorland air, amid such a hum of innumerable bees as seemed to make the very sunshine a vehicle for sound—before John began to perceive that he was being ingeniously driven to revelations which he had never intended, by a process for which he was not at all prepared. She who had been so indignant last night and determined not to allow a word to be said against the immaculate honour of the man she loved, was now—was it possible?—straining all her faculties to obtain from him, whom she would not permit to be Phil Compton’s judge, such unguarded admissions as would enlighten her as to what Phil Compton was accused of. It was some time before John perceived her aim; he did not even grasp the idea at first that this girl whose whole heart was set upon marrying Phil Compton, and defying for his sake every prophecy of evil and all the teachings of prudence, did not indeed at all know what it was which Phil had been supposed to have done. Had she been a girl in society she could scarcely have avoided some glimmerings of knowledge. She would have heard an unguarded word here and there, a broken phrase, an expression of scorn or dislike, she might even have heard that most unforgettable of nicknames, the dis-Honourable Phil. But Elinor, who was not in society, heard none of these things. She had been warned in the first fervour of her betrothal that he was not a man she ought to marry, but why? 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 in a year.”
“It will matter if you are to be in a kind of way connected. What has she 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 with them.”
“Ah, I daresay; it’s pretty to see a tiger with her cubs, I don’t doubt.”
“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. How dreadful you good people are! Pretending to mean kindness,” she cried, “you put the mark of your dislike upon people, and then you won’t say why. What have they done?”
It was this “they” that put John upon his guard. Hitherto she had only been asking about the sister, who did not matter so very much. If a man was to be judged by his sister! but “they” gave him a new light.
“Can’t you understand, Elinor,” he said, “that without doing anything that can be built upon, a woman may set herself in a position of enmity to the world, her hand against every one, and every one’s hand against her?”
“I know that well enough—generally because she does not comply with every conventional rule, but does and thinks what commends itself to her; 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: she to be compared—but Elinor met his eyes with scornful composure and defiance, 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 near relation. No one will judge you by her.” He would not be led into any discussion of the other, whose name, alas! Elinor intended to bear.
“If it comes to that. Perhaps you think,” said Elinor, with a smile of fine 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 powers in that way: nothing that I can do will affect it, if Providence doesn’t take 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, “it certainly 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 shady man!”
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 shady lot—excuse a man’s way of talking. I don’t know what other words to use—partly from misfortune, but more from—— Nelly, Nelly, how could you, a high-minded, well-brought-up girl like you, tolerate that?”
She turned upon him again, breathing hard with restrained rage and desperation; evidently she was at a loss for words to convey her indignant wrath: and at last in sheer inability to express the vehemence of 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 girl could not be better brought up than you’ve been: and you could not put up 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 the sloping sides of the combe, through the rustling copse, sometimes where there was a path, sometimes where there was none, treading over the big bushes of ling and the bell-heather, all bursting into bloom, past groups of primeval firs and seedling beeches, self-sown, over little hillocks and hollows formed of rocks or big old roots of trees covered with the close glittering green foliage and dark blue clusters of the dewberry, with the hum of bees filling the air, the twittering of the birds, the sound of the church bells—nothing more like the heart of summer, more peaceful, genial, happy than that brooding calm of nature amid all the harmonious sounds, could be.
But as Elinor put this impatient question, her countenance all ablaze with anger and vehemence and resolution, yet with a gleam of anxiety in the puckers of her forehead and the eyes which shone from beneath them, they stepped out upon the road by which other groups were passing, all bound towards the centre of the church and its tinkling bells. Elinor stopped, and drew a longer panting breath, and gave him a look of fierce reproach, as if this too were his fault: and then she smoothed her ruffled plumes, after the manner of women, and replied to the Sunday-morning salutations, with the smiles and nods of use and wont. She knew everybody, both the rich and the poor, or rather I should say the well-off and the less-well-off, for there were neither rich nor poor, formally speaking, on Windyhill. John did not find it so easy to put his emotions in his pocket. He cast an admiring glance upon her as with heightened colour and a little panting of the breath, but no other sign of disturbance, she made her inquiries after this one’s mother and that one’s child. It was wonderful to him to see how the storm was got under in a moment. An occasional glance aside at himself from the corner of her eye, a sort of dart of defiance as if to bid him remember that she was not done with him, was shot at John from time to time over the heads of the innocent country people in whom she pretended to be so much interested. Pretended!—was it pretence, or was the one as real as the other? He heard her promising to come to-morrow to see an invalid, to send 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 which engaged all her soul?
And then there came the service—that soothing routine of familiar prayers, which the lips of men and women absorbed in the violence and urgency of life murmur over almost without knowing, with now and then an awakening to something that touches their own aspirations, to something that offers or that asks for help. “Because there is none other that fighteth for us but only Thou, O God.” That seems to the careless soul such a non sequitur, as if peace was asked for, only because there was none other to fight; but to the man heavily laden, what a cry out of the depths! Because there is none other—all resources gone, all possibilities: but one that fighteth for us, standing fast, always the champion of the perplexed, the overborne, the weak. John was a little careless in this respect, as so many young men are. He thought most of the 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 of the bees outside, and the birds and the sighing bass of the fir-trees than of anything more carefully concerted. The organ was played with a curious drone in it, almost like that of the primitive bagpipe. But there was that one phrase, a strong strain of human appeal, enough to lift 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. What should he have preached it for, that little sermon, which was only composed because he could not help himself, which was about nothing in heaven or earth? John gave it a sort of partial attention because he could not help it, partly in wonder to think how a sensible man like Mr. Hudson could account to himself for such strange little interruption of the natural sequence of high human emotion. What theory had he in his mind? This was a question John was fond of putting to himself, with perhaps an idea peculiar to a lawyer, that every man must be thinking what he is about, and be able to produce a clear reason, and, as it were, some theory of the meaning of his own actions—which everybody must know is nonsense. For the Rector of course preached just because it was in his day’s work, and the people would have been much surprised, though possibly much relieved, had he not done so—feeling that to listen was in the day’s work too, and to be gone through doggedly as a duty. John thought how much better it would be to have some man who could preach now and then when he had something to say, instead of troubling the Rector, who, good man, had nothing. But it is not to be supposed that he was thinking this consecutively while the morning went on. It flitted through his mind from time to time among his many thinkings about the Compton family and Elinor; poor Nelly, standing upon the edge of that precipice and the helplessness of every one to save her, and the great refrain like the peal of an organ going through everything, “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 with that same look of eager defiance yet demand, and as soon as they left the road, the first step into the copse, putting out her hand to call his attention: “You said I could not put up with it, a girl so well-brought-up as I am. What is it a well-brought-up girl can’t put up with? A disorderly house, late hours, and so forth, hateful to the well-brought-up? What is it, what is it, John?”
“Have you been thinking of that all through the morning prayers?” he said.
“Yes, I have been thinking about it. What did you expect me to think about? 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 doing it; and there were other things——” John did not like to say what it was which was still throbbing through the air to him, and through his own being.
“Nothing that is of so much moment to me: come back, John, to the well-brought-up girl.”
“You think that’s a poor sort of description, Elinor; so it is. You are of course a great deal more than that. Still it’s what one can turn to most easily. You don’t know what life is in a sort of fast house, where there is nothing thought of but amusement or where it’s a constant round of race meetings, yachting, steeplechases—I don’t know if men still ride 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’t know—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 a different way not to their prejudice, if put in the right way would sound delightful? There is no harm in these things at all. Betting’s not a sin in the Bible any more than races are. Don’t you see it’s only the abuse of them that’s wrong? One might ruin one’s health, I believe, with tea, which is the most righteous thing! I should like above all things a yacht, say in the Mediterranean, and to go to Monte Carlo, which is a beautiful place, and where there is the best music in the world, besides the 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 a fortnight 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 Crœsus—or was,” said John, with significance, “but you are not going to live with Lady Mariamne, I suppose.”
“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 face was suffused with rosy colour, so different from the angry red, the flush of love and tenderness—her eyes swam in liquid light, looking up with 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 with my 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 almost offered to come for six months in the year to be with mamma.”
“Good heavens,” cried John to himself, “he must indeed be down on his luck!” 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 had to 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 if I told you that he disapproves too? He said himself that there had been too much of all that—that he had backed something—isn’t that what you say?—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 that were made—never any more. Now that I know you have nothing more to say my heart is free, and I can tell you. He has never really liked that sort of life, but was led into it when he was very young. And now as soon as—we are together, you know”—she looked so bright, so sweet in the 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 turn entirely 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 have their wants attended to, instead of jobs and corruption everywhere. So you will see, John, that if he has been fast, and gone a little too far, and been very much mixed up in the Turf, and all that, it was only in the exuberance of youth, liking the fun of it, as I feel I should myself. But that now, now all that is to be changed when he steps into settled, responsible life. I should not have told you if you had repeated the lies that people say. But as you did not, but only found fault 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 her hands was no longer agreeable to him, and his face seemed suddenly to have become a blank page, absolutely devoid of all expression. He kicked vigorously at one of the hillocks he had stumbled against, as if he thought 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 so glad, 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 a slanderer of any one, and we can go on being fond of each other like brother and sister. I have told him you have been the best of brothers to me.”
“Oh,” said John, without a sign of wonder or admiration in him, with a dead blank in his face.
“And what do you think he said? ‘Then I know he must be a capital fellow, Ne——’”
“Not Nelly,” said poor John, with a foolish pang that seemed to rend his heart. Oh, if that scamp, that cheat, that low betting, card-playing rascal were but here! he would capital-fellow him. To take not herself only, 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. I would 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 her Jew—horrible, isn’t it?—because she was called after some Jewess; but somehow it seems queer when you see her, so fair and frizzy, like anything but a Jew.”
“So I have got one letter to myself,” said John. “I don’t know that I think that worth very much, however. And so far as I can see, you seem to think everything very fine—the bets, perhaps, and the rows and all.”
“Well they are, you know,” said Elinor, with a laugh, “to a little country mouse like me that has never seen anything. There is always something going on, and their slang way of speaking is certainly very amusing if it is not at all dignified, and they have such droll ways of looking at things. All so entirely different! Don’t you know, John, sometimes in one’s life one longs for something to be quite different. A complete 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 mean to throw it over, oh, no! Coming back to mamma makes the arrangement perfect. Probably in the end it is the old life, the life I was brought up in that I shall like best in the long run. That is one thing of being well brought up. Phil will laugh till he cries when I tell him of your description 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, and swearing under his breath. Her flutter of talk running on, delighted, full of laughter and softness, as if he had fully declared his satisfaction and was interested in every detail, kept John in a state of suppressed fury which made his countenance dark, and almost took the sight from his eyes. He did not know how to escape from that false position, nor did she give him time, she had so much to say. Mrs. Dennistoun looked anxiously at the pair as they came up through the copse to the level of the cottage. There were no enclosures in that primitive place. From the copse you came straight into the garden with its banks of flowers. She was seated near the cottage door in a corner sheltered from the sun, with a number of books about her. But I don’t think she had read anything except some portions of the lessons in the morning service. She had been sitting with her eyes vaguely fixed upon the horizon and her hands clasped in her lap, and a heavy shadow like an overhanging cloud upon her mind. But when she heard Elinor’s voice approaching so gay and tuneful her heart rose a little. John evidently could have had nothing very bad to say. Elinor had been satisfied with the morning. Mrs. Dennistoun had expected to see them come back estranged and silent. The conclusion she drew was entirely satisfactory. After all John must have been moved solely by general disapproval, which is so very different from the dreadful hints and warnings that might mean any criminality. Elinor was talking to him as freely as she had done before this spectre rose. It must, Mrs. Dennistoun concluded, be all right.
It was not till he was going away that she had an opportunity of talking with him alone. Her satisfaction, it must be allowed, had been a little subdued by John’s demeanour during the afternoon and evening. But Mrs. Dennistoun had said to herself that there might be other ways of accounting for this. She had long had a fancy that John was more interested in Elinor than he had confessed himself to be. It had been her conviction that as soon as he felt it warrantable, as soon as he was sufficiently well-established, and his practice secured, he would probably declare himself, with, she feared, no particular issue so far as Elinor was concerned. And perhaps he was disappointed, poor fellow, which was a very natural explanation of his glum looks. But at breakfast on Monday Elinor announced her intention of driving her cousin to the station, and went out to see that the pony was harnessed, an operation which took some time, for the pony was out in the field and had to be caught, and the man of all work, who had a hundred affairs to look after, had to be caught too to perform this duty; which sometimes, however, Elinor performed herself, but always with some expenditure of time. Mrs. Dennistoun seized the opportunity, plunging at once into the all-important subject.
“You seemed to get on all right together yesterday, John, so I suppose you 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 the world by which you can stop it, do so. I can’t bring accusations against the man, for I couldn’t prove them. I only know what everybody knows. He is not a man fit for Elinor to marry. He is not fit to touch the tie of her shoe.”
“Oh, don’t trouble me with your superlatives, John. Elinor is a good girl and a clever girl, but not a lady of romance. Is there anything really against him? Tell me, for goodness’ sake! Even with these few words you have made me very unhappy,” Mrs. Dennistoun said, in a half resentful 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 is a 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 have heard. Stop it if you can.”
“Oh, dear, dear, here is Elinor back already,” Mrs. Dennistoun said.