“Dear little Nelly!” he said with faltering voice, “then that is a bargain.”
She held up her cheek to him, and he kissed it solemnly in the shadow of the little young oak that fluttered its leaves wistfully in the breeze that was getting up—and then very soberly, saying little, they walked back to the cottage. He was going abroad for his vacation, not saying to himself even that he preferred not to be present at the wedding, but resigning himself to the necessity, for it was not to be till the middle of September, and it would be breaking up his holiday had he to come back at that time. So this little interview was a leave-taking as well as a solemn engagement for all the risks and dangers of life. The pain in it, after that very sharp moment in the copse, was softened down into a sadness not unsweet, as they came silently together from out of the shadow into the quiet hemisphere of sky and space, which was over the little centre of the cottage with its human glimmer of fire and lights. The sky was unusually clear, and among those soft, rose-tinted clouds of the sunset, which were no clouds at all, had risen a young crescent of a moon, just about to disappear, too, in the short course of one of her earliest nights. They lingered for a moment before they went indoors. The depth of the combe was filled with the growing darkness, but the ridges above were still light and softly edged with the silver of the moon, and the distant road, like a long, white line, came conspicuously into sight, winding for{vol. i_80} a little way along the hill-top unsheltered, before it plunged into the shadow of the trees—the road that led into the world, by which they should both depart presently to stray into such different ways.
CHAPTER VI.
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{vol. i_81} 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 dis{vol. i_82}cussion 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{vol. i_83} 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.{vol. i_84}
“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