“Dear child!” they said, and “I always knew that dear Elinor’s heart was in the right place.” But it was all that Elinor could do to get free of their eager affection and alarm lest she should be caught in the rain. Both of the ladies produced waterproofs, and one a large pair of goloshes to fortify her, when it was found that she would go; and they stood in the porch watching her as she went along into the darkening afternoon, without any of their covers and shelters. The Miss Hills were apt to cling together, after the manner of those pairs of sweet sisters in the “Books of Beauty” which had been the delight of their youth; they stood, with arms intertwined, in their porch, watching Elinor as she hurried home, with her light half-flying step, like the belated birds. “Did you hear what she said about old friends, poor little thing?” “I wonder if she is finding out already that her new grand connections are but vanity!” they said, shaking their heads. The middle-aged sisters looked out of the sheltered home, which perhaps they had not chosen for themselves, with a sort of wistful feeling, half pity, perhaps half envy, upon the “poor little thing” who was running out so light-hearted into the storm. They had long ago retired into waterproofs and goloshes, and had much unwillingness to wet their feet—which things are a parable. They went back and closed the door, only when the first flash of lightning dazzled them, and they{vol. i_98} remembered that an open door is dangerous during a thunderstorm.
Elinor quickened her pace as the storm began and got home breathless with running, shaking off the first big drops of thunder-rain from her dress. But she did not think of any danger, and sat out in the porch watching how the darkness came down on the combe; how it was met with the jagged gleam of the great white flash, and how the thunderous explosion shook the earth. The combe, with its hill-tops on either side, became like the scene of a battle, great armies, invisible in the sharp torrents of rain, meeting each other with a fierce shock and recoil, with now and then a trumpet-blast, and now the gleam that lit up tree and copse, and anon the tremendous artillery. When the lightning came she caught a glimpse of the winding line of the white road leading away out of all this—leading into the world where she was going—and for a moment escaped by it, even amid the roar of all the elements: then came back, alighting again with a start in the familiar porch, amid all the surroundings of the familiar life, to feel her mother’s hand upon her shoulder, and her mother’s voice saying, “Have you got wet, my darling? Did you get much of it? Come in, come in from the storm!”
“It is so glorious, mamma!” Mrs. Dennistoun stood for a few minutes looking at it, then, with a shudder, withdrew into the drawing-room. “I think I have seen too many storms to like it,” she said. But Elinor{vol. i_99} had not seen too many storms. She sat and watched it, now rolling away towards the south, and bursting again as though one army or the other had got reinforcements; while the flash of the explosions and the roar of the guns, and the white blast of the rain, falling like a sheet from the leaden skies, wrapped everything in mystery. The only thing that was to be identified from time to time was that bit of road leading out of it—leading her thoughts away, as it should one day lead her eager feet, from all the storm and turmoil out into the bright and shining world. Elinor never asked herself, as she sat there, a spectator of this great conflict of nature, whether that one human thing, by which her swift thoughts traversed the storm, carried any other suggestion as of coming back.
Perhaps it is betraying feminine counsels too much to the modest public to narrate how Elinor’s things were all laid out for the inspection of the ladies of the parish, the dresses in one room, the “under things” in another, and in the dining-room the presents, which everybody was doubly curious to see, to compare their own offerings with those of other people, or else to note with anxious eye what was wanting, in order, if their present had not yet been procured, to supply the gap. How to get something that would look well among the others, and yet not be too expensive, was a problem which the country neighbours had much and painfully considered. The Hudsons had given Elinor a little tea-kettle upon a stand, which they were pain{vol. i_100}fully conscious was only plated, and sadly afraid would not look well among all the gorgeous articles with which no doubt her grand new connections had loaded her. The Rector came himself, with his ladies to see how the kettle looked, with a great line of anxiety between his brows; but when they saw that the revolving dishes beside it, which were the gift of the wealthy Lady Mariamne, were plated too, and not nearly such a pretty design, their hearts went up in instant exhilaration, followed a moment after by such indignation as they could scarcely restrain. “That rich sister, the woman who married the Jew” (which was their very natural explanation of the lady’s nickname), “a woman who is rolling in wealth, and who actually made up the match!” This was crescendo, a height of scorn impossible to describe upon a mere printed page. “One would have thought she would have given a diamond necklace or something of consequence,” said Mrs. Hudson in her husband’s ear. “Or, at least silver,” said the Rector. “These fashionable people, though they give themselves every luxury, have sometimes not very much money to spend; but silver, at least, she might have been expected to give silver.” “It is simply disgraceful,” said the Rector’s wife. “I am glad, at all events, my dear,” said he, “that our little thing looks just as well as any.” “It is one of the prettiest things she has got,” said Mrs. Hudson, with a proud heart. Lord St. Serf sent an old-fashioned little ring in a much worn velvet case, and the elder brother, Lord Lomond, an album{vol. i_101} for photographs. The Rector’s wife indicated these gifts to her husband with little shrugs of her shoulders. “If that’s all the family can do!” she said: “why Alice’s cushion, which was worked with floss silks upon satin, was a more creditable present than that.” The Miss Hills, who as yet had not had an opportunity, as they said, of giving their present, roamed about, curious, inspecting everything. “What is the child to do with a kettle, a thing so difficult to pack, and requiring spirit for the lamp, and all that—and only plated!” the Hills said to each other. “Now, that little teapot of ours,” said Jane to Susan, “if mother would only consent to it, is no use to us, and would look very handsome here.” “Real silver, and old silver, which is so much the rage, and a thing she could use every day when she has her visitors for afternoon tea,” said Susan to Jane. “It is rather small,” said Miss Hill, doubtfully. “But quite enough for two people,” said the other, forgetting that she had just declared that the teapot would be serviceable when Elinor had visitors. But that was a small matter. Elinor, however, had other things better than these—a necklace, worth half a year’s income, from John Tatham, which he had pinched himself to get for her that she might hold up her head among those great friends; and almost all that her mother possessed in the way of jewellery, which was enough to make a show among these simple people. “Her own family at least have done Elinor justice,” said the Rector, going again to have a look at{vol. i_102} the kettle, which was the chief of the display to him. Thus the visitors made their remarks. The Hills did nothing but stand apart and discuss their teapot and the means by which “mother” could be got to assent.
The Rector took his cup of tea, always with a side glance at the kettle, and cut his cake, and made his gentle jest. “If Alick and I come over in the night and carry them all off you must not be surprised,” he said; “such valuable things as these in a little poor parish are a dreadful temptation, and I don’t suppose you have much in the way of bolts and bars. Alick is as nimble as a cat, he can get in at any crevice, and I’ll bring over the box for the collections to carry off the little things.” This harmless wit pleased the good clergyman much, and he repeated it to all the ladies. “I am coming over with Alick one of these dark nights to make a sweep of everything,” he said. Mr. Hudson retired in the gentle laughter that followed this, feeling that he had acquitted himself as a man ought who is the only gentleman present, as well as the Rector of the parish. “I am afraid I would not be a good judge of the ‘things,’” he said, “and for anything I know there may be mysteries not intended for men’s eyes. I like to see your pretty dresses when you are wearing them, but I can’t judge of their effect in the gross.” He was a man who had a pleasant wit. The ladies all agreed that the Rector was sure to make you laugh whatever was the occasion,