“Mr. Compton,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, “you will be Elinor’s husband in less than a fortnight.”
“I hope so,” he said, displaying the large cavern of a yawn under his black moustache as he looked her in the face.
“And after that I will have no right to interfere; but, in the meantime, this is my house, and I hope you will remember that these ways are not mine, and that I am too old-fashioned to like them. I prefer a little more respect to your betrothed.”
“Oh, respect,” he said. “I have never found that girls like too much respect. But as you please. Well, look here, Nell,” he said, catching her by the arm as she came back and swinging her towards him, “your mother thinks I’m too rough with you, my little dear.”
“Do you, mamma?” said Elinor, faltering a little; but she had the sweetest rose-flush on her cheeks and the moisture of joy in her eyes. In all her twenty-three years she had never looked as she looked now. Her life had been a happy one, but not like this. She had{vol. i_116} been always beloved, and never had known for a day what it was to be neglected; yet love had never appeared to her as it did now, so sweet, nor life so beautiful. What strange delusion! what a wonderful incomprehensible mistake! or so at least the mother thought, looking at her beautiful girl with a pang at her heart.
“It is only his bad manners,” said Elinor, in a voice which sounded like a caress. “He knows very well how to behave. He can be as nice as any one, and as pretty spoken, and careful not to offend. It is only arriving so suddenly, and not being expected—or that he has forgotten his nice manners to-night. Phil, do you hear what I say?”
Phil made himself into the semblance of a dog, and sat up and begged for pardon. It was a trick which made people “shriek with laughing;” but Mrs. Dennistoun’s gravity remained unbroken. Perhaps her extreme seriousness had something in it that was rather ridiculous too. It was a relief when he went off to his supper, attended by Elinor, and Mrs. Dennistoun was left alone over her fire. She had a slight sense that she had been absurd, as well as that Philip Compton had lacked breeding, which did not make her more comfortable. Was it possible that she would be glad when it was all over, and her child gone—her child gone, and with that man! Her child, her little delicately bred, finely nurtured girl, who had been wrapped in all the refinements of life from her cradle, and had never heard a rough word, never been allowed to know anything that{vol. i_117} would disturb her virginal calm!—yet now in a moment passed away beyond her mother to the unceremonious wooer who had no reverence for her, none of the worship her mother expected. How strange it was! Yet a thing that happened every day. Mrs. Dennistoun sat over the fire, though it was not cold, and listened to the voices and laughter in the next room. How happy they were to be together! She did not, however, dwell upon the fact that she was alone and deserted, as many women would have done. She knew that she would have plenty of time to dwell on this in the lonely days to come. What occupied her was the want of more than manners, of any delicate feeling in the lover who had seized with rude caresses upon Elinor in her mother’s presence, and the fact that Elinor did not object, nor dislike that it should be so. That she should feel forlorn was no wonderful thing; that did not disturb her mind. It was the other matter about Elinor that pained and horrified her, she could not tell why; which, perhaps, was fantastic, which, indeed, she felt sure must be so.
They were so long in the dining-room, where Compton had his supper, that when that was over it was time to go to bed. Still talking and laughing as if they could never exhaust either the fountain of talk or the mirth, which was probably much more sheer pleasure in their meeting than genuine laughter produced by any wit or bon mot, they came out into the passage, and stood by Mrs. Dennistoun and the housemaid, who had brought her the keys and was now fastening the hall door. A{vol. i_118} little calendar hung on the wall beneath the lamp, and Phil Compton walked up to it and with a laugh read out the date. “Sixth September,” he said, and turned round to Elinor. “Only ten days more, Nell.” The housemaid stooping down over the bolt blushed and laughed too under her breath in sympathy; but Mrs. Dennistoun turning suddenly round caught Compton’s eye. Why had he given that keen glance about him? There was nothing to call for his usual survey of the company in that sentiment. He might have known well enough what were the feelings he was likely to call forth. A keen suspicion shot through her mind. Suspicion of what? She could not tell. There was nothing that was not most natural in his sudden arrival, the delightful surprise of his coming, his certainty of a good reception. The wonder was that he had come so little, not that he should come now.
The next morning the visitor made himself very agreeable: his raptures were a little calmed. He talked over all the arrangements, and entered into everything with the interest of a man to whom that great day approaching was indeed the greatest day in his life. And it turned out that he had something to tell which was of practical importance. “I may relieve your mind about Nell’s money,” he said, “for I believe my company is going to be wound up. We’ll look out for another investment which will pay as well and be less risky. It has been found not to be doing quite so well as was thought, so we’re going to wind up.{vol. i_119}”
“I hope you have not lost anything,” said Mrs. Dennistoun.
“Oh, nothing to speak of,” he said, carelessly.
“I am not fond of speculative companies. I am glad you are done with it,” Mrs. Dennistoun said.
“And I’m glad to be done with it. I shall look out for something permanent and decline joint-stock companies. I thought you would like to know. But that is the last word I shall say about business. Come, Nell, I have only one day; let’s spend it in the woods.”
Elinor, who felt that the day in the woods was far more important than any business, hurried to get her hat and follow him to the door. It chanced to her to glance at the calendar as she passed hastily out to where he stood awaiting her in the porch. Why that should have happened to anyone in the Cottage twice in the twenty-four hours is a coincidence which I cannot explain, but so it was. Her eye caught the little white plaque in passing, and perceived with surprise that it had moved up two numbers, and that it was the figure 8 which was marked upon it now.
“We cannot have slept through a day and night,” she said, laughing as she joined him. “The calendar says the eighth September now.”
“But I arrived on the sixth,” he said. “Mind that, Nell, whatever happens. You saw it with your own eyes. It may be of consequence to remember.”
“Of what consequence could it be?” said Elinor, wondering.{vol. i_120}
“One can never tell. The only thing is I arrived on the sixth—that you know. And, Nell, my darling, supposing any fellow should inquire too closely into my movements, you’ll back me up, won’t you, and agree in everything I say?”
“Who should inquire into your movements? There is no one here who would be so impertinent, Phil.”
“Oh,” he said, “there is never any telling how impertinent people may be.”
“And what is there in your movements that any one dare inquire about? I hope you are not ashamed of coming to see me.”
“That is just what is the saving of me, Nell. I can’t explain what I mean now, but I will later on. Only mind you don’t contradict me if we should meet any inquisitive person. I arrived on the sixth, and you’ll back me like my true love in everything I say.”
“As far as—as I know, Phil.”
“Oh, we must have no conditions. You must stand by me in everything I say.”
CHAPTER IX.
This day in the copse was one that Elinor never forgot. At the moment it seemed to her the most blissful period of all her