“Here is a note from Marian, addressed to Nelly,” said Lydia, who had been examining the envelope.
“To Nelly!” said Mrs. McQuinch, vexed. “I think she should have invited one of you first.”
“Perhaps it is not an invitation,” said Jane.
“What else is it likely to be, child?” said Mrs. McQuinch. Then, as she thought how much pleasanter her home would be without Elinor, she added, “After all, it will do Nelly good to get away from here. She needs change, I think. I wish she would come down. It is too bad of her to be always late like this.”
Elinor came in presently, wearing a neglected black gown; her face pale; her eyes surrounded by dark circles; her black hair straggling in wisps over her forehead. Her sisters, dressed twinlike in white muslin and gold lockets, emphasized her by contrast. Being blond and gregarious, they enjoyed the reputation of being pretty and affectionate. They had thriven in the soil that had starved Elinor.
“There’s a letter for you from Marian,” said Mrs. McQuinch.
“Thanks,” said Elinor, indifferently, putting the note into her pocket. She liked Marian’s letters, and kept them to read in her hours of solitude.
“What does she say?” said Mrs. McQuinch.
“I have not looked,” replied Elinor.
“Well,” said Mrs. McQuinch, plaintively, “I wish you would look. I want to know whether she says anything about this letter from your uncle Reginald.”
Elinor plucked the note from her pocket, tore it open, and read it.
Suddenly she set her face to hide some emotion from her family.
“Marian wants me to go and stay with her,” she said. “They have taken a house.”
“Poor Marian!” said Jane. “And will you go?”
“I will,” said Elinor. “Have you any objection?”
“Oh dear, no,” said Jane, smoothly.
“I suppose you will be glad to get away from your home,” said Mrs.
McQuinch, incontinently.
“Very glad,” said Elinor. Mr. McQuinch, hurt, looked at her over his newspaper. Mrs. McQuinch was huffed.
“I dont know what you are to do for clothes,” she said, “unless Lydia and Jane are content to wear their last winter’s dresses again this year.”
The faces of the young ladies elongated. “That’s nonsense, mamma,” said Lydia. “We cant wear those brown reps again.” Women wore reps in those days.
“You need not be alarmed,” said Elinor. “I dont want any clothes. I can go as I am.”
“You dont know what you are talking about, child,” said Mrs. McQuinch.
“A nice figure you would make in uncle Reginald’s drawingroom with that dress on!” said Lydia.
“And your hair in that state!” added Jane.
“You should remember that there are others to be considered besides yourself,” said Lydia. “How would you like your guests to look like scarecrows?”
“How could you expect Marian to go about with you, or into the Park? I suppose — —”
“Here, here!” said Mr. McQuinch, putting down his paper. “Let us have no more of this. What else do you need in the Park than a riding habit? You have that already. Whatever clothes you want you had better get in London, where you will get the proper things for your money.”
“Indeed, Hardy, she is not going to pay a London milliner four prices for things she can get quite as good down here.”
“I tell you I dont want anything,” said Elinor impatiently. “It will be time enough to begrudge me some decent clothes when I ask for them.”
“I dont begrudge — —”
Mrs. McQuinch’s husband interrupted her. “Thats enough, now, everybody. It’s settled that she is to go, as she wants to. I will get her what is necessary. Give me another egg, and talk about something else.”
Accordingly, Elinor went to live at Westbourne Terrace. Marian had spent a month of her childhood in Wiltshire, and had made of Elinor an exacting friend, always ready to take offence, and to remain jealous and sulky for days if one of her sisters, or any other little girl, engaged her cousin’s attention long. On the other hand, Elinor’s attachment was idolatrous in its intensity; and as Marian was sweet-tempered, and more apt to fear that she had disregarded Elinor’s feelings than to take offence at her waywardness, their friendship endured after they were parted. Their promises of correspondence were redeemed by Elinor with very long letters at uncertain intervals, and by Marian with shorter epistles notifying all her important movements. Marian, often called upon to defend her cousin from the charge of being a little shrew, was led to dwell upon her better qualities. Elinor found in Marian what she had never found at her own home, a friend, and in her uncle’s house a refuge from that of her father, which she hated. She had been Marian’s companion for four years when the concert took place at Wandsworth.
Next day they were together in the drawingroom at Westbourne Terrace: Marian writing, Elinor at the pianoforte, working at some technical studies, to which she had been incited by the shortcoming of her performance on the previous night. She stopped on hearing a bell ring.
“What o’clock is it?” she said, after listening a moment. “Surely it is too early for a visit.”
“It is only half past two,” replied Marian. “I hope it is not anybody. I have not half finished my correspondence.”
“If you please, Miss,” said a maid, entering, “Mr. Douglas wants to see you, and he wont come up.”
“I suppose he expects you to go down and talk to him in the hall,” said
Elinor.
“He is in the dining-room, and wishes to see you most particular,” said the maid.
“Tell him I will come down,” said Marian.
“He heard me practising,” said Elinor, “that is why he would not come up. I am in disgrace, I suppose.”
“Nonsense, Nelly! But indeed I have no doubt he has come to complain of our conduct, since he insists on seeing me alone.”
Miss McQuinch looked sceptically at Marian’s guileless eyes, but resumed her technical studies without saying anything. Marian went to the dining-room, where she found Douglas standing near the window, tall and handsome, frock coated and groomed to a spotless glossiness that established a sort of relationship between him and the sideboard, the condition of which did credit to Marian’s influence over her housemaids. He looked intently at her as she bade him good morning.
“I am afraid I am rather early,” he said, half stiffly, half apologetically.
“Not at all,” said Marian.
“I have come to say something which I do not care to keep unsaid longer than I can help; so I thought it better to come when I could hope to find you alone. I hope I have not disturbed you. I have something rather important to say.”
“You are the same as one of ourselves, of course, Sholto. But I believe you delight in stiffness and ceremony. Will you not come upstairs?”
“I wish to speak to you privately. First, I have to apologize to you for what passed last night.”
“Pray