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 life. There had been times in which she had longed that Phil knew more and cared more{vol. i_121} for the objects which had always been most familiar, and told for most in her own existence—although it is true that at first his very ignorance, real or assumed, his careless way of treating all intellectual subjects, his indifference to books and pictures, and even nature, had amused and pleased her, giving a piquancy to the physical strength and enjoying manhood, the perpetual activity and state of doing something in which he was. It was not a kind of life which she had ever known before, and it dazzled her with its apparent freedom and fulness, the variety in it, the constant movement, the crowd of occupations and people. To her who had been used to finding a great deal of her amusement in reading, in sketching (not very well), in playing (tunes), and generally practising with very moderate success arts for which she had no individual enthusiasm, it had seemed like a new life to be plunged into the society of horses and dogs, into the active world which was made up of a round of amusements, race meetings, days on the river, follies of every conceivable kind, exercise, and air, and movement. The ignorance of all these people dazzled her as if it had been a new science. It had seemed something wonderful and piquant to Elinor to find people who knew so much of subjects she had never heard of, and nothing at all of those she had been trained to know. And then there had come a moment when she had begun to sigh under her breath, as it were, and wish that Phil would sometimes open a book, that when he took up the newspaper he would look at something more than the{vol. i_122} sporting news and the bits of gossip, that he would talk now and then of something different from the racings and the startings, and the odds, and the scrapes other men got into, and the astonishing “frocks” of the Jew—those things, so wonderful at first, like a new language, absurd, yet amusing, came to be a little tiresome, especially when scraps of them made up the bulk of the very brief letters which Phil scribbled to his betrothed. But during this day, after his unexpected arrival, the joy of seeing him suddenly, the pleasure of feeling that he had broken through all his engagements to come to her, and the fervour of his satisfaction in being with her again (that very fervour which shocked her mother), Elinor’s first glow of delight in her love came fully back. And as they wandered through the pleasant paths of the copse, his very talk seemed somehow changed, and to have gained just that little mingling of perception of her tastes and wishes which she had desired. There was a little autumnal mist about the softening haze which was not decay, but only the “mellow fruitfulness” of the poet; and the day, notwithstanding this, was as warm as June, the sky blue, with only a little white puff of cloud here and there. Phil paused to look down the combe, with all the folds of the downs that wrapped it about, going off in blue outlines into the distance, and said it was “a jolly view”—which amused Elinor more than if he had used the finest language, and showed that he was beginning (she thought) to care a little for the things which pleased{vol. i_123} her. “And I suppose you could see a man coming by that bit of road.”

“Yes,” said Elinor, “you could see a man coming—or going: but, unless you were to make believe very strong, like the Marchioness, you could not make out who the man was.”

“What Marchioness?” said Phil. “I didn’t know you had anybody with a title about here. I say, Nell, it’s a very jolly view, but hideously dull for you, my pet, to have lived so long here.”

“I never found it in the least dull,” she said.

“Why, there is nothing to do! I suppose you read books, eh? That’s what you call amusing yourself. You ought to have made the old lady take you about a deal, abroad, and all over the place: but I expect you have never stood up for yourself a bit, Nell.”

“Don’t call mamma the old lady, Phil. She is not old, and far prettier than most people I know.”

“Well, she should have done it for herself. Might have picked up a good match, eh? a father-in-law that would have left you a pot of money. You don’t mean to say you wouldn’t have liked that?”

“Oh, Phil, Phil! I wish you could understand.”

“Well, well, I’ll let the old girl alone.” And then came the point at which Phil improved so much. “Tell me what you’ve been reading last,” he said. “I should like to know what you are thinking about, even if I don’t understand it myself. I say, Nell, who do you think that can be dashing so fast along the road?{vol. i_124}”

“It is the people at Reddown,” she said. “I know their white horses. They always dash along as if they were in the greatest hurry. Do you really want to know what I have been reading, Phil? though it is very little, I fear, because of the dressmakers and—all the other things.”

“You see,” he said, “when you have lots to do you can’t keep up with your books: which is the reason why I never pretend to read—I have no time.”

“You might find a little time. I have seen you look very much bored, and complain that there was nothing to do.”

“Never when you were there, Nell, that I’ll answer for—but of course there are times when a fellow isn’t doing anything much. What would you have me read? There’s always the Sporting and Dramatic, you know, the Pink ’un, and a few more.”

“Oh, Phil! you don’t call them literature, I hope.”

“I don’t know much about what you call literature. There’s Ruff, and Hoyle, and—I say, Nell, there’s a dog-cart going a pace! Who can that be, do you suppose?”

“I don’t know all the dog-carts about. I should think it was some one coming from the station.”

“Oh!” he said, and made a long pause. “Driving like that, if they don’t break their necks, they should be here in ten minutes or so.”

“Oh, not for twice that time—the road makes such a round—but there is no reason to suppose that any dog-cart from the station should be coming here.{vol. i_125}”

“Well, to return to the literature, as you call it. I suppose I shall have to get a lot of books for you to keep you amused—eh, Nell? even in the honeymoon.”

“We shall not have time to read very much if we are moving about all the time.”

“Not me, but you. I know what you’ll do. You’ll go and leave me planted, and run up-stairs to read your book. I’ve seen the Jew do it with some of her confounded novels that she’s always wanting to turn over to me.”

“But there are some novels that you would like to read, Phil.”

“Not a bit. Why, Nell, I know far better stories of fellows in our own set than any novel these writing men ever can put on paper: fellows, and women, too—stories that would make your hair stand on end, and that would make you die with laughing. You can’t think what lots I know. That cart would have been here by this time if it had been coming here, eh?”

“Oh, no, not yet—the road makes such a long round. Do you expect any one, Phil?”

“I don’t quite know; there’s something on at that confounded office of ours; everything, you know, has gone to smash. I didn’t think it well to say too much to the old lady last night. There’s been a regular row, and the manager’s absconded, and all turns on whether they can find some books. I shouldn’t wonder if one of the fellows came down here, if they find out where I am. I say, Nell, mind you back me up whatever I say.{vol. i_126}”

“But I can’t possibly know anything about it,” said Elinor, astonished.

“Never mind—about dates and that—if you don’t stand by me, there may be a fuss, and the wedding delayed. Remember that, my pet, the wedding delayed—that’s what I want to avoid. Now, come, Nell, let’s have another go about the books. All English, mind you. I won’t buy you any of the French rot. They’re too spicy for a little girl like you.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Phil. I hope you don’t think that I read nothing but novels,” Elinor said.

“Nothing but novels! Oh, if you go in for mathematics and that sort of thing, Nell! the novels are too deep for me. Don’t say poetry, if you love me. I could stand most things from you, Nell, you little darling—but, Nell, if you come spouting verses all the time——”

His look of horror made Elinor laugh. “You need not be afraid. I never spout verses,” she said.

“Come along this way a little, where we can see the road. All women seem to like poetry. There’s a few fellows I don’t mind myself. Ingoldsby, now that’s something fine. We had him at school, and perhaps it was the contrast from one’s lessons. Do you know Ingoldsby, Nell?”

“A—little—I have read some——”

“Ah, you like the sentimental best. There’s Whyte Melville, then, there’s always something melancholy about him—‘When the old horse died,’ and that sort of{vol. i_127} thing—makes you cry, don’t you know. You all like that. Certainly, if that dog-cart had been coming here it must have come by this time.”

“Yes, it must have come,” Elinor admitted, with a little wonder at the importance which he gave to this possible incident. “But there is another train at two if you are very anxious to see this man.”

“Oh, I’m not anxious to see him,” said Mr. Compton, with a laugh, “but probably he will want to see me. No, Nell, you will not expect me to read poetry to you while we’re away. There’s quite a library at Lomond’s place. You can amuse yourself there when I’m shooting; not that I shall shoot much, or anything that takes me away from my Nell. But you must come out with us. There is no such fun as stumping over the moors—the Jew has got all the turn-out for that sort of thing—short frocks and knickerbockers, and a duck of a little breech-loader. She thinks she’s a great shot, poor thing, and men are civil and let her imagine that she’s knocked over a pheasant or a hare, now and then. As for the partridges, she lets fly, of course, but to say she hits anything——”

“I should not want to hit anything,” said Elinor. “Oh, please Phil! I will try anything else you like, but don’t make me shoot.”

“You little humbug! See what you’ll say when you get quite clear of the old lady. But I don’t want you to shoot, Nell. If you don’t get tired sitting at home, with all of us out on the hill, I like to come in for my{vol. i_128} part and find a little duck all tidy, not blowzy and blown about by the wind, like the Jew with her ridiculous bag, that all the fellows snigger at behind her back.”

“You should not let any fellow laugh at your sister, Phil——”

“Oh, as for that! they are all as thick with her as I am, and why should I interfere? But I promise you nobody shall cut a joke upon my Nell.”

“I should hope not, indeed,” said Elinor, indignant; “but as for your ‘fellows,’ Phil, as you call them, you mustn’t be angry with, me, but I don’t much like those gentlemen; they are a little rude and rough. They shall not call me by my Christian name, or anything but my own formal——”

“Mrs. Compton,” he said, seizing her in his arms, “you little duck! they’ll be as frightened of you as if you were fifty. But you mustn’t spoil good company, Nell. I shall like you to keep them at a distance, but you mustn’t go too far; and, above all, my pet, you mustn’t put out the Jew. I calculate on being a lot there; they have a nice house and a good table, and all that, and Prestwich is glad of somebody to help about his horses. You mustn’t set up any of your airs with the Jew.”

“I don’t know what you mean by my airs, Phil.”

“Oh, but I do, and they’re delicious, Nell: half like a little girl and half like a queen: but it will never do to make the Jew feel small in her own set. Hallo! there’s some one tumbling alone over the stones on that{vol. i_129} precious road of yours. I believe it’s that cart from the station after all.”

“No,” said Elinor, “it is only one of the tradespeople. You certainly are anxious about those carts from the station, Phil.”

“Not a bit!” he said, and then, after a moment, he added, “Yes, on the whole, I’d much rather the man came, if he’s coming while I’m here, and while you are with me, Nell; for I want you to stick to me, and back me up. They might think I ought to go after that manager fellow and spoil the wedding. Therefore mind you back me up.”

“I can’t think, dear Phil, what there is for me to do. I know nothing about the business nor what has happened. You never told me anything, and how can I back you up about things I don’t know?”

“Oh, yes, you can,” he said, “you’ll soon see if the fellow comes; just you stand by me, whatever I say. You mayn’t know—or even I may seem to make a mistake; but you know me if you don’t know the circumstances, and I hope you can trust me, Nell, that it will be all right.”

“But——” said Elinor, confused.

“Don’t go on with your buts; there’s a darling, don’t contradict me. There is nothing looks so silly to strangers as a woman contradicting every word a fellow says. I only want you to stand by me, don’t you know, that’s all; and I’ll tell you everything about it after, when there’s time.{vol. i_130}”

“Tell me about it now,” said Elinor; “you may be sure I shall be interested; there’s plenty of time now.”

“Talk about business to you! when I’ve only a single day, and not half time enough, you little duck, to tell you what a darling you are, and how I count every hour till I can have you all to myself. Ah, Nell, Nell, if that day were only here——”

And then Phil turned to those subjects and those methods which cast so much confusion into the mind of Mrs. Dennistoun, when practised under her sedate and middle-aged eyes. But Elinor, as has been said, did not take exactly the same view.

Presently they went to luncheon, and Phil secured himself a place at table commanding the road. “I never knew before how jolly it was,” he said, “though everything is jolly here. And that peep of the road must give you warning when any invasion is coming.”

“It is too far off for that,” said Mrs. Dennistoun.

“Oh, no, not for sharp eyes. Nell there told me who several people were—those white horses—the people at—where did you say, Nell?”

“Reddown, mamma—the Philistines, as you call them, that are always dashing about the country—nouveaux riches, with the finest horses in the county.”

“I like the nouveaux riches for that,” said Phil (he did not go wrong in his French, which was a great consolation to Elinor), “they like to have the best of everything. Your poor swell has to take what he can get,{vol. i_131} but the parvenu’s the man in these days; and then there was a dog-cart, which she pronounced to be from the station, but which turned out to be the butcher, or the baker, or the candle-stick maker——”

“It is really too far off to make sure of anything, except white horses.”

“Ah, there’s no mistaking them. I see something sweeping along, but that’s a country wagon, I suppose. It gives me a great deal of diversion to see the people on the road—which perhaps you will think a vulgar amusement.”

“Not at all,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, politely, but she thought within herself how empty the brain must be which sought diversion from the distant carriages passing two miles off: to be sure across the combe, as the crow flies, it was not a quarter part so far as that.

“Phil thinks some one may possibly come to him on business—to explain things,” said Elinor, anxious on her part to make it clear that it was not out of mere vacancy that her lover had watched so closely the carriages on the road.

“Unfortunately, there is something like a smash,” he said; “they’ll keep it out of the papers if they can, but you may see it in the papers; the manager has run away, and there’s a question about some books. I don’t suppose you would understand—they may come to me here about it, or they may wait till I go back to town.”

“I thought you were going to Ireland, Phil.”

“So I shall, probably, just for three days—to fill up{vol. i_132} the time. One wants to be doing something to keep one’s self down. You can’t keep quiet and behave yourself when you are going to be married in a week: unless you’re a little chit of a girl without any feelings,” he said with a laugh. And Elinor laughed too; while Mrs. Dennistoun sat as grave as a judge at the head of the table. But Phil was not daunted by her serious face: so long as the road was quite clear he had all the appearance of a perfectly easy mind.

“We have been talking about literature,” he said. “I am a stupid fellow, as perhaps you know, for that sort of thing. But Nell is to indoctrinate me. We mean to take a big box of books, and I’m to be made to read poetry and all sorts of fine things in my honeymoon.”

“That is a new idea,” said Mrs. Dennistoun. “I thought Elinor meant to give up reading, on the other hand, to make things square.”

There was a little breath of a protest from Elinor. “Oh, mamma!” but she left the talk (he could do it so much better) in Compton’s hand.

“I expect to figure as a sort of prodigy in my family,” he said; “we’re not bookish. The Jew goes in for French novels, but I don’t intend to let Nell touch them, so you may be easy in your mind.”

“I have no doubt Lady Mariamne makes a good selection,” said Mrs. Dennistoun.

“Not she! she reads whatever comes, and the more salt the better. The Jew is quite an emancipated per{vol. i_133}son. Don’t you think she’ll bore you rather in this little house? She carries bales of rubbish with her wherever she goes, and her maid, and her dog, and I don’t know what. If I were you I’d write, or better wire, and tell her there’s a capital train from Victoria will bring her here in time for the wedding, and that it’s a thousand pities she should disturb herself to come for the night.”

“If your sister can put up with my small accommodation, I shall of course be happy to have her, whatever she brings with her,” Mrs. Dennistoun said.

“Oh! it’s not a question of putting up—she’d be delighted, I’m sure: but I think you’ll find her a great bore. She is exceedingly fussy when she has not all her things about her. However, you must judge for yourself. But if you think better of it, wire a few words, and it’ll be all right. I’m to go to the old Rectory, Nell says.”

“It is not a particularly old Rectory; it is a very nice, pleasant house. I think you will find yourself quite comfortable—you and the gentleman——”

“Dick Bolsover, who is going to see me through it: and I daresay I should not sleep much, if I were in the most luxurious bed in the world. They say a man who is going to be hanged sleeps like a top, but I don’t think I shall; what do you say, Nell?”

“Elinor, I should think, could have no opinion on the subject,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, pale with anger. “You will all dine here, of course. Some other friends{vol. i_134} are coming, and a cousin, Mr. Tatham, of Tatham’s Cross.”

“Is that,” said Phil, “the Cousin John?”

“John, I am sorry to say, is abroad; the long vacation is the worst time. It is his father who is coming, and his sister, Mary Tatham, who is Elinor’s bridesmaid—she and Miss Hudson at the Rectory.”

“Only two; and very sensible, instead of the train one sees, all thinking how best to show themselves off. Dick Bolsover is man enough to tackle them both. He expects some fun, I can tell you. What is there to be after we are gone, Nell?” He stopped and looked round with a laugh. “Rather close quarters for a ball,” he said.

“There will be no ball. You forget that when you take Elinor away I shall be alone. A solitary woman living in a cottage, as you remark, does not give balls. I am much afraid that there will be very little fun for your friend.”

“Oh, he’ll amuse himself well enough; he’s the sort of fellow who always makes himself at home. A Rectory will be great fun for him; I don’t suppose he was ever in one before, unless perhaps when he was a boy at school. Yes, as you say—what a lot of trouble it will be for you to be sure: not as if Nell had a sister to enjoy the fun after. It’s a thousand pities you did not decide to bring her up to town, and get us shuffled off there. You might have got a little house for next to nothing at this time of the year, and saved all the{vol. i_135} row, turning everything upside down in this nice little place, and troubling yourself with visitors and so forth. But one always thinks of that sort of thing too late.”

“I should not have adopted such an expedient in any case. Elinor must be married among her own people, wherever her lot may be cast afterwards. Everybody here has known her ever since she was born.”

“Ah, that’s a thing ladies think of, I suppose,” said Compton. He had stuck his glass into his eye and was gazing out of the window. “Very jolly view,” he continued. “And what’s that, Nell, raising clouds of dust? I haven’t such quick eyes as you.”

“I should think it must be a circus or a menagerie, or something, mamma.”

“Very likely,” said Mrs. Dennistoun. “They sometimes come this way on the road to Portsmouth, and give little representations in all the villages, to the great excitement of the country folk.”

“We are the country folk, and I feel quite excited,” said Phil, dropping his glass. “Nell, if there’s a representation, you and I will go to-night.”

“Oh, Phil, what——” Elinor was about to say folly: but she paused, seeing a look in his eye which she had already learned to know, and added “fun,” in a voice which sounded almost like an echo of his own.

“There is nothing like being out in the wilderness like this to make one relish a little fun, eh? I daresay you always go. The Jew is the one for every village fair within ten miles when she is in the country. She{vol. i_136} says they’re better than any play. Hallo! what is that?”

“It is some one coming round the gravel path.” A more simple statement could not be, but it made Compton strangely uneasy. He rose up hastily from the table. “It is, perhaps, the man I am looking for. If you’ll permit me, I’ll go and see.”

He went out of the room, calling Elinor by a look and slight movement of his head, but when he came out into the hall was met by a trim clerical figure and genial countenance, the benign yet self-assured looks of the Rector of the Parish: none other could this smiling yet important personage be.