“Well,” said Compton, placing himself beside her, “here you are, Nell; kind of the old lady to bring me, wasn’t it? I should never have found you out by myself.”

“Has he gone, Phil?” Elinor raised her scared face from her hands, and gave him a piteous look.

“Why, Nell! you are trembling like a leaf. Was it frightened, my pretty pet, for Stanny? Stanny’s gone off with his tail between his legs. Not a bit of starch left in him. As limp a lawyer as ever you saw.”

“Was he a lawyer?” she said, not knowing why she said it, for it mattered nothing at all to Elinor what the man was.

“Not exactly; and yet, I suppose, something of the kind. He is the one that knows about law points, and such things. But now he’s as quiet as a lamb, thanks to you.”

“Phil,” she cried, “what did you make me say? I don’t know what I have done. I have done something dreadful—deceived the man, as good as told him a lie.”

“You told him the truth,” said Phil, with a laugh,{vol. i_166} “in the most judgmatical way. You stuck to it like a—woman. There’s nothing like a woman for sticking to a text. You didn’t say a word too much. And I say, Nell, that little defiant bit of yours—‘Was there any reason why it shouldn’t be the sixth?’ was grand. That was quite magnificent, my pet. I never thought you had such spirit in you.”

“Oh, Phil,” she cried, “why did you make me say it? What was it I said? I don’t know; I don’t understand a bit. Whatever it was, I know that it was wrong. I deceived the man.”

“That’s not so great a sin,” he said. “I’ve known worse things done. Put an old reynard off the scent to save his prey. I don’t see what’s wrong in that, especially as the innocent chicken to be saved was your own poor old Phil.”

“Phil, Phil,” she cried, “what could that man have done to you? What had put you in his power? You have made me lose all my innocence. I have got horrible things in my head. What could he have done to you that you made me tell a lie?”

“What lie did I make you tell? be reasonable; I did arrive on the sixth, you know that just as well as I do. Don’t you really remember the calendar in the hall? You saw it, Nell, as well as I.”

“I know, I know,” she cried, putting her hands up to her eyes, “I see it everywhere staring at me, that big, dreadful 6. But how is it the 8th now? There is something in it—something I don’t understand.{vol. i_167}”

He laughed loudly and long: one of those boisterous laughs which always jarred upon Elinor. “I don’t in the least mind how it was,” he said. “It was, and that’s quite enough for me; and let it be for you too, Nell. I hope you’re not going to search into the origin of things like this; we’ve quite enough to do in this world to take things as they come.”

“Oh, Phil! if at least I could understand—I don’t understand: or if I had not been made to say what is so mysterious—what must be false.”

“Hush, Nell; how could it be false when you saw with your own eyes it was true? Now let us be done with this, my darling. The incident is terminated, as the French say. I came here as fast as I could come to have a good laugh with you over it, and lo! you’re nearer crying. Why should you have Stanny on your conscience, Nell? a fellow that would like no better than to hang me if he could get the chance.”

“But Phil, Phil—oh, tell me, what could this man have done to you? Why are you afraid of him? Why, why have you made me tell him——”

“Now, Nell, no exaggerated expression. It was a fact you told him, according to the best of evidence; and what he could have done to me is just this—he might have given me a deal of trouble, and put off our marriage. I should have had to go back to town, and my time would have been taken up with finding out about those books, and our marriage would have been put off; that’s what he could have done.{vol. i_168}”

“Is that all?” cried Elinor, “was that all?”

“All!” he said, with that loud laugh again; “you don’t mind a bit how you hurt a fellow’s pride, and his affections, and all that. Do you mean to say, you hardhearted little coquette, that you wouldn’t mind? I don’t believe you would mind! Here am I counting the hours, and you, you little cold puss, you aggravating little——”

“Oh, Phil, don’t talk such nonsense. If we were to be separated, for a week or a month, what could that matter, in comparison with saying what wasn’t——”

“Hush,” he said, putting his hand to her mouth. “It’s not nice of you to take it so easily, Nell. I’d tell as many what-d’ye-call-’ems as you like, rather than put it off an hour. Why, feeling apart (and I don’t think you’ve any feeling, you little piece of ice), think how inconvenient it would have been; the people all arriving; the breakfast all ready; the Rector with his surplice on, and no wedding! Fancy the Jew with all her fallals, on the old lady’s hands, and your cousin John——”

“I have told you already, Phil, my cousin John will not be there.”

“So much the better,” he said, with a laugh, “I don’t want him to be there—shows his sense, when his nose is put out of joint, to keep out of the way.”

“I wish you would understand,” she said, with a little vexation, “that John is not put out of joint, as you say in that odious way. He has never been anything{vol. i_169} more to me, nor I to him, than we are now—like brother and sister.”

“The more fool he,” said Compton, “to have the chance of a nice girl like you, Nell, and not to go in for it. But I don’t believe a bit in the brother and sister dodge.”

“We will be just the same all our lives,” cried Elinor.

“Not if I know it,” said Phil. “I’m an easy-going fellow in most ways, but you’ll find I’m an old Turk about you, my little duck of a Nell. No amateur brother for me. If you can’t get along with your old Phil, without other adorers——”

“Phil! as if I should ever think or care whether there was another man in the world!”

“Oh, that’s going too far,” he said, laughing. “I shan’t mind a little flirtation. You may have a man or two in your train to fetch and carry, get your shawl for you, and call your carriage, and so forth; but no serious old hand, Nell—nothing to remind you that there was a time when you didn’t know Phil Compton.” His laugh died away at this point, and for a moment his face assumed that grave look which changed its character so much. “If you don’t come to repent before then that you ever saw that fellow’s ugly face, Nell——”

“Phil, how could I ever repent? Nobody but you should dare to say such a thing to me!”

“I believe that,” he said. “If that old John of yours tried it on—— Well, my pet, he is your old John. You can’t change facts, even if you do throw the poor{vol. i_170} fellow over. Now, here’s a new chance for all of them, Nell. I shouldn’t wonder a bit if you had another crop of letters bidding you look before you leap. That Rectory woman, what’s her name? that knows my family. You’ll see she’ll have some new story before we’re clear of her. They’ll never stop blackguarding me, I know, until you’re Phil Compton yourself, my beauty. I wish that day was come. I’m afraid to go off again and leave you, Nell. They’ll be putting something into your head, or the old lady’s. Let’s get it over to-morrow morning, and come to Ireland with me; you’ve never been there.”

“Phil, what nonsense! mamma would go out of her senses.”

“My pet, what does it matter? She’d come back to them again as soon as we were gone, and think what a botheration spared her! All the row of receiving people, turning the house upside down. And here I am on the spot. And what do you want with bridesmaids and so forth? You’ve got all your things. Suppose we walk out to church to-morrow before breakfast, Nell——”

“Phil, you are mad, I think; and why should we do such a thing, scandalizing everybody? But of course you don’t mean it. You are excited after seeing that man.”

“Excited about Stanny!—not such a fool; Stanny is all square, thanks to—— But what I want is just to take you up in my arms, like this, and run off with you,{vol. i_171} Nell. Why we should call the whole world to watch us while we take that swing off—into space.”

“Phil!”

“So it is, for you, Nell. You don’t know a bit what’s going to happen. You don’t know where I’m going to take you, and what I’m going to do with you, you little innocent lamb in the wolf’s grip. I want to eat you up, straight off. I shall be afraid up to the last moment that you’ll escape me, Nell.”

“I did not know that you were so fond of innocence,” said Elinor, half afraid of her lover’s vehemence, and trying to dispel his gravity with a laugh. “You used to say you did not believe in the ingÉnue.”

“I believe in you,” he said, with an almost fierce pressure of her arm; then, after a pause, “No, I don’t believe in women at all, Nell, only you. They’re rather worse than men, which is saying a good deal. What would the Jew care if we were all drawn and quartered, so long as she had all her paraphernalia about her and got everything she wanted? For right-down selfishness commend me to a woman. A fellow may have gleams of something better about him, like me, warning you against myself.”

“It is a droll way of warning me against yourself to want to carry me off to-morrow.”

“It’s all the same thing,” he said. “I’ve warned you that those old hags are right, and I’m not good enough for you, not fit to come near you, Nell. But if the sacrifice is to be, let’s get it over at once, don’t let{vol. i_172} us stand and think of it. I’m capable of jilting you,” he said, “leaving you plantÉelÀ, all out of remorse of conscience; or else just catching you up in my arms, like this, and carrying you off, never to be seen more.”

“You are very alarming,” said Elinor. “I don’t know what you mean. You can be off with your bargain if you please, Phil; but you had better make up your mind at once, so that mamma may countermand her invitations, and stop Gunter from sending the cake.”

(It was Gunter who was the man in those days. I believe people go to Buszard now.)

He gave her again a vehement hug, and burst into a laugh. “I might jilt you, Nell; such a thing is on the cards. I might leave you in the lurch at the church door; but when you talk of countermanding the cake, I can’t face that situation. Society would naturally be up in arms about that. So you must take your chance like the other innocents. I’ll eat you up as gently as I can, and hide my tusks as long as it’s possible. Come on, Nell, don’t let us sit here and get the mopes, and think of our consciences. Come and see if that show is in the village. Life’s better than thinking, old girl.”

“Do you call the show in the village, life?” she said, half pleased to rouse him, half sorry to be thus carried away.

“Every show is life,” said Phil, “and everywhere that people meet is better than anywhere where you’re alone. Mind you take in that axiom, Nell. It’s our rule of life, you know, among the set you’re marrying{vol. i_173} into. That’s how the Jew gets on. That’s how we all get on. By this time next year you’ll be well inured into it like all the rest. That’s what your Rector never taught you, I’ll be bound; but you’ll see the old fellow practises it whenever he has a chance. Why, there they begin, tootle-te-too. Come on, Nell, and don’t let us lose the fun.”

He drew her along hastily, hurrying while the flute and the drum began to perform their parts. Sound spreads far in that tranquil country, where no railway was visible, and where the winds for the moment were still. It was Pan’s pipes that were being played, attracting a few stragglers from the scattered houses. Within a hundred yards from the church, at the corner of four roads, stood the Bull’s Head, with a cottage or two linked on to its long straggling front. And this was all that did duty for a village at Windyhill. The Rectory stood back in its own copse, surrounded by a growth of young birches and oak near the church. The Hills dwelt intermediate between the Bull’s Head and the ecclesiastical establishment. The school and schoolmaster’s house were behind the Bull. The show was surrounded by the children of the place, who looked on silent with ecstasy, while a burly showman piped his pipes and beat his drum. A couple of ostlers, with their shirt-sleeves rolled up to their shoulders, and one of them with a pail in his hand, stood arrested in their work. And in the front of the spectators was Alick Hudson, a sleepy-looking youth of twenty, who{vol. i_174} started and took his hands out of his pockets at sight of Elinor. Mr. Hudson himself came walking briskly round the corner, swinging his cane with the air of a man who was afraid of being too late.

“Didn’t I tell you?” said Compton, pressing Elinor’s arm.

As the tootle-te-too went on, other spectators appeared—the two Miss Hills, one putting on her hat, the other hastily buttoning her jacket as they hurried up. “Oh, you here, Elinor! What fun! We all run as if we were six years old. I’m going to engage the man to come round and do it opposite Rosebank to amuse mother. She likes it as much as any of us, though she doesn’t see very well, poor dear, nor hear either. But we must always consider that the old have not many amusements,” said the elder Miss Hill.

“Though mother amuses herself wonderfully with her knitting,” said Miss Sarah. “There’s a sofa-cover on the stocks for you, Elinor.”

It appeared to be only at this moment that the sisters became aware of the presence of “the gentleman” by whom Elinor stood. They had been too busy with their uncompleted toilettes to observe him at first. But now that Miss Hill’s hat was settled to her satisfaction, and the blue veil tied over her face as she liked it to be, and Miss Sarah had at last succeeded, after two false starts, in buttoning her jacket straight, their attention was released for other details. They both gave a glance over Elinor at the tall figure{vol. i_175} on the other side, and then looked at each other with a mutual little “Oh!” and nod of recognition. Then Miss Hill took the initiative as became her dignity. “I hope you are going to introduce us to your companion, Elinor,” she said. “Oh, Mr. Compton, how do you do? We are delighted to make your acquaintance, I am sure. It is charming to have an opportunity of seeing a person of so much importance to us all, our dear Elinor’s intended. I hope you know what a prize you are getting. You might have sought the whole country over and you wouldn’t have found a girl like her. I don’t know how we shall endure your name when you carry her away.”

“Except, indeed,” said Miss Sarah, “that it will be Elinor’s name too.”

“So here we all are again,” said the Rector, gazing down tranquilly upon his flock, “not able to resist a little histrionic exhibition—and Mr. Compton too, fresh from the great world. I daresay our good friend Mrs. Basset would hand us out some chairs. No Englishman can resist Punch. Alick, my boy, you ought to be at your work. It will not do to neglect your lessons when you are so near your exam.”

“No Englishman, father, can resist Punch,” said the lad: at which the two ostlers and the landlord of the Bull’s Head, who was standing with his hands in his pockets in his own doorway, laughed loud.

“Had the old fellow there,” said Compton, which was the first observation he had made. The ladies{vol. i_176} looked at him with some horror, and Alick a little flustered, half pleased, half horrified, by this support, while the Rector laughed, but stiffly au bout des lÈvres. He was not accustomed to be called an old fellow in his own parish.

“The old fellows, as you elegantly say, Mr. Compton, have always the worst of it in a popular assembly. Elinor, here is a chair for you, my love. Another one please, Mrs. Basset, for I see Miss Dale coming up this way.”

“By Jove,” said Compton, under his breath. “Elinor, here’s the one that knows society. I hope she isn’t such an old guy as the rest.”

“Oh, Phil, be good!” said Elinor, “or let us go away, which would be the best.”

“Not a bit,” he said. “Let’s see the show. I say, old man, where are you from last?”

“Down from Guildford ways, guv’nor—awful bad trade; not taken a bob, s’ help me, not for three days, and bed and board to get off o’ that, me and my mate.”

“Well, here is a nice little party for you, my man,” said the Rector, “it is not often you have such an audience—nor would I encourage it, indeed, if it were not so purely English an exhibition.”

“Master,” said the showman, “worst of it is, nobody pays till we’ve done the show, and then they goes away, and they’ve got it, don’t you see, and we can’t have it back once it’s in their insides, and there ain’t nothink then, neither for my mate nor me.{vol. i_177}”

“Here’s for you, old fellow,” said Phil. He took a sovereign from his waistcoat pocket and chucked it with his thumbnail into the man’s hand, who looked at it with astonished delight, tossed it into the air with a grin, a “thank’ee, gentleman!” and a call to his “mate” who immediately began the ever-exciting, ever-amusing drama. The thrill of sensation which ran through the little assembly at this incident was wonderful. The children all turned from Punch to regard with large open eyes and mouths the gentleman who had given a gold sovereign to the showman. Alick Hudson looked at him with a grin of pleasure, a blush of envy on his face; the Rector, with an expression of horror, slightly shaking his head; the Miss Hills with admiration yet dismay. “Goodness, Sarah, they’ll never come now and do it for a shilling to amuse mother!” the elder of the sisters said.

Miss Dale came hurrying up while still the sensation lasted. “Here is a chair for you, Mary,” said her brother-in-law, “and the play is just going to begin. I can’t help shaking my head when I think of it, but still you must hear what has just happened. Mr. Compton, let me present you to my sister-in-law, Miss Dale. Mr. Compton has made the widow’s heart, nay, not the widow’s, but the showman’s heart to sing. He has presented our friend with a——”

“Mind you,” said Phil, from behind Elinor’s shoulders, “I’ve paid the fellow only for two.”

At which the showman turned and winked at the{vol. i_178} Rector. To think that such a piece of audacity could be! A dingy fellow in a velveteen coat, with a spotted handkerchief round his neck, and a battered hat on his unkempt locks, with Pan’s pipes at his mouth and a drum tied round his waist—winked at the Rector! Mr. Hudson fell back a step, and his very lips were livid with the indignity. He had to support himself on the back of the chair he had just given to Miss Dale.

“I think we are all forgetting our different positions in this world,” he said.

“I ain’t,” said the showman, “not taking no advantage through the gentleman’s noble ways. He’s a lord, he is, I don’t make no doubt. And we’re paid. Take the good of it, Guv’nor, and welcome; all them as is here is welcome. My mate and I are too well paid. A gentleman like that good gentleman, as is sweet upon a pretty young lady, and an open ’eart a-cause of her, I just wish we could find one at every station; don’t you, Joe?”

Joe assented, in the person of Mr. Punch, with a horrible squeak from within the tent.

The sensations of Elinor during this episode were peculiar and full of mingled emotion. It is impossible to deny that she was proud of the effect produced by her lover. The sovereign chucked into the showman’s hand was a cheap way of purchasing a little success, and yet it dazzled Elinor, and made her eyelids droop and her cheek light up with the glow of pleasure. Amid all the people who would search for pennies, or{vol. i_179} perhaps painfully and not without reluctance produce a sixpence to reward the humble artists, there was something in the careless familiarity and indifference which tossed a gold coin at them which was calculated to charm the youthful observer. Elinor felt the same mixture of pleasure and envy which had moved Alick Hudson; yet it was not envy, for was not he her own who did this thing which she would have liked to have done herself, overwhelming the poor tramps with delight? Elinor knew, as Alick also did, that it would never have occurred to her to do it. She would have been glad to be kind to the poor men, to give them a good meal, to speak to Basset at the Bull’s Head in their favour that they might be taken in for the night and made comfortable, but to open her purse and take a real sovereign from it, a whole potential pound, would not have come into her head. Had such a thing been done, for instance, by the united subscriptions of the party, in case of some peculiarly touching situation, the illness of a wife, the loss of a child, it would have been done solemnly, the Rector calling the men up, making a little speech to them, telling them how all the ladies and gentlemen had united to make up this, and how they must be careful not to spend it unworthily. Elinor thought she could see the little scene, and the Rector improving the occasion. Whereas Phil spun the money through the air into the man’s ready hand as if it had been a joke, a trick of agility. Elinor saw that everybody was much impressed with{vol. i_180} the incident, and her heart went forth upon a flood of satisfaction and content. And it was no premeditated triumph. It was so noble, so accidental, so entirely out of his good heart!

When he hurried her home at the end of the performance, that Mrs. Dennistoun might not be kept waiting, the previous events of the afternoon, and all that happened in the copse and garden, had faded out of Elinor’s mind. She forgot Stanfield and the 6th and everything about it. Her embarrassment and trouble were gone. She went in gayly and told her mother all about this wonderful incident. “The Rector was trying for a sixpence. But, mamma, Phil must not be so ready with his sovereigns, must he? We shall have nothing to live upon if he goes chucking sovereigns at every Punch and Judy he may meet.”