A Dark Night's Work (4 page)

He was annoyed at this result of the good advice he had thought himself
bound to give to a motherless girl, who had no one to instruct her in the
proprieties in which his own sisters were brought up; he left Hamley both
sorry and displeased. As for Ellinor, when she found out the next day
that he really was gone—gone without even coming to Ford Bank again to
see if she were not penitent for her angry words—gone without saying or
hearing a word of good-bye—she shut herself up in her room, and cried
more bitterly than ever, because anger against herself was mixed with her
regret for his loss. Luckily, her father was dining out, or he would
have inquired what was the matter with his darling; and she would have
had to try to explain what could not be explained. As it was, she sat
with her back to the light during the schoolroom tea, and afterwards,
when Miss Monro had settled down to her study of the Spanish language,
Ellinor stole out into the garden, meaning to have a fresh cry over her
own naughtiness and Mr. Corbet's departure; but the August evening was
still and calm, and put her passionate grief to shame, hushing her up, as
it were, with the other young creatures, who were being soothed to rest
by the serene time of day, and the subdued light of the twilight sky.

There was a piece of ground surrounding the flower-garden, which was not
shrubbery, nor wood, nor kitchen garden—only a grassy bit, out of which
a group of old forest trees sprang. Their roots were heaved above
ground; their leaves fell in autumn so profusely that the turf was ragged
and bare in spring; but, to make up for this, there never was such a
place for snowdrops.

The roots of these old trees were Ellinor's favourite play-place; this
space between these two was her doll's kitchen, that its drawing-room,
and so on. Mr. Corbet rather despised her contrivances for doll's
furniture, so she had not often brought him here; but Dixon delighted in
them, and contrived and planned with the eagerness of six years old
rather than forty. To-night Ellinor went to this place, and there were
all a new collection of ornaments for Miss Dolly's sitting-room made out
of fir-bobs, in the prettiest and most ingenious way. She knew it was
Dixon's doing and rushed off in search of him to thank him.

"What's the matter with my pretty?" asked Dixon, as soon as the pleasant
excitement of thanking and being thanked was over, and he had leisure to
look at her tear-stained face.

"Oh, I don't know! Never mind," said she, reddening.

Dixon was silent for a minute or two, while she tried to turn off his
attention by her hurried prattle.

"There's no trouble afoot that I can mend?" asked he, in a minute or two.

"Oh, no! It's really nothing—nothing at all," said she. "It's only
that Mr. Corbet went away without saying good-bye to me, that's all." And
she looked as if she should have liked to cry again.

"That was not manners," said Dixon, decisively.

"But it was my fault," replied Ellinor, pleading against the
condemnation.

Dixon looked at her pretty sharply from under his ragged bushy eyebrows.

"He had been giving me a lecture, and saying I didn't do what his sisters
did—just as if I were to be always trying to be like somebody else—and
I was cross and ran away."

"Then it was Missy who wouldn't say good-bye. That was not manners in
Missy."

"But, Dixon, I don't like being lectured!"

"I reckon you don't get much of it. But, indeed, my pretty, I daresay
Mr. Corbet was in the right; for, you see, master is busy, and Miss Monro
is so dreadful learned, and your poor mother is dead and gone, and you
have no one to teach you how young ladies go on; and by all accounts Mr.
Corbet comes of a good family. I've heard say his father had the best
stud-farm in all Shropshire, and spared no money upon it; and the young
ladies his sisters will have been taught the best of manners; it might be
well for my pretty to hear how they go on."

"You dear old Dixon, you don't know anything about my lecture, and I'm
not going to tell you. Only I daresay Mr. Corbet might be a little bit
right, though I'm sure he was a great deal wrong."

"But you'll not go on a-fretting—you won't now, there's a good young
lady—for master won't like it, and it'll make him uneasy, and he's
enough of trouble without your red eyes, bless them."

"Trouble—papa, trouble! Oh, Dixon! what do you mean?" exclaimed
Ellinor, her face taking all a woman's intensity of expression in a
minute.

"Nay, I know nought," said Dixon, evasively. "Only that Dunster fellow
is not to my mind, and I think he potters the master sadly with his fid-
fad ways."

"I hate Mr. Dunster!" said Ellinor, vehemently. "I won't speak a word to
him the next time he comes to dine with papa."

"Missy will do what papa likes best," said Dixon, admonishingly; and with
this the pair of "friends" parted,

The summer afterwards Mr. Corbet came again to read with Mr. Ness. He
did not perceive any alteration in himself, and indeed his early-matured
character had hardly made progress during the last twelve months whatever
intellectual acquirements he might have made. Therefore it was
astonishing to him to see the alteration in Ellinor Wilkins. She had
shot up from a rather puny girl to a tall, slight young lady, with
promise of great beauty in the face, which a year ago had only been
remarkable for the fineness of the eyes. Her complexion was clear now,
although colourless—twelve months ago he would have called it sallow—her
delicate cheek was smooth as marble, her teeth were even and white, and
her rare smiles called out a lovely dimple.

She met her former friend and lecturer with a grave shyness, for she
remembered well how they had parted, and thought he could hardly have
forgiven, much less forgotten, her passionate flinging away from him. But
the truth was, after the first few hours of offended displeasure, he had
ceased to think of it at all. She, poor child, by way of proving her
repentance, had tried hard to reform her boisterous tom-boy manners, in
order to show him that, although she would not give up her dear old
friend Dixon, at his or anyone's bidding, she would strive to profit by
his lectures in all things reasonable. The consequence was, that she
suddenly appeared to him as an elegant dignified young lady, instead of
the rough little girl he remembered. Still below her somewhat formal
manners there lurked the old wild spirit, as he could plainly see after a
little more watching; and he began to wish to call this out, and to
strive, by reminding her of old days, and all her childish frolics, to
flavour her subdued manners and speech with a little of the former
originality.

In this he succeeded. No one, neither Mr. Wilkins, nor Miss Monro, nor
Mr. Ness, saw what this young couple were about—they did not know it
themselves; but before the summer was over they were desperately in love
with each other, or perhaps I should rather say, Ellinor was desperately
in love with him—he, as passionately as he could be with anyone; but in
him the intellect was superior in strength to either affections or
passions.

The causes of the blindness of those around them were these: Mr. Wilkins
still considered Ellinor as a little girl, as his own pet, his darling,
but nothing more. Miss Monro was anxious about her own improvement. Mr.
Ness was deep in a new edition of "Horace," which he was going to bring
out with notes. I believe Dixon would have been keener sighted, but
Ellinor kept Mr. Corbet and Dixon apart for obvious reasons—they were
each her dear friends, but she knew that Mr. Corbet did not like Dixon,
and suspected that the feeling was mutual.

The only change of circumstances between this year and the previous one
consisted in this development of attachment between the young people.
Otherwise, everything went on apparently as usual. With Ellinor the
course of the day was something like this: up early and into the garden
until breakfast time, when she made tea for her father and Miss Monro in
the dining-room, always taking care to lay a little nosegay of freshly-
gathered flowers by her father's plate. After breakfast, when the
conversation had been on general and indifferent subjects, Mr. Wilkins
withdrew into the little study so often mentioned. It opened out of a
passage that ran between the dining-room and the kitchen, on the left
hand of the hall. Corresponding to the dining-room on the other side of
the hall was the drawing-room, with its side-window serving as a door
into a conservatory, and this again opened into the library. Old Mr.
Wilkins had added a semicircular projection to the library, which was
lighted by a dome above, and showed off his son's Italian purchases of
sculpture. The library was by far the most striking and agreeable room
in the house; and the consequence was that the drawing-room was seldom
used, and had the aspect of cold discomfort common to apartments rarely
occupied. Mr. Wilkins's study, on the other side of the house, was also
an afterthought, built only a few years ago, and projecting from the
regularity of the outside wall; a little stone passage led to it from the
hall, small, narrow, and dark, and out of which no other door opened.

The study itself was a hexagon, one side window, one fireplace, and the
remaining four sides occupied with doors, two of which have been already
mentioned, another at the foot of the narrow winding stairs which led
straight into Mr. Wilkins's bedroom over the dining-room, and the fourth
opening into a path through the shrubbery to the right of the
flower-garden as you looked from the house. This path led through the
stable-yard, and then by a short cut right into Hamley, and brought you
out close to Mr. Wilkins's office; it was by this way he always went and
returned to his business. He used the study for a smoking and lounging
room principally, although he always spoke of it as a convenient place
for holding confidential communications with such of his clients as did
not like discussing their business within the possible hearing of all the
clerks in his office. By the outer door he could also pass to the
stables, and see that proper care was taken at all times of his favourite
and valuable horses. Into this study Ellinor would follow him of a
morning, helping him on with his great-coat, mending his gloves, talking
an infinite deal of merry fond nothing; and then, clinging to his arm,
she would accompany him in his visits to the stables, going up to the
shyest horses, and petting them, and patting them, and feeding them with
bread all the time that her father held converse with Dixon. When he was
finally gone—and sometimes it was a long time first—she returned to the
schoolroom to Miss Monro, and tried to set herself hard at work on her
lessons. But she had not much time for steady application; if her father
had cared for her progress in anything, she would and could have worked
hard at that study or accomplishment; but Mr. Wilkins, the ease and
pleasure loving man, did not wish to make himself into the pedagogue, as
he would have considered it, if he had ever questioned Ellinor with a
real steady purpose of ascertaining her intellectual progress. It was
quite enough for him that her general intelligence and variety of
desultory and miscellaneous reading made her a pleasant and agreeable
companion for his hours of relaxation.

At twelve o'clock, Ellinor put away her books with joyful eagerness,
kissed Miss Monro, asked her if they should go a regular walk, and was
always rather thankful when it was decided that it would be better to
stroll in the garden—a decision very often come to, for Miss Monro hated
fatigue, hated dirt, hated scrambling, and dreaded rain; all of which are
evils, the chances of which are never far distant from country walks. So
Ellinor danced out into the garden, worked away among her flowers, played
at the old games among the roots of the trees, and, when she could,
seduced Dixon into the flower-garden to have a little consultation as to
the horses and dogs. For it was one of her father's few strict rules
that Ellinor was never to go into the stable-yard unless he were with
her; so these
tete-a-tetes
with Dixon were always held in the flower-
garden, or bit of forest ground surrounding it. Miss Monro sat and
basked in the sun, close to the dial, which made the centre of the gay
flower-beds, upon which the dining-room and study windows looked.

At one o'clock, Ellinor and Miss Monro dined. An hour was allowed for
Miss Monro's digestion, which Ellinor again spent out of doors, and at
three, lessons began again and lasted till five. At that time they went
to dress preparatory for the schoolroom tea at half-past five. After tea
Ellinor tried to prepare her lessons for the next day; but all the time
she was listening for her father's footstep—the moment she heard that,
she dashed down her book, and flew out of the room to welcome and kiss
him. Seven was his dinner-hour; he hardly ever dined alone; indeed, he
often dined from home four days out of seven, and when he had no
engagement to take him out he liked to have some one to keep him company:
Mr. Ness very often, Mr. Corbet along with him if he was in Hamley, a
stranger friend, or one of his clients. Sometimes, reluctantly, and when
he fancied he could not avoid the attention without giving offence, Mr.
Wilkins would ask Mr. Dunster, and then the two would always follow
Ellinor into the library at a very early hour, as if their subjects for
tete-a-tete
conversation were quite exhausted. With all his other
visitors, Mr. Wilkins sat long—yes, and yearly longer; with Mr. Ness,
because they became interested in each other's conversation; with some of
the others, because the wine was good, and the host hated to spare it.

Mr. Corbet used to leave his tutor and Mr. Wilkins and saunter into the
library. There sat Ellinor and Miss Monro, each busy with their
embroidery. He would bring a stool to Ellinor's side, question and tease
her, interest her, and they would become entirely absorbed in each other,
Miss Monro's sense of propriety being entirely set at rest by the
consideration that Mr. Wilkins must know what he was about in allowing a
young man to become thus intimate with his daughter, who, after all, was
but a child.