She turned round upon him slowly, fixing her eyes upon his, with simple astonishment and no more in her look. Her mind, so absorbed in other thoughts, hardly took in what he could mean.
"Have you not heard this, Elinor?"
"But there is Hal," she said, "Hal—the other brother—who comes first."
"Hal is dead, and the one in India is dead, and Lord St. Serf is dying. The boy is the heir. You must not, you cannot, take him away. It is impossible, Elinor, it is against all nature and justice. You have had him for all these years; his father has a right to his heir."
"Oh, John!" she cried, in a bitter note of reproach, "oh, John, John!"
"Well," he cried, "is not what I tell you the truth? Would Philip give it up if it were offered to him? He is almost a man—let him judge for himself."
"Oh, John, John! when you know that the object of my life has been to keep him from knowing—to shut that chapter of my life altogether; to bring him up apart from all evil influences, from all instructions——"
"And from his birthright, Elinor?"
She stopped, giving him another sudden look, the natural language of a woman brought to bay. She drew a long breath in impatience and desperation, not knowing what to reply; for what could she reply? His birthright! to be Lord Lomond, Lord St. Serf, the head of the house. What was that? Far, far better Philip Dennistoun, of Lakeside, the heir of his mother and his grandmother, two stainless women, with enough for everything that was honest and of good report, enough to permit him to be an unworldly scholar, a lover of art, a traveller, any play-profession that he chose if he did not incline to graver work. Ah! but she had not been so wise as that, she had not brought him up as Philip Dennistoun. He was Philip Compton, she had not been bold enough to change his name. She stood at bay, surrounded as it were by her enemies, and confronted John Tatham, who had been her constant companion and defender, as if all that was hostile to her, all that was against her peace was embodied in him.
"I must go a little further, Elinor," said John, "though God knows that to add to your pain is the last thing in the world I wish. You have been left unmolested for a very long time, and we have all thought your retreat was unknown. I confess it has surprised me, for my experience has always been that everything is known. But you have been subpœnaed for this trial, therefore, my dear girl, we must give up that idea. Everybody, that is virtually everybody, all that are of any consequence, know where you are and all you are about now."