"Would do no good at all: you may believe me, John. Don't let us speak of this any more. I know what has to be done: my mother would twist herself up among her calculations--about Alick Hudson's examination and I know not what. Whereas I--there is nothing, nothing more to be said. I thought I could escape, and it is your doing if I now see that I cannot escape. I can but hope that Providence will protect my boy. He is at school, where they have little time for reading the papers. He may never even see--or at least if he does he may think it is another Compton--some one whom he never heard of----" "And how if he becomes Lord Lomond, as I said, before the secret is out?" "Oh, John," cried Elinor, wringing her hands--"don't, don't torment me with that idea now--let only this be past and then: Oh, I see, I see--I am not a fool--I perceive that I cannot hide him as you say if that happens. But oh, John, for pity's sake let this be over first! Let us not hurry everything on at the same time. He is at school. What do schoolboys care for the newspapers, especially for trials in the law courts? Oh, let this be over first! A boy at school--and he need never know----" It was at this moment that a hansom drew up, and a rattling peal came at the door. Hansoms are not rare in Ebury Street, and how can one tell in these small houses if the peal is at one's door or the next? Elinor was not disturbed. She paid no attention. She expected no one, she was afraid of nothing new for the present. Surely, surely, as she said, there was enough for the present. It did not seem possible that any new incident should come now. "I do not want to torment you, Elinor--you may imagine I would be the last--I would only save you if I could from what must be---- What! what? who's this?--PHILIP! the boy!" The door had burst open with an eager, impatient hand upon it, and there stood upon the threshold, in all the mingled excitement and fatigue of his night journey, pale, sleep in his eyes, yet happy expectation, exultation, the certainty of open arms to receive him, and cries of delight--the boy. He stood for a second looking into the strange yet familiar room. John Tatham had sprung to his feet and stood startled, hesitating, while young Philip's eyes, noting him with a glance, flashed past him to the other more important, more beloved, the mother whom he had expected to rush towards him with an outcry of joy. And Elinor sat still in her chair, struck dumb, grown pale like a ghost, her eyes wide open, her lips apart. The sight of the boy, her beloved child, her pride and delight, was as a horrible spectacle to Elinor. She stared at him like one horrified, and neither moved nor spoke. "Elinor!" cried John, terrified, "there's nothing wrong. Don't you see it's Philip? Boy, what do you mean by giving her such a fright? She's fainting, I believe." "I--give her a fright!" cried, half in anguish, half in indignation, the astonished boy.