“There was nothing before,” she cried, indignantly, “it was all plain sailing before. He knew nothing of family troubles--how should he, poor child, being so young? That was simple enough. And I think I see a way still, John. I will take him off at Easter for a trip abroad, and when we have started to go to Switzerland or somewhere, I will change my mind, and make him think of Greece or somewhere far, far away--the East where there will be no newspapers. Tell me when the trial will come on, and how long you think it will last, and I will keep him away till it is all over. John! you have nothing surely to say against that? Think from how much it will save the boy.” “It is impossible, Elinor, that the boy can be saved. I never knew of this complication, but there are other circumstances, of which I have lately heard.” “What can any other circumstances have to do with it, John, even if he must hear? I know, I know, you have always been determined upon that. Is that the way you would have him hear, not only that he has a father, but that his father was involved in--in transactions like that before ever he was born?” “Elinor, let us understand each other,” said Mr. Tatham. “You mean that you have it in your power to exonerate your husband, and he has had you subpœnaed, knowing this?” She looked at him with a look which he could not fathom. Was it reluctance to save Phil Compton that was in Elinor’s eyes? Was she ready to leave her husband to destruction when she could prevent it, in order to save her boy from the knowledge of his existence? John Tatham was horrified by the look she fixed upon him, though he could not read it. He thought he could read it, and read it that way, in the way of hate and deliberate preference of her own will to all law and justice. There could be no such tremendous testimony to the power of that long-continued, absolutely-faithful, visionary love which John Tatham bore to Elinor than that this discovery which he thought he had made did not destroy it. He was greatly shocked, but it made no difference in his feelings. Perhaps there was more of the brotherly character in them than he thought. For a moment they looked at each other, and he thought he made this discovery--while she met his eyes with that look which she did not know was inscrutable, which she feared was full of self-betrayal. “I believe,” she said, bending her head, “that that is what he thinks.” “If it had been me,” said John Tatham, moved out of his habitual calm, “I would rather be proved guilty of anything than owe my safety to such an expedient as that. Drag in a woman who hates me to prove my alibi as if she loved me! By Jove, Elinor! you women have the gift of drawing out everything that’s worst in men.” “It seems to make you hate me, John, which I don’t think I have deserved.” “Oh, no, I don’t hate you. It’s a consequence, I suppose, of use and wont. It makes little difference to me----”