The Marriage of Elinor

And then there was another thing. After that interval he was not afraid to put himself into her hands – to trust to her loyalty for his salvation. He knew that she could betray him – and he knew equally well that she would not do so, notwithstanding the eighteen years of estrangement and mutual wrong that lay between. It did not matter that the loyalty he felt sure of would be a false loyalty, an upholding of what was not true. He would think little of that, as likely as not he had forgotten all about that. He would know that her testimony would clear him, and he would not think of anything else; and even did he think of it the fact of a woman making a little mis-statement like that would never have affected Philip. But the strange thing was that he had no fear she would revenge herself by standing up against him – no doubt of her response to his appeal; he was as ready to put his fate in her hands as if she had been the most devoted of wives – his constant companion and champion. This had the most curious effect upon her mind, almost greater than the other. She had shown no faith in him, but he had faith in her. Reckless and guilty as he was, he had not doubted her. He had put it in her power to convict him not only of the worst accusation that was brought against him, but of a monstrous trick to prove his alibi, and a cruel wrong to her compelling her to uphold that as true. She was able to expose him, if she chose, as no one else could do; but he had not been afraid of that. This second thought, which burst upon Elinor without any volition of her own, had the most curious effect upon her. She abstained carefully, anxiously, from allowing herself to be drawn into making any conclusion from these darts of unintended thoughts. But they moved her in spite of herself. They made her think of him, which she had for a long time abstained from doing. She had shut her heart for years from any recollection of her husband, trying to ignore his existence in thought as well as in fact. And she had succeeded for a long time in doing this. But now in a moment all her precautions were thrown to the winds. He came into her memory with a sudden rush for which she was no way responsible, breaking all the barriers she had put up against him: that he should have known where she was all this time, and never disturbed her, respected her solitude all these years – that when the moment of need came he should, without a word to conciliate her, without an explanation or an apology, have put his fate into her hands – To the reader who understands I need not say more of the effect upon the mind of Elinor, hasty, generous, impatient as she was of these two strange facts. There are many in the world who would have given quite a different explanation – who would have made out of the fact that he had not disturbed her only the explanation that Phil Compton was tired of his wife and glad to get rid of her at any price: and who would have seen in his appeal to her now only audacity combined with the conviction that she would not compromise herself by saying anything more than she could help about him. I need not say which of these interpretations would have been the true one. But the first will understand and not the other what it was that for the first time for eighteen years awakened a struggle and controversy which she could not ignore, and vainly endeavoured to overcome, in Elinor's heart.

CHAPTER XXXIX

Elinor had not been three days gone, indeed her mother had but just received a hurried note announcing her arrival in London, when as she sat alone in the house which had become so silent, Mrs. Dennistoun suddenly became aware of a rising of sound of the most jubilant, almost riotous description. It began by the barking of Yarrow, the old colley, who was fond of lying at the gate watching in a philosophic way of his own the mild traffic of the country road, the children trooping by to school, who hung about him in clusters, with lavish offerings of crust and scraps of biscuit, and all the leisurely country flâneurs whom the good dog despised, not thinking that he himself did nothing but flâner at his own door in the sun. A bark from Yarrow was no small thing in the stillness of the spring afternoon, and little Urisk, the terrier, who lay wrapt in dreams at Mrs. Dennistoun's feet, heard where he lay entranced in the folds of sleep and cocked up an eager ear and uttered a subdued interrogation under his breath. The next thing was no bark, but a shriek of joy from Yarrow, such as could mean nothing in the world but "Philip!" or Pippo, which was what no doubt the dogs called him between following their mistress. Urisk heard and understood. He made but one spring from the footstool on which he lay and flung himself against the door. Mrs. Dennistoun sat for a moment and listened, much disturbed. When some troublous incident occurs in the deep quiet of domestic life how often is it followed by another, and her heart turned a little sick. She was not comforted even by the fact that Urisk was waggling not his tail only, but his whole little form in convulsions of joy, barking, crying aloud for the door to open, to let him forth. By this time all the friendly dogs about had taken up the sound out of sympathy with Yarrow's yells of delight – and into this came the clang of the gate, the sound of wheels, an outcry in a human voice, that of Barbara, the maid – and then a young shout that rang through the air – "Where's my mother, Barbara, where's granny?" Philip, it may be imagined, did not wait for any answer, but came in headlong. Yarrow leaping after him, Urisk springing into the air to meet him – himself in too great a hurry to heed either, flinging himself upon the astonished lady who rose to meet him, with a sudden kiss, and a "Where's my mother, granny?" of eager greeting.

"Pippo! Good gracious, boy, what's brought you home now?"

"Nothing but good news," he said, "so good I thought I must come. I've got it, granny: where is my mother – "

"You've got it?" she said, so full of other thoughts that she could not recollect what it was he meant. Pippo thought, as Elinor sometimes thought, that his granny was getting slow of understanding – not so bright as she used to be in her mind.

"Oh, granny, you've been dozing: the scholarship! I've got it – I thought you would know the moment you heard me at the door – "

"My dear boy," she said, putting her arms about him, while the tall boy stood for the homage done to him – the kiss of congratulation. "You have got the scholarship! notwithstanding Howard and Musgrave and the hard fight there was to be – "

Pippo nodded, with a bright face of pleasure. "But," he said – "I can't say I'm sorry I've got it, granny – but I wish there had been another for Musgrave: for he worked harder than I did, and he wanted so to win. But so did I, for that matter. And where is my mother all this time?"

"How delighted she will be: and what a comfort to her just now when she is upset and troubled! My dear, it'll be a dreadful disappointment to you: your mother is in London. She had to hurry off the day before yesterday – on business."

"In London!" cried Pippo. His countenance fell: he was so much disappointed that for a moment, big boy as he was, he looked ready to cry. He had come in bursting with his news, expecting a reception almost as tumultuous as that given him by the dogs outside. And he found only his grandmother, who forgot what it was he was "in for" – and no mother at all!

"It is a disappointment, Pippo – and it will be such a disappointment to her not to hear it from your own lips: but you must telegraph at once, and that will be next best. She has some worrying business – things that she hates to look after – and this will give her a little heart."

"What a bore!" said Pippo, with his crest down and the light gone out of him. He gave himself up to the dogs who had been jumping about him, biding their time. "Yarrow knew," he said, laughing, to get the water out of his eyes. "He gave me a cheer whenever he saw me, dear old fellow – and little Risky too – "

"And only granny forgot," said Mrs. Dennistoun; "that was very hard upon you, Pippo; my thoughts were all with your mother. And I couldn't think how you could get back at this time – "

"Well," said the boy, "my work's over, you know. There's nothing for a fellow to do after he's got the scholarship. I needn't go back at all – unless you and my mother wish it. I've – in a sort of a way, done everything that I can do. Don't laugh at me, granny!"

"Laugh at you, my boy! It is likely I should laugh at you. Don't you know I am as proud of you as your mother herself can be? I am glad and proud," said Mrs. Dennistoun, "for I am glad for her as well as for you. Now, Pippo, you want something to eat."

The boy looked up with a laugh. "Yes, granny," he said, "you always divine that sort of thing. I do."

Mrs. Dennistoun did not occupy her mind with any thought of that little unintentional and grateful jibe – that she always divined that sort of thing. Among the other great patiences of her life she had learnt to know that the mother and son, loving and tender as they were, had put her back unconsciously into the proper place of the old woman – always consulted, always thought of, never left out; but divining chiefly that sort of thing, the actual needs, the more apparent thoughts of those about her. She knew it, but she did not dwell upon it – sometimes it made her smile, but it scarcely hurt her, and never made her bitter, she comprehended it all so well. Meanwhile Pippo, left alone, devoted himself to the dogs for a minute or two, making them almost too happy. Then, at the very climax of riotous enjoyment, cast them off with a sudden, "Down, Yarrow!" which took all the curl in a moment out of the noble tail with which Yarrow was sweeping all the unconsidered trifles off Mrs. Dennistoun's work-table. The young autocrat walked to the window as he shook off his adoring vassal, and stared out for a little with his hands deeply dug into his pockets. And then a new idea came into Pippo's head; the most brilliant new idea, which restored at once the light to his eyes and elevation to his crest. He said nothing of this, however, till he had done justice to the excellent luncheon, while his grandmother, seated beside him in the dining-room with her knitting, looked on with pride and pleasure and saw him eat. This was a thing, they were all of accord, which she always thoroughly understood.

"You will run out now and telegraph to your mother. She is in the old rooms in Ebury Street, Pippo."

"Yes, granny; don't you think now a fellow of my age, having done pretty well and all that, might be trusted to – make a little expedition out of his own head?"

"My dear! you have always been trusted, Pippo, you know. I can't remember when your mother or I either have shown any want of trust – "

"Oh, it's not that," said Pippo, confused. "I know I've had lots, lots – far more than most fellows – of my own way. It was not that exactly. I meant without consulting any one, just to do a thing out of my own head."

"I have no doubt it will be quite a right thing, Pippo; but I should know better if you were to tell me."

"That would scarcely be doing it out of my own head, would it, granny? But I can't keep a thing to myself; now Musgrave can, you know; that's the great difference. I suppose it is having nobody but my mother and you, who always spoil me, that has made me that I can't keep a secret."

"It is something about making it up to Musgrave for not winning the scholarship?"

Philip grew red all over with a burning blush of shame. "What a beast I am!" he said. "You will scarcely believe me, but I had forgotten that – though I do wish I could. I do wish there was any way – No, granny, it was all about myself."

"Well, my dear?" she said, in her benignant, all-indulgent grandmother's voice.

"It is no use going beating about the bush," he said. "Granny, I'm not going to telegraph to mamma. I'll run up to London by the night mail."

"Pippo!"

"Well, it isn't so extraordinary; naturally I should like to tell her better than to write. It didn't quite come off, my telling it to you, did it? but my mother will be excited about it – and then it will be a surprise seeing me at all – and then if she is worried by business it will be a good thing to have me to stand by her. And – why there are a hundred reasons, granny, as you must see. And then I should like it above all."

"My dear," said Mrs. Dennistoun, trembling a little. She had time during this long speech to collect herself, to get over the first shock, but her nerves still vibrated. "In ordinary circumstances, I should think it an excellent plan. And you have worked well for it, and won your holiday; and your mother always enjoys wandering about town with you. Still, Pippo – "

"Now what can there be against it?" the boy said, with the same spark of fire coming into his blue eyes which had often been seen in Elinor's hazel ones. He was like the Comptons, a refined image of his father, with the blue eyes and very dark hair which had once made Phil Compton irresistible. Pippo had the habit, I am sorry to say, of being a little impatient with his grandmother. Her objections seemed old-world and obsolete at the first glance.

"The chief thing against it is that I don't think your mother – would wish it, Pippo."

"Mamma – think me a bore, perhaps!" the lad cried, with a laugh of almost scornful amusement at this ridiculous idea.

"She would never, of course, think you a bore in any circumstances – but she will be very much confined – she could not take you with her to – lawyers' offices. She will scarcely have any time to herself."

"What is this mysterious business, granny?"

"Indeed, Pippo, I can scarcely tell you. It is something connected with old times – that she wishes to have settled and done with. I did not inquire very closely; neither, I think, should you. You know your poor mother has had troubles in her life – "

"Has she?" said Pippo, with wide open eyes. "I have never seen any. I think, perhaps, don't you know, granny, ladies – make mountains of molehills – or so at least people say – "

"Do they?" said Mrs. Dennistoun, with a laugh. "So you have begun to learn that sort of thing already, Pippo, even here at the end of the world!"

Pippo was a little mortified by her laugh, and a little ashamed of what he had said. It is very tempting at eighteen to put on a man's superiority, yet he was conscious that it was perhaps a little ungenerous, he who owed all that he was and had to these two ladies; but naturally he was the more angry because of this.

"I suppose," he said, "that what is in every book that ever was written is likely to be true! But that has nothing to do with the question. I won't do anything against you if you forbid me absolutely, granny; but short of that I will go – "

Mrs. Dennistoun looked at the boy with all the heat in him of his first burst of independence. It is only wise to compute the forces opposed to one before one launches a command which one may not have force to ensure obedience to. He said that he would not disobey her "absolutely" with his lips; but his eyes expressed a less dutiful sentiment. She had no mind to be beaten in such a struggle. Elinor had complained of her mother in her youth that she was too reasonable, too unwilling to command, too reluctant to assume the responsibility of an act; and it was not to be supposed that she had mended of this, in all the experience she had had of her impatient daughter, and under the influence of so many additional years. She looked at Philip, and concluded that he would at least find some way of eluding her authority if she exercised it, and it did not consist with her dignity to be either "absolutely" or partially disobeyed.

"You forget," she said, "that I have never taken such authority upon me since you were a child. I will not forbid you to do what you have set your heart upon. I can only say, Philip, that I don't think your mother would wish you to go – "

"If that's all, granny," said the boy, "I think I can take my mother into my own hands. But why do you call me Philip? You never call me that but when you are angry."

"Was I ever angry?" she said, with a smile; "but if we are to consider you a man, looking down upon women, and taking your movements upon your own responsibility, my dear, it would be ridiculous that you should be little Pippo any more."

"Not little Pippo," he said, with a boyish, complacent laugh, rising up to his full height. A young man nearly six feet high, with a scholarship in his pocket, how is he to be expected to take the law from his old grandmother as to what he is to do?

And young Philip did go to town triumphantly by the night mail. He had never done such a thing before, and his sense of manly independence, of daring, almost of adventure, was more delightful than words could say. There was not even any one, except the man who had driven him into Penrith, to see him away, he who was generally accompanied to the last minute by precautions, and admonitions, and farewells. To feel himself dart away into the night with nobody to look back to on the platform, no gaze, half smiling, half tearful, to follow him, was of itself an emancipation to Pippo. He was a good boy and no rebel against the double maternal bond which had lain so lightly yet so closely upon him all his life. It was only for a year or two that he had suspected that this was unusual, or even imagined that for a growing man the sway of two ladies, and even their devotion, might make others smile. Perhaps he had been a little more particular in his notions, in his manners, in his fastidious dislike to dirt and careless habits, than was common in the somewhat rough north country school which had so risen in scholastic note under the last head master, but which was very far from the refinements of Eton. And lately it had begun to dawn upon him that a mother and a grandmother to watch over him and care for him in everything might be perhaps a little absurd for a young man of his advanced age. Thus his escapade, which was against the will of his elder guardian, and without the knowledge of his mother – which was entirely his own act, and on his own responsibility, went to Philip's head, and gave him a sort of intoxication of pleasure. That his mother should be displeased, really displeased, should not want him – incredible thought! never entered into his mind save as an accountable delusion of granny's. His mother not want him! All the arguments in the world would never have got that into young Pippo's head.

Mrs. Dennistoun waking up in the middle of the night to think of the boy rushing on through the dark on his adventurous way, recollected only then with much confusion and pain that she ought to have telegraphed to Elinor, who might be so engaged as to make it very embarrassing for her in her strange circumstances to see Pippo – that the boy was coming. In her agitation she had forgotten this precaution. Was it perhaps true, as the young ones thought, that she was getting a little slower in her movements, a little dulled in her thoughts?

CHAPTER XL

John Tatham had in vain attempted to persuade Elinor to come to his house, to dine there in comfort – he was going out himself – so that at least in this time of excitement and trouble she might have the careful service and admirable comfort of his well-managed house. Elinor preferred her favourite lodgings and a cup of tea to all the luxuries of Halkin Street. And she was fit for no more consultations that night. She had many, many things to think of, and some new which as yet she barely comprehended. The rooms in Ebury Street were small, and they were more or less dingy, as such rooms are; but they were comfortable enough, and had as much of home to Elinor as repeated visits there with all her belongings could give them. The room in which she slept was next to that in which her boy had usually slept. That was enough to make it no strange place. And I need not say that it became the scene of many discussions during the few days that followed. The papers by this time were full of the strange trial which was coming on: the romance of commercial life and ruin – the guilty man who had been absent so long, enjoying his ill-gotten gains, and who now was dragged back into the light to give an account of himself – and of other guilt perhaps less black than his own, yet dreadful enough to hear of. The story of the destroyed books was a most remarkable and picturesque incident in the narrative. The leading papers looked up their own account of the facts given at the time, and pointed out how evidently justified by the new facts made known to the public was the theory they had themselves given forth. As these theories, however, were very different, and as all claimed to be right, perhaps the conclusion was less certain than this announcement gave warrant to believe. But each and all promised "revelations" of the most surprising kind – involving some of the highest aristocracy, the democratic papers said – bringing to light an exciting story of the private relations between husband and wife, said those of society, and revealing a piquant chapter of social history hushed up at the time. It was a modest print indeed that contented itself with the statement that its readers would find a romance of real life involved in the trial which was about to take place. Elinor did not, fortunately, see all these comments. The Times and the Morning Post were dignified and reticent, and she did not read, and was indeed scarcely cognisant of the existence of most of the others. But the faintest reference to the trial was enough, it need hardly be said, to make the blood boil in her veins.

It was a curious thing in her state of mind, and with the feelings she had towards her husband's family, that one of the first things she did on establishing herself in her Ebury Street rooms, was to look for an old "Peerage" which had lain for several years she remembered on a certain shelf. Genteel lodgings in Ebury Street which did not possess somewhere an old "Peerage" would be out of the world indeed. She found it in the same corner as of old, where she had noted it so often and avoided it as if it had been a serpent; but now the first thing she did, as soon as her tray was brought her, and all necessary explanations given, and the door shut, was to take the book furtively from its place, almost as if she were afraid of what she should see. What a list there was of sons of Lord St. Serf! some she had never known, who died young: and Reginald in India, and Hal, who was so kind – what a good laugh he had, she remembered, not a joyless cackle like Mariamne's, a good natural laugh, and a kind light in his eyes: and he had been kind. She could remember ever so many things, nothings, things that made a little difference in the dull, dull cloudy sky of a neglected wife. Poor Hal! and he too was gone, and St. Serf dying, and – Pippo the heir! – Pippo was perhaps, for any thing she knew, Lord Lomond now.

To say that this did not startle Elinor, did not make her heart beat, did not open new complications and vistas in life, would be a thing impossible. Pippo Lord Lomond! Pippo, whom she had feared to expose to his father's influence, whom she had kept apart, who did not know anything about himself except that he was her son – had she kept and guarded the boy thus in the very obscurity of life, in the stillest and most protected circumstances, only to plunge him suddenly at last, without preparation, without warning, into the fiery furnace of temptation, into a region where he might pardonably (perhaps) put himself beyond her influence, beyond her guidance? Poor Elinor! and yet she was not wholly to be pitied either. For her heart was fired by the thought of her boy's elevation in spite of herself. It did not occur to her that such an elevation for him meant something also for her. That view of the case she did not take into consideration for a moment. Nay, she did not think of it. But that Pippo should be Lord Lomond went through her like an arrow – like an arrow that gave a wound, acute and sharp, yet no pain, if such a thing could be said. That he should discover his father had been the danger before her all his life, but if he must find out that he had a father that was a way in which it might not be all pain. I do not pretend that she was very clear in all these thoughts. Indeed, she was not clear at all. John Tatham, knowing but one side, had begun to think vaguely of Elinor what Elinor thought of her mother, that her mind was not quite as of old, not so bright nor so vivid, not so clear in coming to a conclusion; had he known everything he might not have been so sure even on that point. But then had he known everything that Elinor knew, and been aware of what it was which Elinor had been summoned by all the force of old fidelity and the honour of her name to do, John would have been too much horrified to have been able to form an opinion. No, poor Elinor was not at all clear in her thoughts – less clear than ever after these revelations – the way before her seemed dark in whatever way she looked at it, complications were round her on every side. She had instinctively, without a word said, given up that idea of flight. Who was it that said the heir to a peerage could not be hid? John had said it, she remembered, and John was always right. If she was to take him away to the uttermost end of the earth, they would seek him out and find him. And then there was – his father, who had known all the time, had known and never disturbed her – No wonder that poor Elinor's thoughts were mixed and complicated. She walked up and down the room, not thinking, but letting crowds and flights of thoughts like birds fly through her mind; no longer clear indeed as she had been wont to be, no longer coming to sudden, sharp conclusions, admitting possibilities of which Elinor once upon a time would never have thought.