The Marriage of Elinor Part 43

And then there was a little pause. They sat and worked, the elder lady stumbling a little over her knitting, her thoughts being so much engaged; the younger one plying a flying needle, the pa.s.sion and impetus of her thoughts lending only additional swiftness and vigour to everything she did. And for ten minutes or more there was nothing to be heard in the room but the little drop of ashes from the fire, the sudden burst of a little gas-flame from the coals, the rustle of Elinor's arm as it moved.

The cat sat with her tail curled round her before the fire, the image of dignified repose, winking at the flames. The two human inhabitants, save for the movements of their hands, might have been in wax, they were so still. Suddenly, however, the quietness was broken by an energetic movement. Elinor threw her work down on the table and rose from her chair. She went to the window and drew the curtain aside, and looked out upon the night. She shut it carefully again, and going to the writing-table, struck a match and lighted the candles there, and sat down and began, or appeared to begin, to write. Then she rose quickly again and returned to the table at which Mrs. Dennistoun was still seated, knitting on, but watching every movement of her restless companion. "Mother," she said, "I can't write, I have far too much to say. I will run up to town to-morrow myself and see John."

"To town, Elinor, by yourself? My dear, you forget it is not an hour's journey, as it was to Windyhill."

"I know that very well, mother. But even the journey will be an advantage. The movement will do me good, and I can tell John much better than I could write. Who could write about a complicated business like this? He will understand me when he sees me at half a word; whereas in writing one can never explain. Don't oppose me, please, mother! I feel that to do something, to get myself in motion, is the only thing for me now."

"I will not oppose you, Elinor. I have done so, perhaps, too little, my dear; but we will not speak of that. No doubt, as you say, you will understand each other better if you tell him the circ.u.mstances face to face. But, oh, my dear child, do nothing ras.h.!.+ Be guided by John; he is a prudent adviser. The only thing is that he, no more than I, has ever been able to resist you, Elinor, if you had set your heart upon any course. Oh, my dear, don't go to John with a foregone conclusion. Hear first what he has to say!"

Elinor came behind her mother with one of those quick returns of affectionate impulse which were natural to her, and put her arms suddenly round Mrs. Dennistoun. "You have always been far too good to me, mamma," she said, kissing her tenderly, "both John and you."

And next morning she carried out her swiftly conceived intention and went to town, as the reader is aware. A long railway journey is sometimes soothing to one distracted with agitation and trouble. The quiet and the noise, which serves as a kind of accompaniment, half silencing, half promoting too active thought; the forced abstraction and silence, and semi-imprisonment of mind and body, which are equally restless, but which in that enclosure are bound to self-restraint, exercise, in spite of all struggles of the subject, a subduing effect.

And it was a strange thing that in the seclusion of the railway compartment in which she travelled alone there came for the first time to Elinor a softening thought, the sudden sensation of a feeling, of which she had not been sensible for years, towards the man whose name she bore. It occurred to her quite suddenly, she could not tell how, as if some one invisible had thrown that reflection into her mind (and I confess that I am of opinion they do: those who are around us, who are unseen, darting into our souls thoughts which do not originate with us, thoughts not always of good, blasphemies as well as blessings)--it occurred to her, I say, coming into her mind like an arrow, that after all she had not been so well hidden as she thought all these years, seeing that she had been found at once without difficulty, it appeared, when she was wanted. Did this mean that he had known where she was all the time--known, but never made any attempt to disturb her quiet? The thought startled her very much, revealing to her a momentary glimpse of something that looked like magnanimity, like consideration and generous self-restraint. Could these things be? He could have hurt her very much had he pleased, even during the time she had remained at Windyhill, when certainly he knew where she was: and he had not done so. He might have taken her child from her: at least he might have made her life miserable with fears of losing her child: and he had not done so. If indeed it was true that he had known where she was all the time and had never done anything to disturb her, what did that mean? This thought gave Elinor perhaps the first sense of self-reproach and guilt that she had ever known towards this man, who was her husband, yet whom she had not seen for more than eighteen years.

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 x.x.xIX.

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 cl.u.s.ters, with lavish offerings of crust and sc.r.a.ps of biscuit, and all the leisurely country _flaneurs_ whom the good dog despised, not thinking that he himself did nothing but _flaner_ 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 c.o.c.ked 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 scholars.h.i.+p! 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 scholars.h.i.+p! 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 scholars.h.i.+p. 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 n.o.ble 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 va.s.sal, 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 n.o.body 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 scholars.h.i.+p?"

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 circ.u.mstances, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt at this ridiculous idea.

"She would never, of course, think you a bore in any circ.u.mstances--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----"