Thus there came a sort of settling down and composure of affairs. Phil
Compton and all belonging to him disappeared from the scene, and Elinor
returned to all the habits of her old life--all the habits, with one
extraordinary and incalculable addition which changed all these habits.
The baby--so inconsiderable a little creature, not able to show a
feeling, or express a thought, or make even a tremulous step from one
pair of loving arms to another--an altogether helpless little bundle,
but nevertheless one who had already altered the existence of the
cottage and its inhabitants, and made life a totally different thing for
them. Can I tell how this was done? No doubt for the wisest objects, to
guard the sacred seed of the race as mere duty could never guard it,
rendering it the one thing most precious in the world to those to whom
it is confided--at least to most of them. When that love fails, then is
the deepest abyss of misery reached. I do not say that Elinor was happy
in this dreadful breaking up of her life, or that her heart did
not go back, with those relentings which are the worst part of every
disruption, to the man who had broken her heart and unsettled her
nature. The remembrance of him in his better moments would flash upon
her, and bear every resentment away. Dreadful thoughts of how she might
herself have done otherwise, have rendered their mutual life better,
would come over her; and next moment recollections still more terrible
of what he had done and said, the scorn she had borne, the insults, the
neglect, and worse of all the complicity he had forced upon her, by
which he had made her guilty when she knew and feared nothing--when
these thoughts overcame her, as they did twenty times in a day, for it
is the worst of such troubles that they will not be settled by one
struggle, but come back and back, beginning over again at the same
point, after we have wrestled through them, and have thought that we had
come to a close--when these thoughts, I say, overcame her, she would
rush to the room in which the baby held his throne, and press him to the
heart which was beating so hotly, till it grew calm. And in the midst of
all to sit down by the fire with the little atom of humanity in her lap,
and see it spread and stretch its rosy limbs, would suffice to bring
again to her face that beatitude which had filled John Tatham with
wonder unspeakable. She took the baby and laid him on her heart to take
the pain away: and so after a minute or two there was no more question
of pain, but of happiness, and delicious play, and the raptures of
motherhood. How strange were these things! She could not understand it
herself, and fortunately did not try, but accepted that solace provided
by God. As for Mrs. Dennistoun, she made no longer any pretences to
herself, but allowed herself, as John had advised, to take her
blessedness frankly without hypocrisy. When Elinor's dear face was
veiled by misery her mother was sympathetically miserable, but at all
other moments her heart sang for joy. She had her child again, and she
had her child's child, an endless occupation, amusement, and delight.
All this might come to an end--who can tell when?--but for the moment
her house was no more lonely, the requirements of her being were
satisfied. She had her Elinor--what more was to be said? And yet there
was more to be said, for in addition there was the boy.
This was very well so far as the interior of the house and of their
living was concerned, but very soon other difficulties arose. It had
been Mrs. Dennistoun's desire, when she returned home, to communicate
some modified version of what had happened to the neighbours around. She
had thought it would not only be wise, but easier for themselves, that
their position should be understood in the little parish society which,
if it did not know authoritatively, would certainly inquire and
investigate and divine, with the result of perhaps believing more than
the truth, perhaps setting up an entirely fictitious explanation which
it would be impossible to set aside, and very hard to bear. It is the
worst of knowing a number of people intimately, and being known by them
from the time your children were in their cradles, that every domestic
incident requires some sort of explanation to this close little circle
of spectators. But Elinor, who had not the experience of her mother in
such matters, nor the knowledge of life, made a strenuous opposition to
this. She would not have anything said. It was better, she thought, to
leave it to their imagination, if they chose to interfere with their
neighbours' concerns and imagine anything. "But why should they occupy
themselves about us? And they have no imaginations," she said, with a
contempt of her neighbours which is natural to young people, though very
unjustifiable. "But, my darling," Mrs. Dennistoun would say, "the
position is so strange. There are not many young women who--And there
must be some way of accounting for it. Let us just tell them----"
"For heaven's sake, mamma, tell them nothing! I have come to pay you
a long visit after my neglect of you for these two years, which, of
course, they know well enough. What more do they want to know? It is a
very good reason: and while baby is so young of course it is far better
for him to be in a settled home, where he can be properly attended to,
than moving about. Isn't that enough?"
"Well, Elinor; at least you will let me say as much as that----"
"Oh, they can surely make it out for themselves. What is the use of
always talking a matter over, to lead to a little more, and a little
more, till the appetite for gossip is satisfied? Surely, in our
circumstances, least said is soonest mended," Elinor said, with that air
of superior understanding which almost always resides in persons of the
younger generation. Mrs. Dennistoun said no more to her, but she did
take advantage of the explanation thus suggested. She informed the
anxious circle at the Rectory that Elinor had come to her on a long
visit, "partly for me, and partly for the baby," she said, with one
of those smiles which are either the height of duplicity or the most
pathetic evidence of self-control, according as you choose to regard
them. "She thinks she has neglected her mother, though I am sure I have
never blamed her; and she thinks--of which there can be no doubt--that
to carry an infant of that age moving about from place to place is the
worst thing in the world; and that I am very thankful she should think
so, I need not say."
"It is very nice for you, dear Mrs. Dennistoun," Mrs. Hudson said.
"And a good thing for Elinor," said Alice, "for she is looking very
poorly. I have always heard that fashionable life took a great deal out
of you if you are not quite brought up to it. I am sure I couldn't
stand it," the young lady said with fervour, who had never had that
painful delight in her power.
"That is all very well," said the Rector, rubbing his hands, "but what
does Mr. Compton say to it? I don't want to say a word against your
arrangements, my dear lady, but you know there must be some one on the
husband's side. Now, I am on the husband's side, and I am sorry for the
poor young man. I hope he is going to join his wife. I hope, excuse me
for saying it, that Elinor--though we are all so delighted to see
her--will not forsake him, for too long."
And then Mrs. Dennistoun felt herself compelled to embroider a little
upon her theme.
"He has to be a great deal abroad during this year," she said; "he has a
great many things to do. Elinor does not know when he will be--home.
That is one reason----"
"To be sure, to be sure," the Rector said, rubbing his hands still
more, and coming to her aid just as she was breaking down. "Something
diplomatic, of course. Well, we must not inquire into the secrets of the
State. But what an ease to his mind, my dear lady, to think that his
wife and child will be safe with you while he's away!"
Mary Dale not being present could not of course say anything. She was a
person who was always dreadfully well informed. It was a comfort
unspeakable that at this moment she was away!
This explanation made the spring pass quietly enough, but not without
many questions that brought the blood to Elinor's face. When she was
asked by some one, for the first time, "When do you expect Mr. Compton,
Elinor?" the sudden wild flush of colour which flooded her countenance
startled the questioner as much as the question did herself. "Oh, I beg
your pardon!" said the injudicious but perfectly innocent seeker for
information. I fear that Elinor fell upon her mother after this, and
demanded to know what she had said. But as Mrs. Dennistoun was innocent
of anything but having said that Philip was abroad, there was no
satisfaction to be got out of that. Some time after, one of the Miss
Hills congratulated Elinor, having seen in the papers that Mr. Compton
was returning to town for the season. "I suppose, dear Elinor, we shan't
have you with us much longer," this lady said. And then it became known
at the Cottage that Mary Dale was returning to the Rectory. This was the
last aggravation, and Elinor, who had now recovered her strength and
energy, and temper along with it, received the news with an outburst of
impatience which frightened her mother. "You may as well go through the
parish and ring the bell, and tell everybody everything," she said.
"Mary Dale will have heard all, and a great deal more than all; she will
come with her budget, and pour it out far and wide; she will report
scenes that never took place: and quarrels, and all that--that woman
insinuated to John--and she will be surrounded with people who will
shake their heads, and sink their voices when we come in and say, 'Poor
Elinor!' I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it," she cried.
"My darling! that was bound to come sooner or later. We must set our
faces like a rock, and look as if we were unaware of anything----"
"I cannot look as if I were unaware. I cannot meet all their cruel eyes.
I can see, now, the smile on Mary Dale's face, that will say, 'I told
you so.' I shall hear her say it even when I am in my room, with the
combe between. I know exactly how she will say it--'If Elinor had
listened to me----'"
"Elinor," said poor Mrs. Dennistoun, "I cannot contradict you, dear. It
will be so--but none of them are cruel, not even Mary Dale. They will
make their remarks--who could help it? we should ourselves if it were
some one else's case: but they will not be cruel--don't think so--they
will be full of sympathy----"
"Which is a great deal worse," Elinor said, in her unreason; "the one
might be borne, but the other I will not endure. Sympathy, yes! They
will all be sorry for me--they will say they knew how it would be. Oh, I
know I have not profited as I ought by what has happened to me. I am
unsubdued. I am as impatient and as proud as ever. It is quite true, but
it cannot be mended. It is more than I can bear."
"My darling," said her mother, again. "We all say that in our trouble,
and yet we know that we have got to bear it all the same. It is
intolerable--one says that a thousand times--and yet it has to be put up
with. All the time that we have been flattering ourselves that nobody
took any notice it has been a delusion, Elinor. How could it be
otherwise? We must set our faces----"
"Not I, mamma!" she said. "Not I! I must go away----"
"Go away? Elinor!"
"Among strangers; where nobody has heard of me before--where nobody can
make any remark. To live like this, among a crowd of people who think
they ought to know everything that one is doing--who are nothing to you,
and yet whom you stand in awe of and must explain everything to!--it is
this that is intolerable. I cannot, cannot bear it. Mother, I will take
my baby, and I will go away----"
"Where?" said Mrs. Dennistoun, with all the colour fading out of her
face. What panic had taken her I cannot tell. She grew pale to her lips,
and the words were almost inaudible which she breathed forth. I think
she thought for a moment that Elinor's heart had turned, that she was
going back to her husband to find refuge with him from the strife of
tongues which she could not encounter alone. All the blood went back
upon the mother's heart--yet she set herself to suppress all emotion,
and if this should be so, not to oppose it--for was it not the thing of
all others to be desired--the thing which everybody would approve, the
reuniting of those whom God had put together? Though it might be death
to her, not a word of opposition would she say.
"Where? how can I tell where--anywhere, anywhere out of the world,"
cried Elinor, in the boiling tide of her impatience and wretchedness,
"where nobody ever heard of us before, where there will be no one to
ask, no one to require a reason, where we should be free to move when we
please and do as we please. Let me go, mother. It seemed too dear, too
peaceful to come home, but now home itself has become intolerable. I
will take my baby and I will go--to the farthest point the railway can
take me to--with no servant to betray me, not even an address. Mother,
let me go away and be lost; let me be as if I had never been."
"And me--am I to remain to bear the brunt behind?"
"And you--mamma! Oh, I am the most unworthy creature. I don't deserve to
have you, I that am always giving you pain. Why should I unroot you from
your place where you have lived so long--from your flowers, and your
landscape, and your pretty rooms that were always a comfort to think of
in that horrible time when I was away? I always liked to think of you
here, happy and quiet, in the place you had chosen."
"Flowers and landscapes are pretty things," said Mrs. Dennistoun, whose
colour had begun to come again a little, "but they don't make up for
one's children. We must not do anything rashly, Elinor; but if what you
mean is really that you will go away to a strange place among
strangers----"
"What else could I mean?" Elinor said, and then she in her turn grew
pale. "If you thought I could mean that I would go--back----"
"Oh, my darling, my darling! God knows if we are right or wrong--I not
to advise you so, or you not to take my advice. Elinor, it is my duty,
and I will say it though it were to break my heart. There only could you
avoid this strife of tongues. John spoke the truth. He said, as the
boy grew up we should have--many troubles. I have known women endure
everything that their children might grow up in a natural situation,
in their proper sphere. Think of this--I am saying it against my own
interest, against my own heart. But think of it, Elinor. Whatever you
might have to bear, you would be in your natural place."
Elinor received this agitated address standing up, holding her head
high, her nostrils expanded, her lips apart. "Have you quite done,
mother?" she said.
Mrs. Dennistoun made an appealing movement with her hands, and sank,
without any power to add a word, into a chair.
"I am glad you said it against your heart. Now you must feel that your
conscience is clear. Mother, if I had to wander the world from place to
place, without even a spot of ground on which to rest my foot, I would
never, never do what you say. What! take my child to grow up in that
tainted air; give him up to be taught such things as they teach! Never,
never, never! His natural place, did you say? I would rather the slums
of London were his natural place. He would have some chance there! If I
could bear it for myself, yet I could not for him--for him most of all.
I will take him up in my arms. Thank God, I am strong now and can carry
him--and go away--among strangers, I don't care where--where there can
be no questions and no remarks."
"But not without me, Elinor!"
"Oh, mother, mother! What a child I am to you, to rend your heart as I
have done, and now to tear you out of your house and home!"
"My home is where my children are," Mrs. Dennistoun said: and then she
made a little pause. "But we must think it over, Elinor. Such a step as
this must not be taken rashly. We will ask John to come down and advise
us. My dear----"
"No, mother, not John or any one. I will go first if you like and find a
place, and you will join me after. That woman" (it was poor Mary Dale,
who was indeed full of information, but meant no harm) "is coming
directly. I will not wait here to see her, or their faces after she has
told them all the lies she will have heard. I am not going to take
advice from any one. Let me alone, mother. I must, I must go away."
"But not by yourself, Elinor," Mrs. Dennistoun said.
This was how it happened that John Tatham, who had meant to go down to
the Cottage the very next Saturday to see how things were going, was
driven into a kind of stupefaction one morning in May by a letter which
reached him from the North, a letter conveying news so unexpected and
sudden, so unlike anything that had seemed possible, that he laid it
down, when it was half read, with a gasp of astonishment, unable to
believe his eyes.