The weather was fine, which was by no means always a certainty at
Waterdale, and Elinor had become a great pedestrian, and was ready to
accompany John in his walks, which were long and varied. It was rather a
curious test to which to subject himself after the long time he had been
away, and the other tests through which he had gone. Never had he been
so entirely the companion of Elinor, never before had they spent so many
hours together without other society. At Windyhill, indeed, their
interviews had been quite unrestrained, but then Elinor had many friends
and interests in the parish and outside of it, visits to pay and duties
to perform. Now she had her child, which occupied her mornings and
evenings, but left her free for hours of rambling among the hills, for
long walks, from which she came back blooming with the fresh air and
breezes which had blown her about, ruffling her hair, and stirring up
her spirits and thoughts. Sometimes when there has been heavy and
premature suffering there occurs thus in the young another spring-time,
an almost childhood of natural, it may be said superficial pleasure--the
power of being amused, and of enjoying every simple satisfaction without
any _arrière pensée_ like a child. She had recovered her strength and
vigour in the mountain air--and in that freedom of being unknown, with
no look ever directed to her which reminded her of the past, no question
which brought back her troubles, had blossomed out into that fine
youthful maturity of twenty-six, which has already an advantage over the
earlier girlhood, the perfection of the woman grown. Elinor had thought
of many things and understood many things, which she had still regarded
with the high assumptions of ignorance three or four years ago. And poor
John, who had tried so hard to find himself a mate that suited him, who
had studied so many girls more beautiful, more accomplished than Elinor,
in the hope of goading himself, so to speak, into love, and had not
succeeded--and who had felt so strongly that another man's wife must not
occupy so much of his thoughts, nor another man's child give him an
unwilling pleasure which was almost fatherly--poor John felt himself
placed in a position more trying than any he had known before, more
difficult to steer his way through. He had never had so much of her
company, and she did not conceal the pleasure it was to her to have some
one to walk with, to talk with, who understood what she said and what
she did not say, and was in that unpurchasable sympathy with herself
which is not to be got by beauty, or by will, or even by love itself,
but comes by nature. Elinor felt this with simple pleasure. Without any
complicating suspicion, she said, "What a brother John is! I always felt
him so, but now more than ever." "You have been, so to speak, brought up
together," said Mrs. Dennistoun, whose mind was by no means so easy on
the subject. "That is the reason, I suppose," said Elinor, with happy
looks.
But poor John said nothing of this kind. What he felt was that he might
have spared himself the trouble of all those researches of his; that to
roam about looking for a young lady whom he might--not devour, but learn
to love, was pains as unnecessary as ever man took. He still hugged
himself, however, over the thought that in no circumstances would he
have been a marrying man; that if Elinor had been free he would have
found plenty of reasons why they should remain on their present terms
and go no farther. As it was clear that they must remain on their
present terms, and could go no farther, it was certainly better that he
should cherish that thought.
And curiously enough, though they heard so little from the outside
world, they had heard just so much as this, that John's assiduities to
the Miss Gaythornes (which the reader may remember was the first of all
his attempts, and quite antiquated in his recollection) had occasioned
remarks, and he had not been many evenings at Lakeside before he was
questioned on the subject. Had it been true, or had he changed his mind
or had the lady----? It vexed him that there was not the least little
opposition or despite in their tones, such as a man's female friends
often show towards the objects of his admiration, not from any feeling
on their own part, except that most natural one, which is surprised and
almost hurt to find that, "having known me, he could decline"--a feeling
which, in its original expression, was not a woman's sentiment, but a
man's, and therefore is, I suppose, common to both sides. But the ladies
at Lakeside did not even betray this feeling. They desired to know if
there had been anything in it--with smiles, it is true; but Mrs.
Dennistoun at the same time expressed her regret warmly.
"We were in great hopes something would come of it, John. Elinor has met
the Gaythornes, and thought them very nice; and if there is a thing in
the world that would give me pleasure, it would be to see you with a
nice wife, John."
"I am sure I am much obliged to you, aunt; but there really was nothing
in it. That is, I was seized with various impulses on the subject, and
rather agreed with you: but I never mentioned the matter to any of the
Miss Gaythornes. They are charming girls, and I don't suppose would have
looked at me. At the same time, I did not feel it possible to imagine
myself in love with any of them. That's quite a long time since," he
added with a laugh.
"Then there have been others since then? Let us put him in the
confessional, mother," cried Elinor with a laugh. "He ought not to have
any secrets of that description from you and me."
"Oh, yes, there have been others since," said John. "To tell the truth,
I have walked round a great many nice girls asking myself whether I
shouldn't find it very delightful to have one of them belonging to me. I
wasn't worthy the least attractive of them all, I quite knew; but still
I am about the same as other men. However, as I've said, I never
mentioned the matter to any of them."
"Never?" cried Mrs. Dennistoun, feeling a hesitation in his tone.
He laughed a little, shamefaced: "Well, if you like, I will say hardly
ever," he said. "There was one that might, perhaps, have taken pity upon
me--but fortunately an old lover of hers, who was much more
enterprising, turned up before anything decisive had been said."
"Fortunately, John?"
"Well, yes, I thought so. You see I am not a marrying man. I tried to
screw myself up to the point, but it was altogether, I am afraid, as a
matter of principle. I thought it would be a good thing, perhaps, to
have a wife."
"That was a very cold-blooded idea. No wonder you--it never came to
anything. That is not the way to go about it," said Elinor with the
ringing laugh of a child.
And yet her way of going about it had been far from a success. How
curious that she did not remember that!
"Yes," he said, "I am quite aware that I did not go about it in the
right way, but then that was the only way in which it presented itself
to me; and when I had made up my mind at last that it was a failure, I
confess it was with a certain sense of relief. I suppose I was born to
live and die an old bachelor."
"Do not be so sure of that," said Elinor. "Some day or other, in the
most unlooked-for moment, the fairy princess will bound upon the scene,
and the old bachelor will be lost."
"We'll wait quite contentedly for that day--which I don't believe in,"
he said.
Mrs. Dennistoun did not take any part in the later portion of this
discussion; her smile was feeble at the places where Elinor laughed. She
said seriously after this fireside conference, when he got up to prepare
for dinner, putting her hand tenderly on his shoulder, "I wish you had
found some one you could have loved, John."
"So did I--for a time," he said, lightly. "But you see, it was not to
be."
She shook her head, standing against the firelight in the dark room, so
that he could not see her face. "I wish," she said, "I wish--that I saw
you with a nice wife, John."
"You might wish--to see me on the woolsack, aunt."
"Well--and it might come to pass. I shall see you high up--if I live
long enough; but I wish I was as sure of the other, John."
"Well," he said with a laugh, "I did my best; but there is no use in
struggling against fate."
No, indeed! how very, very little use there was. He had kept away from
them for nearly two years; while he had done his best in the meantime to
get a permanent tenant for his heart which should prevent any wandering
tendencies. But he had not succeeded; and now if ever a man could be put
in circumstances of danger it was he. If he did not appear in time for
their walk Elinor would call him. "Aren't you coming, John?" And she
overflowed in talk to him of everything--excepting always of that one
dark passage in her life of which she never breathed a word. She asked
him about his work, and about his prospects, insisting upon having
everything explained to her--even politics, to which he had a tendency,
not without ideas of their use in reaching the higher ranks of his
profession. Elinor entered into all with zest and almost enthusiasm. She
wrapped him up in her sympathy and interest. There was nothing he did
that she did not wish to know about, did not desire to have a part in.
A sister in this respect is, as everybody knows, often more full of
enthusiasm than a wife, and Elinor, who was vacant of all concerns of
her own (except the baby) was delighted to take up these subjects of
excitement, and follow John through them, hastening after him on every
line of indication or suggestion which he gave--nay, often with her
lively intelligence hastening before him, making incursions into
undiscovered countries of which he had not yet perceived the importance.
They walked over all the country, into woods which were a little damp,
and up hill-sides where the scramble was often difficult enough, and
along the side of the lake--or, for a variety, went rowing across to
the other side, or far down the gleaming water, out of sight, round
the wooded corner which, with all its autumnal colours, blazed like
a brilliant sentinel into the air above and the water below. Mrs.
Dennistoun watched them, sometimes with a little trouble on her face.
She would not say a word to throw suspicions or doubts between them.
She would not awaken in Elinor's mind the thought that any such
possibilities as arise between two young people free of all bonds could
be imagined as affecting her and any man such as her cousin John. Poor
John! if he must be the victim, the victim he must be. Elinor could
not be disturbed that he might go free. And indeed, what good would it
have done to disturb Elinor? It would but have brought consciousness,
embarrassment, and a sense of danger where no such sense was. She was
trebly protected, and without a thought of anything but the calm yet
close relations that had existed so long. He---- but he could take care
of himself, Mrs. Dennistoun reflected in despair; he must take care of
himself. He was a man and must understand what his own risks and perils
were.
"And do you think this plan is a success?" John asked her one day as
they were rowing homeward up the lake. The time of his visit was drawing
to a close; indeed it had drawn to a close several times, and been
lengthened very unadvisedly, yet very irresistibly as he felt.
Her face grew graver than usual, as with a sudden recollection of that
shadow upon her life which Elinor so often seemed to have forgotten. "As
much of a success," she said, "as anything of the kind is likely to be."
"It suits you better than Windyhill?"
"Only in being more out of the world. It is partially out of the world
for a great part of the year; but I suppose no place is so wholly. It
seems impossible to keep from making acquaintances."
"Of course," he said, "I have noticed. You know people here already."
"How can we keep from knowing people? Mamma says it is the same thing
everywhere. If we lived up in that little house which they say is the
highest in England--at the head of the pass--we should meet people I
suppose even there."
"Most likely," he replied; "but the same difficulties can hardly arise."
"You mean we shall not know people so well as at--at home, and will not
be compelled to give an account of ourselves whatever we do? Heaven
knows! There is a vicarage here, and there is a squire's house: and
there are two or three people besides who already begin to inquire if we
are related to So-and-So, if we are the Scotch Dennistouns, or the Irish
Comptons, or I don't know what; and whether we are going to Penrith or
any other capital city for the winter." Elinor ended with a laugh.
"So soon?" John said.
"So soon--very much sooner, the first year: with mamma so friendly as
she is and with me so silly, unable to keep myself from smiling at
anybody who smiles at me!"
"Poor Elinor!"
"Oh, you may laugh; but it is a real disadvantage. I am sure there was
not very much smile in me when we came; and yet, notwithstanding, the
first pleasant look is enough for me, I cannot but respond; and I shall
always be so, I suppose," she said, with a sigh.
"I hope so, Elinor. It would be an evil day for all of us if you did not
respond."
"For how many, John? For my mother and--ah, you are so good, more like
my brother than my cousin--for you, perhaps, a little; but what is it to
anybody else in the world whether I smile or sigh? It does not matter,
however," she said, flinging back her head; "there it is, and I can't
help it. If you smile at me I must smile back again--and so we make
friends; and already I get a great deal of advice about little Pippo.
If we live here till he grows up, the same thing will happen as at the
Cottage. We will require to account to everybody for what we do with
him--for the school he goes to, and all he does; to explain why he has
one kind of training or another; and, in short, all that I ran away
from: the world wherever one goes seems to be so much the same."
"The world is very much the same everywhere; and you cannot get out of
it were you to take refuge in a cave on the hill. The best thing is
generally to let it know all that can be known, and so save the
multitude of guesses it always makes."
Elinor looked at him for a moment with her lips pressed tightly
together, and a light in her eyes; then she looked away across the water
to the golden hills, and said nothing; but there was a great deal in
that look of eager contradiction, yet forced agreement, of determination
above all, with which right and wrong had nothing to do.
"Elinor," he said, "do you mean that child to grow up here between your
mother and you--in ignorance of all that there is in the world besides
you two?"
"That child!" she cried. "John, I think you dislike my boy; for, of
course, it is Pippo you mean."
"I wish you would not call him by that absurd name."
"You are hard to please," she said, with an angry laugh. "I think it is
a very sweet little name."
"The child will not always be a baby," said John.
"Oh, no: I suppose if we all live long enough he will some time be
a--possibly disagreeable man, and punish us well for all the care we
have spent upon him," Elinor said.
"I don't want to make you angry, Elinor----"
"No, I don't suppose you do. You have been very nice to me, John. You
have neither scolded me nor given me good advice. I never expected you
would have been so forbearing. But I have always felt you must mean to
give me a good knock at the end."
"You do me great injustice," he said, much wounded. "You know that I
think only of what is best for you--and the child."
They were approaching the shore, and Mrs. Dennistoun's white cap was
visible in the waning light, looking out for them from the door. Elinor
said hastily, "And the child? I don't think that you care much for the
child."
"There you are mistaken, Elinor. I did not perhaps at first: but I
acknowledge that a little thing like that does somehow creep into one's
heart."
Her face, which had been gloomy, brightened up as if a sunbeam had
suddenly burst upon it. "Oh, bless you, John--Uncle John; how good and
how kind, and what a dear friend and brother you are! And I such a
wretch, ready to quarrel with those I love best! But, John, let me keep
quiet, let me keep still, don't make me rake up the past. He is such a
baby, such a baby! There cannot be any question of telling him anything
for years and years!"
"I thought you were lost," said Mrs. Dennistoun, calling to them. "I
began to think of all kinds of things that might have happened--of the
steamboat running into you, or the boat going on a rock, or----"
"You need not have had any fear when I was with John," Elinor said, with
a smile that made him warm at once, like the sun. He knew very well,
however, that it was only because he had made that little pleasant
speech about her boy.