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The English Library
No. 95
THE MARRIAGE OF ELINOR
BY MRS. OLIPHANT
_IN TWO VOLUMES_
_VOLUMES By THE SAME AUTHOR PUBLISHED IN_
The English Library
77. 78. THE RAILWAY MAN AND HIS CHILDREN 2 Vols.
_Copyright Edition._
THE MARRIAGE
OF ELINOR
BY
MRS. OLIPHANT
AUTHOR OF
“_KIRSTERN_,” “_WITHIN THE PRECINCTS_,” “_AT HIS GATES_,”
“_THE RAILWAY MAN AND HIS CHILDREN_,” _ETC._
_IN TWO VOLUMES_
VOLUME I.
LEIPZIG
HEINEMANN AND BALESTIER
_LIMITED, LONDON_
1892
THE MARRIAGE OF ELINOR.
CHAPTER I.
John Tatham, barrister-at-law, received one summer morning as he sat at
breakfast the following letter. It was written in what was once known
distinctively as a lady’s hand, in pointed characters, very fine and
delicate, and was to this effect:--
“DEAR JOHN, Have you heard from Elinor of her new prospects and
intentions? I suppose she must have written to you on the subject.
Do you know anything of the man?... You know how hard it is to
convince her against her will of anything, and also how poorly
gifted I am with the power of convincing any one. And I don’t know
him, therefore can speak with no authority. If you can do anything
to clear things up, come and do so. I am very anxious and more than
doubtful; but her heart seems set upon it.
“Your affect.
“M. S. D.”
Mr. Tatham was a well-built and vigorous man of five-and-thirty, with
health, good behaviour, and well-being in every line of his cheerful
countenance and every close curl of his brown hair. His hair was very
curly, and helped to give him the cheerful look which was one of his
chief characteristics. Nevertheless, when these innocent seeming words,
“Do you know the man?” which was more certainly demonstrative of certain
facts than had those facts been stated in the fullest detail, met his
eye, Mr. Tatham paused and laid down the letter with a start. His ruddy
colour paled for the moment, and he felt something which was like the
push or poke of a blunt but heavy weapon somewhere in the regions of the
heart. For the moment he felt that he could not read any more. “Do you
know the man?” He did not even ask what man in the momentary sickness of
his heart. Then he said to himself, almost angrily, “Well!” and took up
the letter again and read to the end.
Well! of course it was a thing that he knew might happen any day, and
which he had expected to happen for the last four or five years. It was
nothing to him one way or another. Nothing could be more absurd than
that a hearty and strong young man in the full tide of his life and with
a good breakfast before him should receive a shock from that innocent
little letter as if he had been a sentimental woman. But the fact is
that he pushed his plate away with an exclamation of disgust and a
feeling that everything was bad and uneatable. He drank his tea, though
that also became suddenly bad too, full of tannin, like tea that has
stood too long, a thing about which John was very particular. He had
been half an hour later than usual this morning consequent on having
been an hour or two later than usual last night. These things have their
reward, and that very speedily; but as for the letter, what could that
have to do with the bad toasting of the bacon and the tannin in the tea?
“Do you know the man?” There was a sort of covert insult, too, in the
phraseology, as if no explanation was needed, as if he must know by
instinct what she meant--he who knew nothing about it, who did not know
there was a man at all!
After a while he began to smile rather cynically to himself. He had got
up from the breakfast table, where everything was so bad, and had gone
to look out of one of the windows of his pleasant sitting-room. It was
in one of the wider ways of the Temple, and looked out upon various
houses with a pleasant misty light upon the redness of their old
brickwork, and a stretch of green grass and trees, which were scanty in
foliage, yet suited very well with the bright morning sun, which was not
particularly warm, but looked as if it were a good deal for effect and
not so very much for use. That thought floated across his mind with
others, and was of the same cynical complexion. It was very well for the
sun to shine, making the glistening poplars and plane-trees glow, and
warming all the mellow redness of the old houses, but what did he mean
by it? No warmth to speak of, only a fictitious gleam--a thing got up
for effect. And so was the affectionateness of woman--meaning nothing,
only an effect of warmth and geniality, nothing beyond that. As a matter
of fact, he reminded himself after a while that he had never wanted
anything beyond, neither asked for it, nor wished it. He had no desire
to change the conditions of his life: women never rested till they had
done so, manufacturing a new event, whatever it might be, pleased even
when they were not pleased, to have a novelty to announce. That, no
doubt, was the state of mind in which the lady who called herself his
aunt was: pleased to have something to tell him, to fire off her big
guns in his face, even though she was not at all pleased with the event
itself. But John Tatham, on the other hand, had desired nothing to
happen; things were very well as they were. He liked to have a place
where he could run down from Saturday to Monday whenever he pleased, and
where his visit was always a cheerful event for the womankind. He had
liked to take them all the news, to carry the picture-papers, quite a
load; to take down a new book for Elinor; to taste doubtfully his aunt’s
wine, and tell her she had better let him choose it for her. It was a
very pleasant state of affairs: he wanted no change; not, certainly,
above everything, the intrusion of a stranger whose very existence had
been unknown to him until he was thus asked cynically, almost brutally,
“Do you know the man?”
The hour came when John had to assume the costume of that order of
workers whom a persistent popular joke nicknames the “Devil’s
Own:”--that is, he had to put on gown and wig and go off to the courts,
where he was envied of all the briefless as a man who for his age had a
great deal to do. He “devilled” for Mr. Asstewt, the great Chancery man,
which was the most excellent beginning: and he was getting into a little
practice of his own which was not to be sneezed at. But he did not find
himself in a satisfactory frame of mind to-day. He found himself asking
the judge, “Do you know anything of the man?” when it was his special
business so to bewilder that potentate with elaborate arguments that he
should not have time to consider whether he had ever heard of the
particular man before him. Thus it was evident that Mr. Tatham was
completely _hors de son assiette_, as the French say; upset and “out of
it,” according to the equally vivid imagination of the English
manufacturer of slang. John Tatham was a very capable young lawyer on
ordinary occasions, and it was all the more remarkable that he should
have been so confused in his mind to-day.
When he went back to his chambers in the evening, which was not until it
was time to dress for dinner, he saw a bulky letter lying on his table,
but avoided it as if it had been an overdue bill. He was engaged to dine
out, and had not much time: yet all the way, as he drove along the
streets, just as sunset was over and a subduing shade came over the
light, and that half-holiday look that comes with evening--he kept
thinking of the fat letter upon his table. Do you know anything of the
man? That would no longer be the refrain of his correspondent, but some
absurd strain of devotion and admiration of the man whom John knew
nothing of, not even his name. He wondered as he went along in his
hansom, and even between the courses at dinner, while he listened with a
smile, but without hearing a word, to what the lady next him was
saying--what she would tell him about this man? That he was everything
that was delightful, no doubt; handsome, of course; probably clever; and
that she was fond of him, confound the fellow! Elinor! to think that she
should come to that--a girl like her--to tell him, as if she was saying
that she had caught a cold or received a present, that she was in love
with a man! Good heavens! when one had thought her so much above
anything of that kind--a woman, above all women that ever were.
“Not so much as that,” John said to himself as he walked home. He always
preferred to walk home in the evening, and he was not going to change
his habit now out of any curiosity about Elinor’s letter. Oh, not so
much as that! not above all women, or better than the rest, perhaps--but
different. He could not quite explain to himself how, except that he had
always known her to be Elinor and not another, which was a quite
sufficient explanation. And now it appeared that she was not different,
although she would still profess to be Elinor--a curious puzzle, which
his brain in its excited state was scarcely able to tackle. His thoughts
got somewhat confused and broken as he approached his chambers. He was
so near the letter now--a few minutes and he would no longer need to
wonder or speculate about it, but would know exactly what she said. He
turned and stood for a minute or so at the Temple gates, looking out
upon the busy Strand. It was still as lovely as a summer night could be
overhead, but down here it was--well, it was London, which is another
thing. The usual crowd was streaming by, coming into bright light as it
streamed past a brilliant shop window, then in the shade for another
moment, and emerging again. The faces that were suddenly lit up as they
passed--some handsome faces, pale in the light; some with heads hung
down, either in bad health or bad humour; some full of cares and
troubles, others airy and gay--caught his attention. Did any of them all
know anything of this man, he wondered--knowing how absurd a question it
was. Had any of them written to-day a letter full of explanations, of a
matter that could not be explained? There were faces with far more
tragic meaning in them than could be so easily explained as that--the
faces of men, alas! and women too, who were going to destruction as fast
as their hurrying feet could carry them: or else were languidly drifting
no one knew where--out of life altogether, out of all that was good in
life. John Tatham knew this very well too, and had it in him to do
anything a man could to stop the wanderers in their downward career.
But to-night he was thinking of none of these things. He was only
wondering how she would explain it, how she could explain it, what she
would say; and lingering to prolong his suspense, not to know too soon
what it was.
At last, however, as there is no delay but must come to an end one time
or another, he found himself at last in his room, in his smoking-coat
and slippers, divested of his stiff collar--at his ease, the windows
open upon the quiet of the Temple Gardens, a little fresh air breathing
in. He had taken all this trouble to secure ease for himself, to put off
a little the reading of the letter. Now the moment had come when it
would be absurd to delay any longer. It was so natural to see her
familiar handwriting--not a lady’s hand, angular and pointed, like her
mother’s, but the handwriting of her generation, which looks as if it
were full of character, until one perceives that it _is_ the writing of
the generation, and all the girls and boys write much the same. He took
time for this reflection still as he tore open the envelope. There were
two sheets very well filled, and written in at the corners, so that no
available spot was lost. “My dear old John,” were the first words he
saw. He put down the letter and thought over the address. Well, she had
always called him so. He was old John when he was fourteen, to little
Elinor. They had always known each other like that--like brother and
sister. But not particularly like brother and sister--like cousins twice
removed, which is a more interesting tie in some particulars. And now
for the letter.
“MY DEAR OLD JOHN: I want to tell you myself of a great thing that
has happened to me--the very greatest thing that could happen in
one’s life. Oh, John, dear old John, I feel as if I had nobody else
I could open my heart to; for mamma--well, mamma is mamma, a dear
mother and a good one; but you know she has her own ways of
thinking----”
He put down the letter again with a rueful little laugh. “And have not I
my own ways of thinking, too?” he said to himself.
“Jack dear,” continued the letter, “you must give me your sympathy,
all your sympathy. You never were in love, I suppose (oh, what an
odious way that is of putting it! but it spares one’s feelings a
little, for even in writing it is too tremendous a thing to say
quite gravely and seriously, as one feels it). Dear John, I know
you never were in love, or you would have told me; but still----”
“Oh,” he said to himself, with the merest suspicion of a little quiver
in his lip, which might, of course, have been a laugh, but, on the other
hand, might have been something else, “I never was--or I would have told
her--That’s the way she looks at it.” Then he took up the letter again.
“Because--I see nothing but persecution before me. It was only a
week ago that it happened, and we wanted to keep it quiet for a
time; but things get out in spite of all one can do--things of that
sort, at least. And, oh, dear Jack, fancy! I have got three letters
already, all warning me against him; raking up trifling things that
have occurred long ago, long before he met me, and holding them up
before me like scarecrows--telling me he is not worthy of me, and
that I will be wretched if I marry him, and other dreadful lies
like that, which show me quite plainly that they neither know him
nor me, and that they haven’t eyes to see what he really is, nor
minds to understand. But though I see the folly of it and the
wickedness of it, mamma does not. She is ready to take other
people’s words; indeed, there is this to be said for her, that she
does not know him yet, and therefore cannot be expected to be ready
to take his own word before all. Dear Jack, my heart is so full,
and I have so much to tell you, and such perfect confidence in your
sympathy, and also in your insight and capacity to see through all
the lies and wicked stories which I foresee are going to be poured
upon us like a flood that--I don’t know how to begin, I have so
many things to say. I know it is the heart of the season, and that
you are asked out every night in the week, and are so popular
everywhere; but if you could but come down from Saturday to Monday,
and let me tell you everything and show you his picture, and read
you parts of his letters, I know you would see how false and wrong
it all is, and help me to face it out with all those horrid people,
and to bring round mamma. You know her dreadful way of never giving
an opinion, but just saying a great deal worse, and leaving you to
your own responsibility, which nearly drives me mad even in little
things--so you may suppose what it does in this. Of course, she
must see him, which is all I want, for I know after she has had a
half-hour’s conversation with him that she will be like me and will
not believe a word--not one word. Therefore, Jack dear, come, oh,
come! I have always turned to you in my difficulties, since ever I
have known what it was to have a difficulty, and you have done
everything for me. I never remember any trouble I ever had but you
found some means of clearing it away. Therefore my whole hope is in
you. I know it is hard to give up all your parties and things: but
it would only be two nights, after all--Saturday and Sunday. Oh, do
come, do come, if you ever cared the least little bit for your poor
cousin! Come, oh, come, dear old John!
“Your affect.
“E----.”
“Is that all?” he said to himself; but it was not all, for there
followed a postscript all about the gifts and graces of the unknown
lover, and how he was the victim of circumstances, and how, while other
men might steal the horse, he dared not look over the wall, and other
convincing pleadings such as these, till John’s head began to go round.
When he had got through this postscript John Tatham folded the letter
and put it away. He had a smile on his face, but he had the air of a man
who had been beaten about the head and was confused with the hurry and
storm of the blows. She had always turned to him in all her
difficulties, that was true: and he had always stood by her, and often,
in the freemasonry of youth, had thought her right and vindicated her
capacity to judge for herself. He had been called often on this errand,
and he had never refused to obey. For Elinor was very wilful, she had
always been wilful--“a rosebud set about with wilful thorns, But sweet
as English air could make her, she.” He had come to her aid many a time.
But he had never thought to be called upon by her in such a way as this.
He folded the letter up carefully and put it in a drawer. Usually when
he had a letter from Elinor he put it into his pocket, for the
satisfaction of reading it over again: for she had a fantastic way of
writing, adding little postscripts which escaped the eye at first, and
which it was pleasant to find out afterwards. But with this letter he
did not do so. He put it in a drawer of his writing-table, so that he
might find it again when necessary, but he did not put it in his breast
pocket. And then he sat for some time doing nothing, looking before him,
with his legs stretched out and his hand beating a little tattoo upon
the table. “Well: well? well!” That was about what he said to himself,
but it meant a great deal: it meant a vague but great disappointment, a
sort of blank and vacuum expressed by the first of these words--and then
it meant a question of great importance and many divisions. How could it
ever have come to anything? Am I a man to marry? What could I have done,
just getting into practice, just getting a few pounds to spend for
myself? And then came the conclusion. Since I can’t do anything else for
her; since she’s done it for herself--shall I be a beast and not help
her, because it puts my own nose out of joint? Not a bit of it! The
reader must remember that in venturing to reflect a young man’s
sentiments a dignified style is scarcely possible; they express
themselves sometimes with much force in their private moments, but not
as Dr. Johnson would have approved, or with any sense of elegance; and
one must try to be truthful to nature. He knew very well that Elinor was
not responsible for his disappointment, and even he was aware that if
she had been so foolish as to fix her hopes upon him, it would probably
have been she who would have been disappointed, and left in the lurch.
But still----
John had gone through an interminable amount of thinking, and a good
deal of soda-water (with or without, how should I know, some other
moderate ingredient), and a cigar or two--not to speak of certain hours
when he ought to have been in bed to keep his head clear for the cases
of to-morrow: when it suddenly flashed upon him all at once that he was
not a step further on than when he had received Mrs. Dennistoun’s
letter in the morning, for Elinor, though she had said so much about
him, had given no indication who her lover was. Who was the man?