Thus Elinor Dennistoun disappeared from Windyhill and was no more seen.
There are many ways in which a marriage is almost like a death,
especially when the marriage is that of an only child. The young go
away, the old remain. There is all the dreary routine of the solitary
life unbrightened by that companionship which is all the world to the
one who is left behind. So little--only the happy going away into
brighter scenes of one whose happiness was the whole thought of that
dreary survivor at the chimney corner--and yet so much. And if that
survivor is a woman she has to smile and tell her neighbours of the
bride’s happiness, and how great the comfort to herself that her
Elinor’s life is assured, and her own ending is now of no particular
importance to her daughter; if it is a man, he is allowed to lament,
which is a curious paradox, but one of the many current in this world.
Mrs. Dennistoun had to put a very brave face upon it all the more
because of the known unsatisfactoriness of Elinor’s husband: and she had
to go on with her life, and sit down at her solitary meals, and invent
lonely occupations for herself, and read and read, till her brains were
often dazed by the multiplicity of the words, which lost their meaning
as she turned over page by page. To sit alone in the house, without a
sound audible, except perhaps the movement of the servants going
up-stairs or down to minister to the wants, about which she felt she
cared nothing whether they were ministered to or not, of their solitary
mistress, where a little while ago there used to be the rhythm of the
one quick step, the sound of the one gay voice which made the world a
warm inhabited place to Mrs. Dennistoun--this was more dismal than words
could say. To be sure, there were some extraordinary and delightful
differences; there were the almost daily letters, which afforded the
lonely mother all the pleasure that life could give; and there was
always the prospect, or at least possibility and hope, of seeing her
child again. Those two particulars, it need scarcely be said, make a
difference which is practically infinite: but yet for Mrs. Dennistoun,
sitting alone all the day and night, walking alone, reading alone, with
little to do that was of the slightest consequence, not even the
reading--for what did it matter to her dreary, lonely consciousness
whether she kept afloat of general literature or improved her mind or
not? this separation by marriage was dreadfully like the dreary
separation by death, and in one respect it was almost worse; for death,
if it reaches our very hearts, takes away at least the gnawing pangs of
anxiety. He or she who is gone that way is well; never more can trouble
touch them, their feet cannot err nor their hearts ache; while who can
tell what troubles and miseries may be befalling, out there in the
unknown, the child who has embarked upon the troubled sea of mortal
life?
And it may be imagined with what anxious eyes those letters, which made
all the difference, were read; how the gradually changing tone in them
was noted as it came in, slowly but also surely. Sometimes they got to
be very hurried, and then Mrs. Dennistoun saw as in a glass the
impatient husband waiting, wondering what she could constantly find to
say to her mother; sometimes they were long and detailed, and that
meant, as would appear perhaps by a phrase slurred over in the
postscript, that Phil had gone away somewhere. There was never a
complaint in them, never a word that could be twisted into a complaint:
but the anxious mother read between the lines innumerable things, not
half of them true. There is perhaps never a half true of what anxiety
may imagine: but then the half that is true!
John Tatham was very faithful to her during that winter. As soon as he
came back from Switzerland, at the end of the long vacation, he went
down to see her, feeling the difference in the house beyond anything he
had imagined, feeling as if he were stepping into some darkened outer
chamber of the grave: but with a cheerful face and eager but confident
interest in “the news from Elinor.” “Of course she is enjoying herself
immensely,” he said, and Mrs. Dennistoun was able to reply with a smile
that was a little wistful, that yes, Elinor was enjoying herself
immensely. “She seems very happy, and everything is new to her and
bright,” she said. They were both very glad that Elinor was happy, and
they were very cheerful themselves. Mrs. Dennistoun truly cheered by his
visit and by the necessity for looking after everything that John might
be comfortable, and the pleasure of seeing his face opposite to her at
table. “You can’t think what it is to see you there; sitting down to
dinner is the most horrible farce when one is alone.” “Poor aunt!” John
Tatham said: and nobody would believe how many Saturdays and Sundays he
gave up to her during the long winter. Somehow he himself did not care
to go anywhere else. In Elinor’s time he had gone about freely enough,
liking a little variety in his Saturday to Mondays, though always
happiest when he went to Windyhill: but now somehow the other houses
seemed to pall upon him. He liked best to go down to that melancholy
house which his presence made more or less bright, where there was an
endless talk of Elinor, where she was, what she was doing, and what was
to be her next move, and, at last, when she was coming to town. Mrs.
Dennistoun did not say, as she did at first, “when she is coming home.”
That possibility seemed to slip away somehow, and no one suggested it.
When she was coming to town, that was what they said between themselves.
She had spent the spring on the Riviera, a great part of it at Monte
Carlo, and her letters were full of the beauty of the place; but she
said less and less about people, and more and more about the sea and the
mountains, and the glorious road which gave at every turn a new and
beautiful vision of the hills and the sea. It was a little like a
guide-book, they sometimes felt, but neither said it; but at last it
became certain that in the month of May she was coming to town.
More than that, oh, more than that! One evening in May, when it was fine
but a little chilly, when Mrs. Dennistoun was walking wistfully in her
garden, looking at the moon shining in the west, and wondering if her
child had arrived in England, and whether she was coming to a house of
her own, or a lodging, or to be a visitor in some one else’s house,
details which Elinor had not given--her ear was suddenly caught by the
distant rumbling of wheels, heavy wheels, the fly from the station
certainly. Mrs. Dennistoun had no expectation of what it could be, no
sort of hope: and yet a woman has always a sort of hope when her child
lives and everything is possible. The fly seemed to stop, not coming up
the little cottage drive; but by and by, when she had almost given up
hoping, there came a rush of flying feet, and a cry of joy, and Elinor
was in her mother’s arms. Elinor! yes, it was herself, no vision, no
shadow such as had many a time come into Mrs. Dennistoun’s dreams, but
herself in flesh and blood, the dear familiar figure, the face which,
between the twilight and those ridiculous tears which come when one is
too happy, could scarcely be seen at all. “Elinor, Elinor! it is you, my
darling!” “Yes, mother, it is me, really me. I could not write, because
I did not know till the last minute whether I could get away.”
It may be imagined what a coming home that was. Mrs. Dennistoun, when
she saw her daughter even by the light of the lamp, was greatly
comforted. Elinor was looking well; she was changed in that
indescribable way in which marriage changes (though not always) the
happiest woman. And her appearance was changed; she was no longer the
country young lady very well dressed and looking as well as any one
could in her carefully made clothes. She was now a fashionable young
woman, about whose dresses there was no question, who wore everything as
those do who are at the fountain-head, no matter what it was she wore.
Mrs. Dennistoun’s eyes caught this difference at once, which is also
indescribable to the uninitiated, and a sensation of pride came into her
mind. Elinor was improved, too, in so many ways. Her mother had never
thought of calling her anything more, even in her in-most thoughts, than
very pretty, very sweet; but it seemed to Mrs. Dennistoun now as if
people might use a stronger word, and call Elinor beautiful. Her face
had gained a great deal of expression, though it was always an
expressive face; her eyes looked deeper; her manner had a wonderful
youthful dignity. Altogether, it was another Elinor, yet, God be
praised, the same.
It was but for one night, but that was a great deal, a night subtracted
from the blank, a night that seemed to come out of the old times--those
old times that had not been known to be so very happy till they were
over and gone. Elinor had naturally a great deal to tell her mother, but
in the glory of seeing her, of hearing her voice, of knowing that it was
actually she who was speaking, Mrs. Dennistoun did not observe, what she
remembered afterwards that again it was much more, of places than of
people that Elinor talked, and that though she named Phil when there was
any occasion for doing so, she did not babble about him as brides do, as
if he were altogether the sun, and everything revolved round him. It is
not a good sign, perhaps, when the husband comes down to his “proper
place” as the representative of the other half of the world too soon.
Elinor looked round upon her old home with a mingled smile and sigh.
Undoubtedly it had grown smaller, perhaps even shabbier, since she went
away: but she did not say so to her mother. She cried out how pretty it
was, how delightful to come back to it! and that was true too. How often
it happens in this life that there are two things quite opposed to each
other, and yet both of them true.
“John will be delighted to hear that you have come, Elinor,” her mother
said.
“John, dear old John! I hope he is well and happy, and all that; and he
comes often to see you, mother? How sweet of him! You must give him ever
so much love from his poor Nelly. I always keep that name sacred to
him.”
“But why should I give him messages as if you were not sure to meet? of
course you will meet--often.”
“Do you think so?” said Elinor. She opened her eyes a little in
surprise, and then shook her head. “I am afraid not, mamma. We are in
two different worlds.”
“I assure you,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, “John is a very rising man. He is
invited everywhere.”
“That I don’t doubt at all.”
“And why then shouldn’t you meet?”
“I don’t know. I don’t fancy we shall go to the same places. John has a
profession; he has something to do. Now you know we have nothing to do.”
She laughed and laid a little emphasis on the we, by way of taking off
the weight of the words.
“I always thought it was a great pity, Elinor.”
“It may be a pity or not,” said Elinor, “but it is, and it cannot be
helped. We have got to make up our minds to it. I would rather Phil did
nothing than mixed himself up with companies. Thank heaven, at present
he is free of anything of that kind.”
“I hope he is free of that one at least, that he was going to invest all
your money in, Elinor. I hope you found another investment that was
quite steady and safe.”
“Oh, I suppose so,” said Elinor, with some of her old petulance: “don’t
let us spoil the little time I have by talking about money, mamma!”
And then it was that Mrs. Dennistoun noticed that what Elinor did talk
of, hurrying away from this subject, were things of not the least
importance--the olive woods on the Riviera, the wealth of flowers, the
strange little old towns upon the hills. Surely even the money, which
was her own and for her comfort, would be a more interesting subject to
discuss. Perhaps Elinor herself perceived this, for she began
immediately to ask questions about the Hudsons and Hills, and all the
people of the parish, with much eagerness of questioning, but a flagging
interest in the replies, as her mother soon saw. “And Mary Dale, is she
still there?” she asked. Mrs. Dennistoun entered into a little history
of how Mary Dale had gone away to nurse a distant cousin who had been
ill, and finally had died and left a very comfortable little fortune to
her kind attendant. Elinor listened with little nods and appropriate
exclamations, but before the evening was out asked again, “And Mary
Dale?” then hastily corrected herself with an “Oh, I remember! you told
me.” But it was perhaps safer not to question her how much she
remembered of what she had been told.
Thus there were notes of disquiet in even that delightful evening, such
a contrast as it was to all the evenings since she had left home. Even
when John came, what a poor substitute for Elinor! The ingratitude of
those whose heart is set on one object made Mrs. Dennistoun thus make
light of what had been her great consolation. He was very kind, very
good, and oh, how glad she had been to see him through that heavy
winter--but he was not Elinor! It was enough for Elinor to step across
her mother’s threshold to make Mrs. Dennistoun feel that there was no
substitute for her--none: and that John was of no more consequence than
the Rector or any habitual caller. But, at the same time, in all the
melody of the home-coming, in the sweetness of Elinor’s voice, and look,
and kiss, in the perfection of seeing her there again in her own place,
and listening to her dear step running up and down the no longer silent
house, there were notes of disquiet which could not be mistaken. She was
not unhappy, the mother thought; her eyes could not be so bright, nor
her colour so fair unless she was happy. Trouble does not embellish, and
Elinor was embellished. But yet--there were notes of disquiet in the
air.
Next day Mrs. Dennistoun drove her child to the railway in order not to
lose a moment of so short a visit, and naturally, though she had
received that unexpected visit with rapture, feeling that a whole night
of Elinor was worth a month, a year of anybody else, yet now that Elinor
was going she found it very short. “You’ll come again soon, my darling?”
she said, as she stood at the window of the carriage ready to say
good-bye.
“Whenever I can, mother dear, of that you may be sure; whenever I can
get away.”
“I don’t wish to draw you from your husband. Don’t get away--come with
Philip from Saturday to Monday. Give him my love, and tell him so. He
shall not be bored; but Sunday is a day without engagements.”
“Oh, not now, mamma. There are just as many things to do on Sundays as
on any other day.”
There were a great many words on Mrs. Dennistoun’s lips, but she did not
say them; all she did say was, “Well, then, Elinor--when you can get
away.”
“Oh, you need not doubt me, mamma.” And the train, which sometimes
lingers so long, which some people that very day were swearing at as so
slow, “Like all country trains,” they said--that inevitable heartless
thing got into motion, and Mrs. Dennistoun watched it till it
disappeared; and--what was that that came over Elinor’s face as she sank
back into the corner of her carriage, not knowing her mother’s anxious
look followed her still--what was it? Oh, dreadful, dreadful life! oh,
fruitless love and longing!--was it relief? The mother tried to get that
look out of her mind as she drove silently and slowly home, creeping up
hill after hill. There was no need to hurry. All that she was going to
was an empty and silent house, where nobody awaited her. What was that
look on Elinor’s face? Relief! to have it over, to get away again, away
from her old home and her fond mother, away to her new life. Mrs.
Dennistoun was not a jealous mother nor unreasonable. She said to
herself--Well! it was no doubt a trial to the child to come back--to
come alone. All the time, perhaps, she was afraid of being too closely
questioned, of having to confess that _he_ did not want to come, perhaps
grudged her coming. She might be afraid that her mother would divine
something--some hidden opposition, some dislike, perhaps, on his part.
Poor Elinor! and when everything had passed over so well, when it was
ended, and nothing had been between them but love and mutual
understanding, what wonder if there came over her dear face a look of
relief! This was how this good woman, who had seen a great many things
in her passage through life, explained her child’s look: and though she
was sad was not angry, as many less tolerant and less far-seeing might
have been in her place.
John, that good John, to whom she had been so ungrateful, came down next
Saturday, and to him she confided her great news, but not all of it.
“She came down--alone?” he said.
“Well,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, bravely; “she knew very well it was her I
wanted to see, and not Philip. They say a great deal about
mothers-in-law, but why shouldn’t we in our turn have our fling at
sons-in-law, John? It was not him I wanted to see: it was my own child:
and Elinor understood that, and ran off by herself. Bless her for the
thought.”
“I understand that,” said John. He had given the mother more than one
look as she spoke, and divined her better than she supposed. “Oh, yes, I
can understand that. The thing I don’t understand is why he let her;
why he wasn’t too proud to bring her back to you, that you might see she
had taken no harm. If it had been I----”
“Ah, but it was not you,” said Mrs. Dennistoun; “you forget that. It
never could have been you.”
He looked quickly at her again, and it was on his lips to ask, “Why
could it never have been I?” but he did not; for he knew that if it had
ever been him, it could not have been for years. He was too prudent, and
Elinor, even if she had escaped Phil Compton, would have met some one
else. He had no right to say, or even think, what, in the circumstances,
he would have done. He did not make any answer, but she understood him
as he understood her.
And later in the evening she asked his advice as to what she should do.
“I am not fond of asking advice,” she said, “and I don’t think there is
another in the world I would ask it from but you. What should I do? It
would cost me nothing to run up to town for a part of the season at
least. I might get a little house, and be near her, where she could come
to me when she pleased. Should I do it, or would it be wise not to do
it? I don’t want to spy upon her or to force her to tell me more than
she wishes. John, my dear, I will tell you what I would tell no one
else. I caught a glimpse of her dear face when the train was just going
out of sight, and she was sinking back in her corner with a look of
relief----”
“Of relief!” he cried.
“John, don’t form any false impression! it was no want of love: but I
think she was thankful to have seen me, and to have satisfied me, and
that I had asked no questions that she could not answer--in a way.”
John clenched his fist, but he dared not make any gesture of disgust, or
suggest again, “If it had been I.”
“Well, now,” she said, “remember I am not angry--fancy being angry with
Elinor!--and all I mean is for her benefit. Should I go? it might be a
relief to her to run into me whenever she pleased; or should I not go?
lest she might think I was bent on finding out more than she chose to
tell?”
“Wouldn’t it be right that you should find out?”
“That is just the point upon which I am doubtful. She is not unhappy,
for she is--she is prettier than ever she was, John. A girl does not get
like that--her eyes brighter, her colour clearer, looking--well,
beautiful!” cried the mother, her eyes filling with bright tears, “if
she is unhappy. But there may be things that are not quite smooth, that
she might think it would make me unhappy to know, yet that if let alone
might come all right. Tell me, John, what should I do?”
And they sat debating thus till far on in the night.