A few days after this Philip Compton came in, in the afternoon, to the
little room down-stairs which Mrs. Dennistoun had made into a
sitting-room for herself. Elinor had gone out with her sister-in-law,
and her mother was alone. It was a very rare thing indeed for Mrs.
Dennistoun’s guest--who, indeed, was to all intents and purposes the
master of the house, and had probably quite forgotten by this time that
he was not in reality so--to pay a visit “down-stairs.” “Down-stairs”
had a distinct meaning in the Compton vocabulary. It was spoken of with
significance, and with a laugh, as something half hostile, half
ridiculous. It meant a sort of absurd criticism and inspection, as of
some old crone sitting vigilant, spying upon everything--a
mother-in-law. Phil’s cronies thought it was the most absurd weakness on
his part to let such an intruder get footing in his house. “You will
never get rid of her,” they said. And Phil, though he was generally
quite civil to his wife’s mother (being actually and at his heart more a
gentleman than he had the least idea he was), did not certainly in any
way seek her society. He scarcely ever dined at home, as has been said;
when he had not an engagement--and he had a great many engagements--he
found that he was obliged to dine at his club on the evenings when he
might have been free; and as this was the only meal which was supposed
to be common, it may be perceived that Phil had little means of meeting
his mother-in-law; and that he should come to see her of his own free
will was unprecedented. Phil Compton had not improved since his
marriage. His nocturnal enjoyments, the noisy parties up-stairs in the
middle of the night, had not helped to dissipate the effect of the
anxieties of the city, which his wife so deplored. Mrs. Dennistoun that
very day, when she came down-stairs in the fresh summer morning to her
early breakfast, had seen through an open door the room up-stairs which
was appropriated to Phil, with a lamp still burning in the daylight,
cards lying strewn about the floor, and all in that direful disorder
which a room so occupied overnight shows in the clear eye of the day.
The aspect of the room had given her a shock almost more startling than
any moral certainty, as was natural to a woman used to all the decorums
and delicacies of a well-ordered life. There is no sin in going late to
bed, or even letting a lamp burn into the day; but the impression that
such a sight makes even upon the careless is always greater than any
mere apprehension by the mind of the midnight sitting, the eager game,
the chances of loss and ruin. She had not been able to get that sight
out of her eyes. Though on ordinary occasions she never entered Phil’s
rooms, on this she had stolen in to put out the lamp, with the sensation
in her mind of destroying some evidence against him, which someone less
interested than she might have used to his disadvantage. And she had
sent up the housemaid to “do” the room, with an admonition. “I cannot
have Mr. Compton’s rooms neglected,” she said. “The gentlemen is always
so late,” the housemaid said in self-defence. “I hears them let
themselves out sometimes after we’re all up down-stairs.” “I don’t want
to hear anything about the gentlemen. Do your work at the proper time;
that is all that is asked of you.” Phil’s servant appeared at the moment
pulling on his coat, with the air of a man who has been up half the
night--which, indeed, was the case, for “the gentlemen” when they came
in had various wants that had to be supplied. “What’s up now?” he said
to the housemaid, within hearing of her mistress, casting an insolent
look at the old lady, who belonged to “down-stairs.” “She’ve been prying
and spying about like they all do----” Mrs. Dennistoun had retreated
within the shelter of her room to escape the end of this sentence, which
still she heard, with the usual quickness of our faculties in such
cases. She swallowed her simple breakfast with what appetite she might,
and her stout spirit for the moment broke down before this insult which
was ridiculous, she said to herself, from a saucy servant-man. What did
it matter to her what Johnson did or said? But it was like the lamp
burning in the sunshine: it gave a moral shock more sharp than many a
thing of much more importance would have been capable of doing, and she
had not been able to get over it all day.
It may be supposed, therefore, that it was an unfortunate moment for
Phil Compton’s visit. Mrs. Dennistoun had scarcely seen them that day,
and she was sitting by herself, somewhat sick at heart, wondering if
anything would break the routine into which their life was falling; or
if this was what Elinor must address herself to as its usual tenor. It
would be better in the country, she said to herself. It was only in the
bustle of the season, when everybody of his kind was congregated in
town, that it would be like this. In their rounds of visits, or when the
whole day was occupied with sport, such nocturnal sittings would be
impossible--and she comforted herself by thinking that they would not be
consistent with any serious business in the city such as Elinor feared.
The one danger must push away the other. He could not gamble at night in
that way, and gamble in the other among the stockbrokers. They were both
ruinous, no doubt, but they could not both be carried on at the same
time--or so, at least, this innocent woman thought. There was enough to
be anxious and alarmed about without taking two impossible dangers into
her mind together.
And just then Phil knocked at her door. He came in smiling and gracious,
and with that look of high breeding and _savoir faire_ which had
conciliated her before and which she felt the influence of now, although
she was aware how many drawbacks there were, and knew that the respect
which her son-in-law showed was far from genuine. “I never see you to
have a chat,” he said; “I thought I would take the opportunity to-day,
when Elinor was out. I want you to tell me how you think she is.”
“I think she is wonderfully well,” said Mrs. Dennistoun.
“_Wonderfully_ well--you mean considering--that there is too much racket
in her life?”
“Partly, I mean that--but, indeed, I meant it without condition; she is
wonderfully well. I am surprised, often----”
“It is rather a racket of a life,” said Phil.
“Too much, indeed--it is too much--for a woman who is beginning her
serious life--but if you think that, it is a great thing gained, for you
can put a stop to it, or moderate--‘the pace’ don’t you call it?” she
said, with a smile.
“Well, yes. I suppose we could moderate the pace--but that would mean a
great deal for me. You see, when a man’s launched it isn’t always so
easy to stop. Nell, of course, if you thought she wanted it--might go to
the country with you.”
Mrs. Dennistoun’s heart gave a leap. “Might go to the country with you!”
It seemed a glimpse of Paradise that burst upon her. But then she shook
her head. “You know Elinor would not leave you, Philip.”
“Well! she has a ridiculous partiality,” he said, with a laugh, “though,
of course, I’d make her--if it was really for her advantage,” he added,
after a moment; “you don’t think I’d let that stand in her way.”
“In the meantime,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, with hesitation, “without
proceeding to any such stringent measures--if you could manage to be a
little less late at night.”
“Oh, you listen for my coming in at night?”
His face took a sombre look, as if a cloud had come over it.
“I do not listen--for happily for me I have been asleep for hours. I
generally jump up thinking the house is on fire at the sound of voices,
which make listening quite unnecessary, Philip.”
“Ah, yes, the fellows are rather noisy,” he said, carelessly, “but Nell
sleeps like a top, and pays no attention--which is the best thing she
can do.”
“I would not be too sure she slept like a top.”
“It’s true; women are all hypocrites alike. You never know when you have
them,” Phil said.
And then there was a pause; for she feared to say anything more lest she
should go too far; and he for once in his life was embarrassed, and did
not know how to begin what he had to say.
“Well,” he said, quickly, getting up, “I must be going. I have business
in the city. And now that I find you’re satisfied about Nell’s
health---- By the way, you never show in our rooms; though Nell spends
every minute she has to spare here.”
“I am a little old perhaps for your friends, Philip, and the room is not
too large.”
“Well, no,” he said, “they are wretched little rooms. Good-by, then; I’m
glad you think Nell is all right.”
Was this all he meant to say? There was, however, an uncertainty about
his step, and by the time he had opened the door he came to a pause,
half closed it again, and said, “Oh, by the bye!”
“What is it?” said Mrs. Dennistoun.
He closed the door again and came back half a step. “I almost forgot, I
meant to tell you: if you have any money to invest, I could help you
to---- The best thing I’ve heard of for many a day!”
“You are very kind, Philip; but you know everything I have is in the
hands of trustees.”
“Oh, bother trustees. The only thing they do is to keep your dividends
down to the lowest amount possible and cut short your income. Come,
you’re quite old enough to judge for yourself. You might give them a
jog. At your time of life they ought to take a hint from you.”
“I have never done it, Philip, and they would pay no attention to me.”
“Oh, nonsense, mamma. Why except you, who has a right to be consulted
except Nell? and if I, her husband, am your adviser----”
“I know they would do nothing but mock at me.”
“Rubbish! I’d like to see who would mock at you. Just you send them to
me, that is all.”
“Philip, will you not believe me when I say that it is impossible? I
have never interfered. They would ask what made me think of such a thing
now.”
“And you could tell them a jolly good opportunity, as safe as the bank,
and paying six or seven per cent.--none of your fabulous risky ten or
twelve businesses, but a solid steady---- How could it be to my interest
to mislead you? It would be Nell who would be the loser. I should be
simply cutting off my own head.”
“That is true, no doubt----”
“And,” he said, scarcely waiting for her reply, “Nell is really the
person who should be consulted: for if there was loss eventually it
would come upon her--and so upon me. I mean taking into consideration
all the chances of the future: for it is perfectly safe for your time,
you may be quite sure of that.”
No one, though he might be ninety, likes to have his time limited, and
his heir’s prospects dwelt upon as the only things of any importance,
and Mrs. Dennistoun was a very long way from ninety. She would have
sacrificed everything she had to make her child happy, but she did not
like, all the same, to be set down as unimportant so far as her own
property was concerned.
“I am afraid,” she said, with a slight quaver in her voice, “that my
trustees would not take Elinor’s wishes into consideration in the first
place, nor yours either, Philip. They think of me, and I suppose that
is really their duty. If I had anything of my own----”
“Do you mean to say,” he said, bluntly, “that with a good income and
living in the country in a hole, in the most obscure way, you have saved
nothing all these years?”
“If I had,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, roused by his persistent attack, “I
should be very sorry to fling it away.”
“Oh, that is what you think?” he said. “Now we’re at the bottom of it.
You think that to put it in my hands would be to throw it away! I
thought there must be something at the bottom of all this pretty
ignorance of business and so forth. Good gracious! that may be well
enough for a girl; but when a grandmother pretends not to know, not to
interfere, etc., that’s too much. So this is what you meant all the
time! To put it into my hands would be throwing it away!”
“I did not mean to say so, Philip--I spoke hastily, but I must remind
you that I am not accustomed to this tone----”
“Oh, no, not at all accustomed to it, you all say that--that’s Nell’s
dodge--never was used to anything of the kind, never had a rough word
said to her, and so forth and so forth.”
“Philip--I hope you don’t say rough words to my Elinor.”
“Oh!” he said, “I have got you there, have I. _Your_ Elinor--no more
yours than she is--Johnson’s. She is my Nell, and what’s more, she’ll
cling to me, whatever rough words I may say, or however you may coax or
wheedle. Do you ever think when you refuse to make a sacrifice of one
scrap of your hoards for her, that if I were not a husband in a hundred
I might take it out of her and make her pay?”
“For what?” said Mrs. Dennistoun, standing up and confronting him, her
face pale, her head very erect--“for what would you make her pay?”
He stood staring at her for a moment and then he broke out into a laugh.
“We needn’t face each other as if we were going to have a stand-up
fight,” he said. “And it wouldn’t be fair, mamma, we’re not equally
matched, the knowing ones would all lay their money on you. So you won’t
take my advice about investing your spare cash? Well, if you won’t you
won’t, and there’s an end of it: only stand up fair and don’t bother me
with nonsense about trustees.”
“It is no nonsense,” she said.
His eyes flashed, but he controlled himself and turned away, waving his
hand. “I’ll not beat Nell for it when I come home to-night,” he said.
Once more Phil dined at his club that evening and Elinor with her
mother. She was in an eager and excited state, looking anxiously in Mrs.
Dennistoun’s eyes, but it was not till late in the evening that she made
any remark. At last, just before they parted for the night, she threw
herself upon her mother with a little cry--“Oh, mamma, I know you are
right, I know you are quite right. But if you could have done it, it
would have given you an influence! I don’t blame you--not for a
moment--but it might have given you an opening to speak. It might
have--given you a little hold on him.”
“My darling, my darling!” said Mrs. Dennistoun.
“No,” said Elinor, “there’s nothing to pity me about, nothing at
all--Phil is always kind and good to me--but you would have had a
standing ground. It might have given you a right to speak--about those
dreadful, dreadful city complications, mamma.”
Mrs. Dennistoun went to bed that night a troubled woman, and lay awake
watching and expecting when the usual midnight tumult should arise. But
that evening there was none. No sound but the key in the latch, the
shutting of a door or two, and all quiet. Compunctions filled the
mother’s heart. What was the wrong if, perhaps, she could satisfy
Elinor, perhaps get at the heart of Phil, who had a heart, though it was
getting strangled in all those intricacies of gambling and wretched
business. She turned over and over in her mind all that she had, and all
that she had any power over. And she remembered a small sum she had in a
mortgage, which was after all in her own power. No doubt it would be to
throw the money away, which would be so much gone from the future
provision of Elinor--but if by that means she could acquire an influence
as Elinor said--be allowed to speak--to protest or perhaps even insist
upon a change of course? Thinking over such a question for a whole
sleepless night, and feeling beneath all that at least, at worst, this
sacrifice would give pleasure to Elinor, which was really the one and
sole motive, the only thing that could give her any warrant for such a
proceeding--is not a process which is likely to strengthen the mind. In
the morning, as soon as she knew he was up, which was not till late
enough, she sent to ask if Phil would give her five minutes before he
went out. He appeared after a while, extremely correct and _point
device_, grave but polite. “I must ask you to excuse me,” he said, “if I
am hurried, for to-day is one of my Board days.”
“It was only to say, Philip--you spoke to me yesterday of money--to be
invested.”
“Yes?” he said politely, without moving a muscle.
“I have been thinking it all over, and I remember that there is a
thousand pounds or two which John Tatham placed for me in a mortgage,
and which is in my own power.”
“Ah!” he said, “a thousand pounds or two,” with a shrug of his
shoulders; “it is scarcely worth while, is it, changing an investment
for so small a matter as a thousand pounds?”
“If you think so, Philip--it is all I can think of that is in my own
power.”
“It is really not worth the trouble,” he said, “and I am in a hurry.” He
made a step towards the door and then turned round again. “Well,” he
said, “just to show there is no ill-feeling, I’ll find you something,
perhaps, to put your tuppenceha’penny in to-day.”
And then there was John Tatham to face after that!