It cost Mrs. Dennistoun a struggle to yield to her daughter and her
daughter’s husband, and with her eyes open and no delusion on the
subject to throw away her two thousand pounds. Two thousand pounds is a
big thing to throw away. There are many people much richer than Mrs.
Dennistoun who would have thought it a wicked thing to do, and some who
would have quarrelled with both daughter and son-in-law rather than do
so foolish a thing. For it was not merely making a present, so to speak,
of the money, it was throwing it away. To have given it to Elinor would
have been nothing, it would have been a pleasure; but in Phil’s
investment Mrs. Dennistoun had no confidence. It was throwing her money
after Elinor’s money into that hungry sea which swallows up everything
and gives nothing again.
But if that had been difficult for her, it may be imagined with what
feelings she contemplated her necessary meeting with John Tatham. She
knew everything he would say--more, she knew what he would look: his
astonishment, his indignation, the amazement with which he would regard
it. John was far from being incapable of a sacrifice. Mrs. Dennistoun,
indeed, did him more than justice in that respect, for she believed that
he had himself been on the eve of asking Elinor to marry him when she
was snatched up by, oh, so much less satisfactory a man! which the
reader knows is not quite the case, though perhaps it required quite as
much self-denial on John’s part to stand by Elinor and maintain her
cause under her altered circumstances as if it had been the case. But
notwithstanding this, she knew that John would be angry with what she
had done or promised to do, and would put every possible impediment in
her way: and when she sent for him, in order that she might carry out
her promise, it was with a heart as sick with fright and as much
disturbed by the idea of a scolding as ever child’s was.
John had been very little to the house at Curzon Street. He had dined
two or three times with Mrs. Dennistoun alone, and once or twice Elinor
had been of the party; but the Comptons had never any guests at that
house, and the fact already mentioned that Philip Compton never dined at
home made it a difficult matter for Mrs. Dennistoun to ask any but her
oldest friends to the curious little divided house, which was neither
hers nor theirs. Thus Cousin John had met, but no more, Elinor’s
husband, and neither of the gentlemen had shown the least desire to
cultivate the acquaintance. John had not expressed his sentiments on the
subject to any one, but Phil, as was natural, had been more
demonstrative. “I don’t think much of your relations, Nell,” he said,
“if that’s a specimen: a prig if ever there was one--and that old sheep
that was at the wedding, the father of him, I suppose----”
“As they are my relations, Phil, you might speak of them a little more
respectfully.”
“Oh, respectfully! Bless us all! I have no respect for my own, and why I
should have for yours, my little dear, I confess I can’t see. Oh, by the
way, this is Cousin John, who I used to think by your blushing and all
that----”
“Phil, I think you are trying to make me angry. Cousin John is the best
man in the world; but I never blushed--how ridiculous! I might as well
have blushed to speak of my brother.”
“I put no confidence in brothers, unless they’re real ones,” said Phil;
“but I’m glad I’ve seen him, Nell. I doubt after all that you’re such a
fool, when you see us together--eh?” He laughed that laugh of conscious
superiority which, when it is not perfectly well-founded, sounds so
fatuous to the hearer. Elinor did not look at him. She turned her head
away and made no reply.
John, on his part, as has been said, made no remark. If he had possessed
a wife at home to whom he could have confided his sentiments, as Phil
Compton had, it is possible that he might have said something not
unsimilar. But then had he had a wife at home he would have been more
indifferent to Phil, and might not have cared to criticise him at all.
Mrs. Dennistoun received him when he came in obedience to her call, as a
child might do who had the power of receiving its future corrector. She
abased herself before him, servilely choosing his favourite subjects,
talking of what she thought would please him, of former times at the
Cottage, of Elinor, and her great affection for Cousin John, and so
forth. I imagine that he had a suspicion of the cause of all this
sweetness. He looked at her suspiciously, though he allowed himself to
be drawn into reminiscences, and to feel a half pleasure, half pain in
the affectionate things that Elinor had said. At length, after some time
had passed, he asked, in a pause of the conversation, “Was this all you
wanted with me, aunt, to talk of old times?”
“Wasn’t it a good enough pretext for the pleasure of seeing you, John?”
He laughed a little and shook his head.
“An excellent pretext where none was wanted. It is very kind of you to
think it a pleasure: but you had something also to say?”
“It seems there is no deceiving you, John,” she said, and with many
hesitations and much difficulty, told him her story. She saw him begin
to flame. She saw his eyes light up, and Mrs. Dennistoun shook in her
chair. She was not a woman apt to be afraid, but she was frightened now.
Nevertheless, when she had finished her story, John at first spoke no
word: and when he did find a tongue it was only to say,
“You want to get back the money you have on that mortgage. My dear aunt,
why did not you tell me so at once?”
“But I have just told you, John.”
“Well, so be it. You know it will take a little time; there are some
formalities that must be gone through. You cannot make a demand on
people in that way to pay you cash at once.”
“Oh, I thought it was so easy to get money--on such very good security
and paying such a good adequate rate of interest.”
“It is easy,” he said, “perfectly easy; but it wants a little time: and
people will naturally wonder, if it is really good security and good
interest, why you should be in such a hurry to get out of it.”
“But surely, to say private reasons--family reasons, that will be
enough.”
“Oh, there is no occasion for giving any reason at all. You wish to do
it; that is reason enough.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, with diffidence, yet also a little
self-assertion, “I think it is enough.”
“Of course, of course.” But his eyes were flaming, and Mrs. Dennistoun
would not allow herself to believe that she had got off. “And may I
ask--not that I have any right to ask, for of course you have better
advisers--what do you mean to put the money in, when you have got it
back?”
“Oh, John,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, “you are implacable, though you
pretend different. You know what I want with the money, and you
disapprove of it, and so do I. I am going to throw it away. I know that
just as well as you do, and I am ashamed of myself: but I am going to do
it all the same.”
“You are going to give it to Elinor? I don’t think there is anything to
disapprove of in that. It is the most natural thing in the world.”
“If I could be sure that Elinor would get any good by it,” she said.
And then his face suddenly blazed up, so that the former flame in his
eyes was nothing. He sat for a moment staring at her, and then he said,
“Yes, if--but I suppose you take the risk.” There were a great many
things on his lips to say, but he said none of them, except hurriedly,
“You have a motive, I suppose----”
“I have a motive--as futile probably as my act--if I could by that
means, or any other, acquire an influence----”
John was very seldom, if ever, rude--it was not in his way--but at this
moment he was so bitterly exasperated that he forgot his manners
altogether. He burst out into a loud laugh, and then he jumped up to his
feet and said, “Forgive me. I really have a dozen engagements. I can’t
stay. I’ll see to having this business done for you as soon as possible.
You would rather old Lynch had no hand in it? I’ll get it done for you
at once.”
She followed him out to the door as if they had been in the country, and
that the flowery cottage door, with the great world of down and sky
outside, instead of Curzon Street: longing to say something that would
still, at the last moment, gain her John’s approval, or his
understanding at least. But she could think of nothing to say. He had
promised to manage it all for her: he had not reproached her; and yet
not content with that she wanted to extort a favourable word from him
before he should go. But she could not find a word to say. He it was
only who spoke. He asked when she was going to return home, with his
hand upon the street door.
“I don’t know. I have not made any plans. The house is taken till July.”
“And you have enjoyed it?” he said. “It has answered?”
What a cruel, cruel question to put to her! She going so unsuspectingly
with him to the very door! Philip Compton’s servant, always about when
he was not wanted, spying about to see whom it was that “down-stairs”
was letting out, came strolling into sight. Anyhow, whether that was the
reason or not, she made him no reply. He caught her look--a look that
said more than words--and turned round quickly and held out his hand. “I
did not mean to be cruel,” he said.
“Oh, no, no, no--you did not mean it--you were not cruel. The
reverse--you are always so kind. Yes, it has answered--I am more glad
than I can tell you--that I came.”
He it was now that looked at her anxiously, while she smiled that
well-worn smile which is kept for people in trouble. She went in
afterwards and sat silent for some time, covering her face with her
hands; in which attitude Elinor found her after her afternoon visitors
had gone away.
“What is it, mother? What is it, dear mother? Something has happened to
vex you.”
“Nothing, nothing, Elinor. John Tatham has been here. He is going to do
that little piece of business for me.”
“And he--has been bullying you too? poor mamma!”
“On the contrary, he did not say a word. He considered it--quite
natural.”
Elinor gave her mother a kiss. She had nothing to say. Neither of them
had a word to say to the other. The thought that passed through both
their minds was: “After all it is only two thousand pounds”--and then,
_après?_ was Elinor’s thought. And then, never more, never more! was
what passed through Mrs. Dennistoun’s mind.
Phil Compton smiled upon her that day she handed him over the money. “It
is a great pity you took the trouble,” he said. “It is a pity to change
an investment for such a bagatelle as two thousand pounds. Still, if you
insist upon it, mamma. I suppose Nell’s been bragging of the big
interest, but you never will feel it on a scrap like this. If you would
let me double your income for you now.”
“You know, Philip, I cannot. The trustees would never consent.”
“Bother trustees. They are the ruin of women,” he said, and as he left
the room he turned back to ask her how long she was going to stay in
town.
“How long do you stay?”
“Oh, till Goodwood always,” said Phil. “Nell’s looking forward to it,
and there’s generally some good things just at the end when the heavy
people have gone away; but I thought you might not care to stay so
long.”
“I came not for town, but for Elinor, Philip.”
“Exactly so. But don’t you think Elinor has shown herself quite able to
take care of herself--not to say that she has me? It’s a thousand pities
to keep you from the country which you prefer, especially as, after all,
Nell can be so little with you.”
“It would be much better for her at present, Philip, to come with me,
and rest at home, while you go to Goodwood. For the sake of the future
you ought to persuade her to do it.”
“I daresay. Try yourself to persuade her to leave me. She won’t, you
know. But why should you bore yourself to death staying on here? You
don’t like it, and nobody----”
“Wants me, you mean, Philip.”
“I never said anything so dashed straightforward. I am not a chap of
that kind. But what I say is, it’s a shame to keep you hanging on,
disturbed in your rest and all that sort of thing. That noisy beggar,
Dismar, that came in with us last night must have woke you up with his
idiotic bellowing.”
“It doesn’t matter for me; but Elinor, Philip. It does matter for your
wife. If her rest is broken it will react upon her in every way. I wish
you would consent to forego those visitors in the middle of the night.”
He looked at her with a sort of satirical indifference. “Sorry I can’t
oblige you,” he said. “When a girl’s friends fork out handsomely a man
has some reason for paying a little attention. But when there’s nothing,
or next to nothing, on her side, why of course he must pick up a little
where he can, as much for her sake as his own.”
“Pick up a little!” said Mrs. Dennistoun.
“I wish you wouldn’t repeat what I say like that. It makes a fellow
nervous. Yes, of course, a man that knows what he’s about does pick up a
little. About your movements, however. I advise you to take my advice
and go back to your snug little house. It would kill me in a week, but I
know it suits you. Why hang on for Nell? She’s as well as can be, and
there’s a few things that it would be good for us to do.”
“Which you cannot do while I am here? Is that what you mean, Philip?”
“I never saw any good in being what the French call brutal,” he said, “I
hate making a woman cry, or that sort of thing. But you’re a woman of
sense, and I’m sure you must see that a young couple like Nell and me,
who have our way to make in the world----”
“You know it was for her sake entirely that I came here.”
“Yes, oh, yes. To do coddling and that sort of thing--which she doesn’t
require a bit; but if I must be brutal you know there’s things of much
consequence we could do if----”
“If what, Philip?”
“Well,” he said, turning on his heel, “if we had the house to
ourselves.”
This was the influence Mrs. Dennistoun hoped to acquire by the sacrifice
of her two thousand pounds! When he was gone, instead of covering her
face as she had done when John left her, Mrs. Dennistoun stared into the
vacant air for a minute and then she burst into a laugh. It was not a
mirthful laugh, it may be supposed, or harmonious, and it startled her
as she heard it pealing into the silence. Whether it was loud enough to
wake Elinor up-stairs, or whether she was already close by and heard it,
I cannot tell, but she came in with a little tap at the door and a
smile, a somewhat anxious and forced smile, it is true, upon her face.
“What is the joke?” she said. “I heard you laugh, and I thought I might
come in and share the fun. Somehow, we don’t have so much fun as we used
to have. What is it, mamma?”
“It is only a witticism of Philip’s, who has been in to see me,” said
Mrs. Dennistoun. “I won’t repeat it, for probably I should lose the
point of it--you know I always did spoil a joke in repeating it. I have
been speaking to him,” she said, after a little pause, during which both
her laugh and Elinor’s smile evaporated in the most curious way, leaving
both of them very grave--“of going away, Elinor.”
“Of going away!” Elinor suddenly assumed a startled look; but there is a
difference between doing that and being really startled, which her
mother, alas! was quite enlightened enough to see; and surely once more
there was that mingled relief and relaxation in the lines of her face
which Mrs. Dennistoun had seen before.
“Yes, my darling,” she said, “it is June, and everything at the Cottage
will be in full beauty. And, perhaps, it would do you more good to come
down there for a day or two when there is nothing doing than to have me
here, which, after all, has not been of very much use to you.”
“Oh, don’t say that, mamma. Use!--it has been of comfort unspeakable.
But,” Elinor added, hurriedly, “I see the force of all you say. To
remain in London at this time of the year must be a far greater
sacrifice than I have any right to ask of you, mamma.”
Oh, the furtive, hurried, unreal words! which were such pain and horror
to say with the consciousness of the true sentiment lying underneath;
which made Elinor’s heart sink, yet were brought forth with a sort of
hateful fervour, to imitate truth.
Mrs. Dennistoun saw it all. There are times when the understanding of
such a woman is almost equal to those “larger other eyes” with which it
is our fond hope those who have left us for a better country see, if
they are permitted to see, our petty doings, knowing, better than we
know ourselves, what excuses, what explanations, they are capable of.
“As for the sacrifice,” she said, “we will say nothing of that, Elinor.
It is a vain thing to say that if my life would do you any pleasure--for
you don’t want to take my life, and probably the best thing I can do for
you is to go on as long as I can. But in the meantime there’s no
question at all of sacrifice--and if you can come down now and then for
a day, and sleep in the fresh air----”
“I will, I will, mamma,” said Elinor, hiding her face on her mother’s
shoulder; and they would have been something more than women if they had
not cried together as they held each other in that embrace--in which
there was so much more than met either eye or ear.