John left the Cottage next morning with the full conduct of the affairs
of the family placed in his hands. The ladies were both a little
doubtful if his plan was the best--they were still frightened for what
might happen, and kept up a watch, as John perceived, fearing every step
that approached, trembling at every shadow. They remembered many
stories, such as rush to the minds of persons in trouble, of similar
cases, of the machinations of the bad father whose only object was to
overcome and break down his wife, and who stole his child away to let it
languish and die. There are some circumstances in which people forget
all the shades of character, and take it for granted that a man who can
go wrong in one matter will act like a very demon in all. This was
doubly strong in Mrs. Dennistoun, a woman full of toleration and
experience; but the issues were so momentous to her, and the possible
results so terrible, that she lost her accustomed good sense. It was
more natural, perhaps, that Elinor, who was weak in health and still
full of the arbitrariness of youth, should entertain this fear--without
considering that Phil was the very last man in the world to burden
himself with an infant of the most helpless age--which seemed to John an
almost quite unreasonable one. Almost--for, of course, he too was
compelled to allow, when driven into a corner, that there was nothing
that an exasperated man might not do. Elinor had come down early to see
her cousin before he left the house, bringing with her in her arms the
little bundle of muslin and flannel upon the safety of which her very
life seemed to depend. John looked at it, and at the small pink face and
unconscious flickering hands that formed the small centre to all those
wrappings, with a curious mixture of pity and repugnance. It was like
any other blind new-born kitten or puppy, he thought, but not so
amusing--no, it was not blind, to be sure. At one moment, without any
warning, it suddenly opened a pair of eyes, which by a lively exercise
of fancy might be supposed like Elinor’s, and seemed to look him in the
face, which startled him very much, with a curious notification of the
fact that the thing was not a kitten or a puppy. But then a little
quiver came over the small countenance, and the attendant said it was
“the wind.” Perhaps the opening of the eyes was the wind too, or some
other automatic effect. He would not hold out his finger to be clasped
tight by the little flickering fist, as Elinor would have had him. He
would none of those follies; he turned away from it not to allow himself
to be moved by the effect, quite a meretricious one, of the baby in the
young mother’s arms. That was all poetry, sentiment, the trick of the
painter, who had found the combination beautiful. Such ideas belonged,
indeed, to the conventional-sacred, and he had never felt any profane
resistance of mind against the San Sisto picture or any of its kind.
But Phil Compton’s brat was a very different thing. What did it matter
what became of it? If it were not for Elinor’s perverse feeling on the
subject, and that perfectly imbecile prostration of her mother, a
sensible woman who ought to have known better, before the little
creature, he would himself have been rather grateful to Phil Compton for
taking it away. But when he saw the look of terror upon Elinor’s face
when an unexpected step came to the door, when he saw her turn and fly,
wrapping the child in her arms, on her very heart as it seemed, bending
over it, covering it so that it disappeared altogether in her embrace,
John’s heart was a little touched. It was only a hawking tramp with pins
and needles, who came by mistake to the hall door, but her panic and
anguish of alarm were a spectacle which he could not get out of his
eyes.
“You see, she never feels safe for a moment. It will be hard to persuade
her that that man, though I’ve seen him about the roads for years, is
not an emissary--or a spy--to find out if she is here.”
“I am sure it is quite an unnecessary panic,” said John. “In the first
place, Phil Compton’s the last man to burden himself with a child; in
the second, he’s not a brute nor a monster.”
“You called him a brute last night, John.”
“I did not mean in that way. I don’t mean to stand by any rash word that
may be forced from me in a moment of irritation. Aunt, get her to give
over that. She’ll torture herself to death for nothing. He’ll not try
to take the child away--not just now, at all events, not while it is a
mere---- Bring her to her senses on that point. You surely can do that?”
“If I was quite sure of being in my own,” Mrs. Dennistoun said, with a
forlorn smile. “I am as much frightened as she is, John. And, remember,
if there is anything to be done--anything----”
“There is nothing but a little common sense wanted,” said John. But as
he drove away from the door, and saw the hawker with the needles still
about, the ladies had so infected him that it was all he could do to
restrain an inclination to take the vagrant by the collar and throw him
down the combe.
“Who’s that fellow hanging about?” he said to Pearson, who was driving
him; “and what does he want here?”
“Bless you, sir! that’s Joe,” Pearson said. “He’s after no harm. He’s
honest enough as long as there ain’t nothing much in his way; and he’s
waiting for the pieces as cook gives him once a week when he comes his
rounds. There’s no harm in poor Joe.”
“I suppose not, since you say so,” said John; “but you know the ladies
are rather nervous, Pearson. You must keep a look-out that no
suspicious-looking person hangs about the house.”
“Bless us! Mr. John,” said Pearson, “what are they nervous about?--the
baby? But nobody wants to steal a baby, bless your soul!”
“I quite agree with you,” said John, much relieved (though he considered
Pearson an old fool, in a general way) to have his own opinion
confirmed. “But, all the same, I wish you would be doubly particular not
to admit anybody you don’t know; and if any man should appear to bother
them send for me on the moment. Do you hear?”
“What do you call any man, sir?” said Pearson, smartly. He had ideas of
his own, though he might be a fool.
“I mean what I say,” said John, more sharply still. “Any one that
molests or alarms them. Send me off a telegram at once--‘You’re wanted!’
That will be quite enough. But don’t go with it to the office yourself;
send somebody--there’s always your boy about the place--and keep about
like a dragon yourself.”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” said Pearson, “though I don’t know what a dragon
is, except it’s the one in the Bible; and that’s not a thing anybody
would want about the place.”
It was a comfort to John, after all his troubles, to be able to laugh,
which he did with a heartiness which surprised Pearson, who was quite
unaware that he had made any joke.
These fears, however, which were imposed upon him by the contagion of
the terrors of the others, soon passed from John’s mind. He was
convinced that Phil Compton would take no such step; and that, however
much he might wish his wife to return, the possession of the baby was
not a thing which he would struggle over. It cannot be denied, however,
that he was anxious, and eagerly inspected his letters in the morning,
and looked out for telegrams during the day. Fortunately, however, no
evil tidings came. Mrs. Dennistoun reported unbroken peace in the
Cottage and increasing strength on the part of Elinor; and, in a
parenthesis with a sort of apology, of the baby. Nobody had come near
them to trouble them. Elinor had received no letters. The tie between
her and her husband seemed to be cut as with a knife. “We cannot of
course,” she said, “expect this tranquillity to last.”
And it came to be a very curious thought with John, as week after week
passed, whether it was to last--whether Phil Compton, who had never been
supposed wanting in courage, intended to let his wife and child drop off
from him as if they had never been. This seemed a thing impossible to
conceive: but John said to himself with much internal contempt that he
knew nothing of the workings of the mind of such a man, and that it
might for aught he knew be a common incident in life with the Phil
Comptons thus to shake off their belongings when they got tired of them.
The fool! the booby! to get tired of Elinor! That rumour which flies
about the world so strangely and communicates information about
everybody to the vacant ear, to be retailed to those whom it may
concern, provided him, as the days went by, with many particulars which
he had not been able to obtain from Elinor. Phil, it appeared, had gone
to Glenorban--the great house to which he had been invited--alone, with
an excuse for his wife, whose state of health was not appropriate to a
large party, and had stayed there spending Christmas with a brilliant
houseful of guests, among whom was the American lady who had captivated
him. Phil had paid one visit to the lodge to see Elinor, by her mother’s
summons, at the crisis of her illness, but had not hesitated to go away
again when informed that the crisis was over. Mrs. Dennistoun never told
what had passed between them on that occasion, but the gossips of the
club were credibly informed that she had bullied and stormed at Phil,
after the fashion of mothers-in-law, till she had driven him away. Upon
which he had returned to his party and flirted with Mrs. Harris more
than ever. John discovered also that the party having dispersed some
time ago, Phil had gone abroad. Whether in ignorance of his wife’s
flight or not he could not discover; but it was almost impossible to
believe that he would have gone to Monte Carlo without finding out
something about Elinor--how and where she was. But whether this was the
cause of his utter silence, or whether it was the habit of men of his
class to treat such tremendous incidents in domestic life with levity,
John Tatham could not make out. He was congratulating himself, however,
upon keeping perfectly quiet, and leaving the conduct of the matter to
the other party, when the silence was disturbed in what seemed to him
the most curious way.
One afternoon when he returned from the court he was aware, when he
entered the outer office in which his clerk abode, of what he described
afterwards as a smell fit to knock you down. It would have been
described more appropriately in a French novel as the special perfume,
subtle and exquisite, by which a beautiful woman may be recognised
wherever she goes. It was, indeed, neither more nor less than the
particular scent used by Lady Mariamne, who came forward with a sweep
and rustle of her draperies, and the most ingratiating of her smiles.
“It appears to be fated that I am to wait for you,” she said. “How do
you do, Mr. Tatham? Take me out of this horrible dirty place. I am quite
sure you have some nice rooms in there.” She pointed as she spoke to the
inner door, and moved towards it with the air of a person who knew where
she was going, and was fully purposed to be admitted. John said
afterwards, that to think of this woman’s abominable scent being left in
his room in which he lived (though he also received his clients in it)
was almost more than he could bear. But, in the meantime, he could do
nothing but open the door to her, and offer her his most comfortable
chair.
She seated herself with all those little tricks of movement which are
also part of the stock-in-trade of the pretty woman. Lady Mariamne’s
prettiness was not of a kind which had the slightest effect upon John,
but still it was a kind which received credit in society, being the
product of a great deal of pains and care and exquisite arrangement and
combination. She threw her fur cloak back a little, arranged the strings
of her bonnet under her chin, which threw up the daintiness and rosiness
of a complexion about which there were many questions among her closest
friends. She shook up, with what had often been commented upon as the
prettiest gesture, the bracelets from her wrists. She arranged the veil,
which just came over the tip of her delicate nose, she put out her foot
as if searching for a footstool--which John made haste to supply, though
he remained unaffected otherwise by all these pretty preliminaries.
“Sit down, Mr. Tatham,” then said Lady Mariamne. “It makes me wretchedly
uncomfortable, as if you were some dreadful man waiting to be paid or
something, to see you standing there.”
Though John’s first impulse was that of wrath to be thus requested to
sit down in his own chambers, the position was amusing as well as
disagreeable, and he laughed and drew a chair towards his writing-table,
which was as crowded and untidy as the writing-table of a busy man
usually is, and placed himself in an attitude of attention, though
without asking any question.
“Well,” said Lady Mariamne, slowly drawing off her glove; “you know, of
course, why I have come, Mr. Tatham--to talk over with you, as a man who
knows the world, this deplorable business. You see it has come about
exactly as I said. I knew what would happen: and though I am not one of
those people who always insist upon being proved right, you remember
what I said----”
“I remember that you said something--to which, perhaps, had I thought I
should have been called upon to give evidence as to its correctness--I
should have paid more attention, Lady Mariamne.”
“How rude you are!” she said, with her whole interest concentrated upon
the slow removal of her glove. Then she smoothed a little, softly, the
pretty hand which was thus uncovered, and said, “How red one’s hands get
in this weather,” and then laughed. “You don’t mean to tell me, Mr.
Tatham,” she said, suddenly raising her eyes to his, “that, considering
what a very particular person we were discussing, you can’t remember
what I said?”
John was obliged to confess that he remembered more or less the gist of
her discourse, and Lady Mariamne nodded her head many times in
acceptance of his confession.
“Well,” she said, “you see what it has come to. An open scandal, a
separation, and everything broken up. For one thing, I knew if she did
not give him his head a little that’s what would happen. I don’t believe
he cares a brass farthing for that other woman. She makes fun of
everybody, and that amused him. And it amused him to put Nell in a
state--that as much as anything. Why couldn’t she see that and learn to
_prendre son parti_ like other people? She was free to say, ‘You go
your way and I’ll go mine:’ the most of us do that sooner or later: but
to make a vulgar open rupture, and go off--like this.”
“I fail to see the vulgarity in it,” said John.
“Oh, of course; everything she does is perfect to you. But just think,
if it had been your own case--followed about and bullied by a jealous
woman, in a state of health that of itself disgusts a man----”
“Lady Mariamne, you must pardon me if I refuse to listen to anything
more of this kind,” said John, starting to his feet.
“Oh, I warn you, you’ll be compelled to listen to a great deal more if
you’re her agent as I hear! Phil will find means of compelling you to
hear if you don’t like to take your information from me.”
“I should like to know how Mr. Phil Compton will succeed in compelling
me--to anything I don’t choose to do.”
“You think, perhaps, because there’s no duelling in this country he
can’t do anything. But there is, all the same. He would shame you into
it--he could say you were--sheltering yourself----”
“I am not a man to fight duels,” said John, very angry, but smiling, “in
any circumstances, even were such a thing not utterly ridiculous; but
even a fighting man might feel that to put himself on a level with the
dis-Hon----”
He stopped himself as he said it. How mean it was--to a
woman!--descending to their own methods. But Lady Mariamne was too quick
for him.
“Oh,” she said; “so you’ve heard of that, a nickname that no
gentleman----” then she too paused and looked at him, with a momentary
flush. He was going to apologize abjectly, when with a slight laugh she
turned the subject aside.
“Pretty fools we are, both of us, to talk such nonsense. I didn’t come
here carrying Phil on my shoulders, to spring at your throat if you
expressed your opinion. Look here--tell me, don’t let us go beating
about the bush, Mr. Tatham--I suppose you have seen Nell?”
“I know my cousin’s mind, at least,” he said.
“Well, then, just tell me as between friends--there’s no need we should
quarrel because they have done so. Tell me this, is she going to get up
a divorce case----”
“A divorce----!”
“Because,” said Lady Mariamne, “she’ll find it precious difficult to
prove anything. I know she will. She may prove the flirting and so
forth--but what’s that? You can tell her from me, it wants somebody far
better up to things than she is to prove anything. I warn her as a
friend she’ll not get much good by that move.”
“I am not aware,” said John, “whether Mrs. Compton has made up her mind
about the further steps----”
“Then just you advise her not,” cried Lady Mariamne. “It doesn’t matter
to me: I shall be none the worse whatever she does: but if you are her
true friend you will advise her not. She might tell what she thinks, but
that’s no proof. Mr. Tatham, I know you have great influence with Nell.”
“Not in a matter like this,” said John, with great gravity. “Of course
she alone can be the judge.”
“What nonsense you talk, you men! Of course she is not the least the
judge, and of course she will be guided by you.”
“You may be sure she shall have the best advice that I can give,” John
said with a bow.
“You want me to go, I see,” said Lady Mariamne; “you are dreadfully
rude, standing up all the time to show me I had better go.” Hereupon she
recommenced her little manège, drawing on her glove, letting her
bracelets drop again, fastening the fur round her throat. “Well, Mr.
Tatham,” she said, “I hope you mean to have the civility to see after my
carriage. I can’t go roaming about hailing it as if it were a hansom
cab--in this queer place.”