I will not confuse the reader with a description of all Elinor’s
thoughts during the slow progress of that afternoon and evening, which
were as the slow passing of a year to her impatient spirit. She took the
usual afternoon walk with her mother soberly, as became Mrs.
Dennistoun’s increasing years, and then she made a pretext of some
errands in the village to occupy her until dark, or rather to leave her
free to twist the thread of her own thoughts as she went along the
silent country road. Her thoughts varied in the afternoon from those
which had seized upon her with such vulture’s claws in the morning; but
they were not less overwhelming in that respect. Her mother’s suggestion
that _she_ and not Elinor should be the witness of that date, and then
her ponderings as to that date, her slow certainty that she could make
it out, or puzzle it out, as Elinor in her impatience said, which was
the last of all things to be desired--had stung the daughter into a new
and miserable realization of what it was that was demanded of her, which
nobody could do but she. What was it that would be demanded of her? To
stand up in the face of God and man and swear to tell the truth, and
tell--a lie: or else let the man who had been her husband, the love of
her youth, the father of her boy, sink into an abyss of shame. She
thought rapidly, knowing nothing, that surely there could be no
punishment for him, even if it were proved, at the long interval of
twenty years. But, shame--there would be shame. Nothing could save him
from that. Shame which would descend more or less to his son. And then
Elinor reflected, with hot moisture coming out upon her forehead against
the cold breeze of the spring night, on what would be asked of her. Oh,
no doubt, it would be cleverly done! She would be asked if she
remembered his visit, and why she remembered it. She would be led on
carefully to tell the story of the calendar in the hall, and of how it
was but ten days before her marriage--the last hurried, unexpected visit
of the lover before he came as a bridegroom to take her away. It would
be all true, every word, and yet it would be a lie. And standing up
there in that public place, she would be made to repeat it, as she had
done in the flowery garden, in the sunshine, twenty years ago--then
dazed and bewildered, not knowing what she did, and with something of
the blind confidence of youth and love in saying what she was told to
say; but now with clearer insight, with a horrible certainty of the
falsehood of that true story, and the object with which it was required
of her. Happily for herself, Elinor did not think of the ordeal of
cross-examination through which witnesses have to pass. She would not, I
think, have feared that if the instinct of combativeness had been roused
in her: her quick wit and ready spirit would not have failed in
defending herself, and in maintaining the accuracy of the fact to which
she had to bear witness. It was herself, and not an opposing counsel,
that was alarming to Elinor. But I have promised that the reader should
not be compelled to go through all the trouble and torment of her
thoughts.
Dinner, with the respect which is necessary for the servant who waits,
whether that may be a solemn butler with his myrmidons, or a little
maid--always makes a pause in household communications; but when the
ladies were established afterwards by the pleasant fireside which had
been their centre of life for so many years, and with the cheerful lamp
on the table between them which had lighted so many cheerful talks,
readings, discussions, and consultations, the new subject of anxiety and
interest immediately came forth again. It was Mrs. Dennistoun who spoke
first. She had grown older, as we all do; she wore spectacles as she
worked, and often a white shawl on her shoulders, and was--as sometimes
her daughter felt, with shame of herself to remark it--a little slower
in speech, a little more pertinacious and insistent, not perhaps
perceiving with such quick sympathy the changes and fluctuations of
other minds, and whether it was advisable or not to follow a subject to
the bitter end. She said, looking up from her knitting, with a little
rhetorical movement of her hand which Elinor feared, and which showed
that she felt herself on assured and certain ground:
“My dear, I have been thinking. I have made it out day by day. God
knows there were plenty of landmarks in it to keep any one from
forgetting. I can now make out certainly the day--of which we were
speaking; and if you will give me your attention for a minute or two,
Elinor, you will see that whatever the calendar said--which I never
noticed, for it was as often wrong as right--you are making a mis----”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, mother,” cried Elinor, “don’t let us talk of
that any more!”
“I have no desire to talk of it, my dear child; but for what you said I
should never---- But of course we must take some action about this
thing--this paper you have got. And it seems to me that the best thing
would be to write to John, and see whether he could not manage to get it
transferred from you to me. I can’t see what difficulty there could be
about that.”
“I would not have it for the world, mother! And what good would it do?
The great thing in it, the dreadful thing, would be unchanged. Whether
you appear or me, Pippo would be made to know, all the same, what it has
been our joint object to conceal from him all his life.”
Mrs. Dennistoun did not say anything, but she would not have been mortal
if she had not, very slightly, but yet very visibly to keen eyes, shaken
her head.
“I know what you mean,” said Elinor, vehemently, “that it has been I,
and not we, whose object has been to conceal it from him. Oh, yes, I
know you are right; but at least you consented to it, you have helped
in it, it is your doing as well as mine.”
“Elinor, Elinor!” cried her mother, who, having always protested, was
not prepared for this accusation.
“Is there any advantage to be got,” said Elinor, like an injured and
indignant champion of the right, “in opening up the whole question over
again now?”
What could poor Mrs. Dennistoun do? She was confounded, as she often had
been before, by those swift and sudden tactics. She gave a glance up at
her daughter over her spectacles, but she said nothing. Argument, she
knew by long experience, was difficult to keep up with such an opponent.
“But John is an idea,” said Elinor. “I don’t know why I should not have
thought of him. He may suggest something that could be done.”
“I thought of him, of course, at once,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, not able
to refrain from that small piece of self-assertion. “It is not a time
that it would be easy for him to leave town; but at least you could
write and lay your difficulties before him, and suggest----”
“Oh, you may be sure, mother,” cried Elinor, “I know what I have to
say.”
“I never doubted it, my dear,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, gently.
And then there was a little pause. They sat and worked, the elder lady
stumbling a little over her knitting, her thoughts being so much
engaged; the younger one plying a flying needle, the passion and
impetus of her thoughts lending only additional swiftness and vigour to
everything she did. And for ten minutes or more there was nothing to be
heard in the room but the little drop of ashes from the fire, the sudden
burst of a little gas-flame from the coals, the rustle of Elinor’s arm
as it moved. The cat sat with her tail curled round her before the fire,
the image of dignified repose, winking at the flames. The two human
inhabitants, save for the movements of their hands, might have been in
wax, they were so still. Suddenly, however, the quietness was broken by
an energetic movement. Elinor threw her work down on the table and rose
from her chair. She went to the window and drew the curtain aside, and
looked out upon the night. She shut it carefully again, and going to the
writing-table, struck a match and lighted the candles there, and sat
down and began, or appeared to begin, to write. Then she rose quickly
again and returned to the table at which Mrs. Dennistoun was still
seated, knitting on, but watching every movement of her restless
companion. “Mother,” she said, “I can’t write, I have far too much to
say. I will run up to town to-morrow myself and see John.”
“To town, Elinor, by yourself? My dear, you forget it is not an hour’s
journey, as it was to Windyhill.”
“I know that very well, mother. But even the journey will be an
advantage. The movement will do me good, and I can tell John much better
than I could write. Who could write about a complicated business like
this? He will understand me when he sees me at half a word, whereas in
writing one can never explain. Don’t oppose me, please, mother! I feel
that to do something, to get myself in motion, is the only thing for me
now.”
“I will not oppose you, Elinor. I have done so, perhaps, too little, my
dear; but we will not speak of that. No doubt, as you say, you will
understand each other better if you tell him the circumstances face to
face. But, oh, my dear child, do nothing rash! Be guided by John; he is
a prudent adviser. The only thing is that he, no more than I, has ever
been able to resist you, Elinor, if you had set your heart upon any
course. Oh, my dear, don’t go to John with a foregone conclusion. Hear
first what he has to say!”
Elinor came behind her mother with one of those quick returns of
affectionate impulse which were natural to her, and put her arms
suddenly round Mrs. Dennistoun. “You have always been far too good to
me, mamma,” she said, kissing her tenderly, “both John and you.”
And next morning she carried out her swiftly conceived intention and
went to town, as the reader is aware. A long railway journey is
sometimes soothing to one distracted with agitation and trouble. The
quiet and the noise, which serves as a kind of accompaniment, half
silencing, half promoting too active thought; the forced abstraction and
silence, and semi-imprisonment of mind and body, which are equally
restless, but which in that enclosure are bound to self-restraint,
exercise, in spite of all struggles of the subject, a subduing effect.
And it was a strange thing that in the seclusion of the railway
compartment in which she travelled alone there came for the first time
to Elinor a softening thought, the sudden sensation of a feeling, of
which she had not been sensible for years, towards the man whose name
she bore. It occurred to her quite suddenly, she could not tell how, as
if some one invisible had thrown that reflection into her mind (and I
confess that I am of opinion they do: those who are around us, who are
unseen, darting into our souls thoughts which do not originate with us,
thoughts not always of good, blasphemies as well as blessings)--it
occurred to her, I say, coming into her mind like an arrow, that after
all she had not been so well hidden as she thought all these years,
seeing that she had been found at once without difficulty, it appeared,
when she was wanted. Did this mean that he had known where she was all
the time--known, but never made any attempt to disturb her quiet? The
thought startled her very much, revealing to her a momentary glimpse of
something that looked like magnanimity, like consideration and generous
self-restraint. Could these things be? He could have hurt her very much
had he pleased, even during the time she had remained at Windyhill, when
certainly he knew where she was: and he had not done so. He might have
taken her child from her: at least he might have made her life miserable
with fears of losing her child: and he had not done so. If indeed it was
true that he had known where she was all the time and had never done
anything to disturb her, what did that mean? This thought gave Elinor
perhaps the first sense of self-reproach and guilt that she had ever
known towards this man, who was her husband, yet whom she had not seen
for more than eighteen years.
And then there was another thing. After that interval he was not afraid
to put himself into her hands--to trust to her loyalty for his
salvation. He knew that she could betray him--and he knew equally well
that she would not do so, notwithstanding the eighteen years of
estrangement and mutual wrong that lay between. It did not matter that
the loyalty he felt sure of would be a false loyalty, an upholding of
what was not true. He would think little of that, as likely as not he
had forgotten all about that. He would know that her testimony would
clear him, and he would not think of anything else; and even did he
think of it the fact of a woman making a little mis-statement like that
would never have affected Philip. But the strange thing was that he had
no fear she would revenge herself by standing up against him--no doubt
of her response to his appeal; he was as ready to put his fate in her
hands as if she had been the most devoted of wives--his constant
companion and champion. This had the most curious effect upon her mind,
almost greater than the other. She had shown no faith in him, but he had
faith in her. Reckless and guilty as he was, he had not doubted her. He
had put it in her power to convict him not only of the worst accusation
that was brought against him, but of a monstrous trick to prove his
_alibi_, and a cruel wrong to her compelling her to uphold that as true.
She was able to expose him, if she chose, as no one else could do; but
he had not been afraid of that. This second thought, which burst upon
Elinor without any volition of her own, had the most curious effect upon
her. She abstained carefully, anxiously, from allowing herself to be
drawn into making any conclusion from these darts of unintended
thoughts. But they moved her in spite of herself. They made her think of
him, which she had for a long time abstained from doing. She had shut
her heart for years from any recollection of her husband, trying to
ignore his existence in thought as well as in fact. And she had
succeeded for a long time in doing this. But now in a moment all her
precautions were thrown to the winds. He came into her memory with a
sudden rush for which she was no way responsible, breaking all the
barriers she had put up against him: that he should have known where she
was all this time, and never disturbed her, respected her solitude all
these years--that when the moment of need came he should, without a word
to conciliate her, without an explanation or an apology, have put his
fate into her hands---- To the reader who understands I need not say
more of the effect upon the mind of Elinor, hasty, generous, impatient
as she was of these two strange facts. There are many in the world who
would have given quite a different explanation--who would have made out
of the fact that he had not disturbed her only the explanation that Phil
Compton was tired of his wife and glad to get rid of her at any price:
and who would have seen in his appeal to her now only audacity combined
with the conviction that she would not compromise herself by saying
anything more than she could help about him. I need not say which of
these interpretations would have been the true one. But the first will
understand and not the other what it was that for the first time for
eighteen years awakened a struggle and controversy which she could not
ignore, and vainly endeavoured to overcome, in Elinor’s heart.