John Tatham had in vain attempted to persuade Elinor to come to his
house, to dine there in comfort--he was going out himself--so that at
least in this time of excitement and trouble she might have the careful
service and admirable comfort of his well-managed house. Elinor
preferred her favourite lodgings and a cup of tea to all the luxuries of
Halkin Street. And she was fit for no more consultations that night. She
had many, many things to think of, and some new which as yet she barely
comprehended. The rooms in Ebury Street were small, and they were more
or less dingy, as such rooms are; but they were comfortable enough, and
had as much of home to Elinor as repeated visits there with all her
belongings could give them. The room in which she slept was next to that
in which her boy had usually slept. That was enough to make it no
strange place. And I need not say that it became the scene of many
discussions during the few days that followed. The papers by this time
were full of the strange trial which was coming on: the romance of
commercial life and ruin--the guilty man who had been absent so long,
enjoying his ill-gotten gains, and who now was dragged back into the
light to give an account of himself--and of other guilt perhaps less
black than his own, yet dreadful enough to hear of. The story of the
destroyed books was a most remarkable and picturesque incident in the
narrative. The leading papers looked up their own account of the facts
given at the time, and pointed out how evidently justified by the new
facts made known to the public was the theory they had themselves given
forth. As these theories, however, were very different, and as all
claimed to be right, perhaps the conclusion was less certain than this
announcement gave warrant to believe. But each and all promised
“revelations” of the most surprising kind--involving some of the highest
aristocracy, the democratic papers said--bringing to light an exciting
story of the private relations between husband and wife, said those of
society, and revealing a piquant chapter of social history hushed up at
the time. It was a modest print indeed that contented itself with the
statement that its readers would find a romance of real life involved in
the trial which was about to take place. Elinor did not, fortunately,
see all these comments. The _Times_ and the _Morning Post_ were
dignified and reticent, and she did not read, and was indeed scarcely
cognisant of the existence of most of the others. But the faintest
reference to the trial was enough, it need hardly be said, to make the
blood boil in her veins.
It was a curious thing in her state of mind, and with the feelings she
had towards her husband’s family, that one of the first things she did
on establishing herself in her Ebury Street rooms, was to look for an
old “Peerage” which had lain for several years she remembered on a
certain shelf. Genteel lodgings in Ebury Street which did not possess
somewhere an old “Peerage” would be out of the world indeed. She found
it in the same corner as of old, where she had noted it so often and
avoided it as if it had been a serpent; but now the first thing she did,
as soon as her tray was brought her, and all necessary explanations
given, and the door shut, was to take the book furtively from its place,
almost as if she were afraid of what she should see. What a list there
was of sons of Lord St. Serf! some she had never known, who died young:
and Reginald in India, and Hal, who was so kind--what a good laugh he
had, she remembered, not a joyless cackle like Mariamne’s, a good
natural laugh, and a kind light in his eyes: and he had been kind. She
could remember ever so many things, nothings, things that made a little
difference in the dull, dull cloudy sky of a neglected wife. Poor Hal!
and he too was gone, and St. Serf dying, and---- Pippo the heir!--Pippo
was perhaps, for any thing she knew, Lord Lomond now.
To say that this did not startle Elinor, did not make her heart beat,
did not open new complications and vistas in life, would be a thing
impossible. Pippo Lord Lomond! Pippo, whom she had feared to expose to
his father’s influence, whom she had kept apart, who did not know
anything about himself except that he was her son--had she kept and
guarded the boy thus in the very obscurity of life, in the stillest and
most protected circumstances, only to plunge him suddenly at last,
without preparation, without warning, into the fiery furnace of
temptation, into a region where he might pardonably (perhaps) put
himself beyond her influence, beyond her guidance? Poor Elinor! and yet
she was not wholly to be pitied either. For her heart was fired by the
thought of her boy’s elevation in spite of herself. It did not occur to
her that such an elevation for him meant something also for her. That
view of the case she did not take into consideration for a moment. Nay,
she did not think of it. But that Pippo should be Lord Lomond went
through her like an arrow--like an arrow that gave a wound, acute and
sharp, yet no pain, if such a thing could be said. That he should
discover his father had been the danger before her all his life, but if
he must find out that he had a father that was a way in which it might
not be all pain. I do not pretend that she was very clear in all these
thoughts. Indeed, she was not clear at all. John Tatham, knowing but one
side, had begun to think vaguely of Elinor what Elinor thought of her
mother, that her mind was not quite as of old, not so bright nor so
vivid, not so clear in coming to a conclusion; had he known everything
he might not have been so sure even on that point. But then had he known
everything that Elinor knew, and been aware of what it was which Elinor
had been summoned by all the force of old fidelity and the honour of her
name to do, John would have been too much horrified to have been able
to form an opinion. No, poor Elinor was not at all clear in her
thoughts--less clear than ever after these revelations--the way before
her seemed dark in whatever way she looked at it, complications were
round her on every side. She had instinctively, without a word said,
given up that idea of flight. Who was it that said the heir to a peerage
could not be hid? John had said it, she remembered, and John was always
right. If she was to take him away to the uttermost end of the earth,
they would seek him out and find him. And then there was--his father,
who had known all the time, had known and never disturbed her---- No
wonder that poor Elinor’s thoughts were mixed and complicated. She
walked up and down the room, not thinking, but letting crowds and
flights of thoughts like birds fly through her mind; no longer clear
indeed as she had been wont to be, no longer coming to sudden, sharp
conclusions, admitting possibilities of which Elinor once upon a time
would never have thought.
And day by day as he saw her, John Tatham understood her less and less.
He did not know what she meant, what she was going to do, what were her
sentiments towards her husband, what were her intentions towards her
son. He had found out a great deal about the case, merely as a case, and
it began to be clear to him where Elinor’s part came in. Elinor Compton
could not have appeared on her husband’s behalf, and whether there might
not arise a question whether, being now his wife, her evidence could be
taken on what had happened before she was his wife, was by no means
sure--“Why didn’t they call your mother?” John said, as Mrs. Dennistoun
also had said--but he did not at all understand, how could he? the
dismay that came over Elinor, and the “Not for the world,” which came
from her lips. He had come in to see her in the morning as he went down
to his chambers, on the very morning when Pippo, quite unexpected and
also not at all desired, was arriving at Euston Square.
“It would have been much better,” he said, “in every way if they had
called your mother--who of course must know exactly what you know,
Elinor, in respect to this matter----”
“No,” said Elinor with dry lips. “She knows nothing. She--calculates
back by little incidents--she does not remember: I--do----”
“That’s natural, I suppose,” said John, with an impatient sigh and a
half-angry look. “Still--my aunt----”
“Would do no good at all: you may believe me, John. Don’t let us speak
of this any more. I know what has to be done: my mother would twist
herself up among her calculations--about Alick Hudson’s examination and
I know not what. Whereas I--there is nothing, nothing more to be said. I
thought I could escape, and it is your doing if I now see that I cannot
escape. I can but hope that Providence will protect my boy. He is at
school, where they have little time for reading the papers. He may
never even see--or at least if he does he may think it is another
Compton--some one whom he never heard of----”
“And how if he becomes Lord Lomond, as I said, before the secret is
out?”
“Oh, John,” cried Elinor, wringing her hands--“don’t, don’t torment me
with that idea now--let only this be past and then: Oh, I see, I see--I
am not a fool--I perceive that I cannot hide him as you say if that
happens. But oh, John, for pity’s sake let this be over first! Let us
not hurry everything on at the same time. He is at school. What do
schoolboys care for the newspapers, especially for trials in the law
courts? Oh, let this be over first! A boy at school--and he need never
know----”
It was at this moment that a hansom drew up, and a rattling peal came at
the door. Hansoms are not rare in Ebury Street, and how can one tell in
these small houses if the peal is at one’s door or the next? Elinor was
not disturbed. She paid no attention. She expected no one, she was
afraid of nothing new for the present. Surely, surely, as she said,
there was enough for the present. It did not seem possible that any new
incident should come now.
“I do not want to torment you, Elinor--you may imagine I would be the
last--I would only save you if I could from what must be---- What! what?
who’s this?--PHILIP! the boy!”
The door had burst open with an eager, impatient hand upon it, and
there stood upon the threshold, in all the mingled excitement and
fatigue of his night journey, pale, sleep in his eyes, yet happy
expectation, exultation, the certainty of open arms to receive him, and
cries of delight--the boy. He stood for a second looking into the
strange yet familiar room. John Tatham had sprung to his feet and stood
startled, hesitating, while young Philip’s eyes, noting him with a
glance, flashed past him to the other more important, more beloved, the
mother whom he had expected to rush towards him with an outcry of joy.
And Elinor sat still in her chair, struck dumb, grown pale like a ghost,
her eyes wide open, her lips apart. The sight of the boy, her beloved
child, her pride and delight, was as a horrible spectacle to Elinor. She
stared at him like one horrified, and neither moved nor spoke.
“Elinor!” cried John, terrified, “there’s nothing wrong. Don’t you see
it’s Philip? Boy, what do you mean by giving her such a fright? She’s
fainting, I believe.”
“I--give her a fright!” cried, half in anguish, half in indignation, the
astonished boy.
“No, I’m not fainting. Pippo! there’s nothing wrong--at home?” Elinor
cried, holding out her hand to him--coming to herself, which meant only
awakening to the horror of a danger far more present than she had ever
dreamt, and to the sudden sight not of her boy, but of that Nemesis
which she had so carefully prepared for herself, and which had been
awaiting her for years. She was not afraid of anything wrong at home. It
was the first shield she could find in the shock which had almost
paralysed her, to conceal her terror and distress at the sight of him
from the astonished, disappointed, mortified, and angry boy.
“I thought,” he said, “you would have been glad to see me, mother! No,
there’s nothing wrong at home.”
“Thank heaven for that!” cried Elinor, feeling herself more and more a
hypocrite as she recovered from the shock. “Pippo, I was saying this
moment that you were at school. The words were scarcely off my lips--and
then to see you in a moment, standing there.”
“I thought,” he repeated again, trembling with the disappointment and
mortification, wounded in his cheerful, confident affection, and in his
young pride, the monarch of all he surveyed--“I thought you would have
been pleased to see me, mother!”
“Of course,” said John, cheerfully, “your mother is glad to see you: and
so am I, you impetuous boy, though you don’t take the trouble of shaking
hands with me. He wants to be kissed and coddled, Elinor, and I must be
off to my chambers. But I should like to know first what’s up, boy?
You’ve got something to say.”
“Pippo, what is it, my dearest? You did give me a great fright, and I am
still nervous a little. Tell me, Pippo; something has brought you--your
uncle John is right. I can see it in your eyes. You’ve got something to
tell me!”
The tired and excited boy looked from one to another, two faces both
full of a veiled but intense anxiety, looking at him as if what they
expected was no good news. He burst out into a big, hoarse laugh, the
only way to keep himself from crying. “You don’t even seem to remember
anything about it,” he cried, flinging himself down in the nearest
chair; “and for my part I don’t care any longer whether any one knows or
not.”
And Elinor, whose thoughts were on such different things--whose whole
mind was absorbed in the question of what he could have heard about the
trial, about his father, about the new and strange future before
him--gazed at him with eyes that seemed hollowed out all round with
devouring anxiety. “What is it?” she said, “what is it? For God’s sake
tell me! What have you heard?”
It goes against all prejudices to imagine that John Tatham, a man who
never had had a child, an old bachelor not too tolerant of youth, should
have divined the boy better than his mother. But he did, perhaps because
he was a lawyer, and accustomed to investigate the human countenance and
eye. He saw that Philip was full of something of his own, immediately
interesting to himself; and he cast about quickly in his mind what it
could be. Not that the boy was heir to a peerage: he would never have
come like _this_ to announce _that_: but something that Philip was
cruelly disappointed his mother did not remember. This passed through
John’s mind like a flash, though it takes a long time to describe. “Ah,”
he said, “I begin to divine. Was not there something about
a--scholarship?”
“Pippo!” cried Elinor, lighting up great lamps of relief, of sudden ease
and quick-coming joy, in her brightened eyes and face. “My boy! you’ve
won your battle! You’ve got it, you’ve got it, Pippo! And your foolish,
stupid mother that thought for a moment you could rush to her like this
with anything but good news!”
It took a few moments to soothe Pippo down, and mend his wounded
feelings. “I began to think nobody cared,” he said, “and that made me
that I didn’t care myself. I’d rather Musgrave had got it, if it had not
been to please you all. And you never seemed so much as to
remember--only Uncle John!” he added after a moment, with a half scorn
which made John laugh at the never-failing candour of youth.
“Only the least important of all,” he said. “It was atrocious of the
ladies, Philip. Shake hands, my boy, I owe you five pounds for the
scholarship. And now I’ll take myself off, which will please you most of
all.”
He went down-stairs laughing to himself all the way, but got suddenly
quite grave as he stepped outside--whether because he remembered that it
does not become a Q.C. and M.P. to laugh in the street, or for other
causes, it does not become us to attempt to say.
And Elinor meanwhile made it up to her boy amply, and while her heart
ached with the question what to do with him, how to dispose of him
during those dreadful following days, behaved herself as if her head too
was half turned with joy and exultation, only tempered by the regret
that Musgrave, who had worked so hard, could not have got the
scholarship too.