The Marriage of Elinor Part 21

"John will be delighted to hear that you have come, Elinor," her mother said.

"John, dear old John! I hope he is well and happy, and all that; and he comes often to see you, mother? How sweet of him! You must give him ever so much love from his poor Nelly. I always keep that name sacred to him."

"But why should I give him messages as if you were not sure to meet? of course you will meet--often."

"Do you think so?" said Elinor. She opened her eyes a little in surprise, and then shook her head. "I am afraid not, mamma. We are in two different worlds."

"I a.s.sure you," said Mrs. Dennistoun, "John is a very rising man. He is invited everywhere."

"That I don't doubt at all."

"And why then shouldn't you meet?"

"I don't know. I don't fancy we shall go to the same places. John has a profession; he has something to do. Now you know we have nothing to do."

She laughed and laid a little emphasis on the _we_, by way of taking off the weight of the words.

"I always thought it was a great pity, Elinor."

"It may be a pity or not," said Elinor, "but it is, and it cannot be helped. We have got to make up our minds to it. I would rather Phil did nothing than mixed himself up with companies. Thank heaven, at present he is free of anything of that kind."

"I hope he is free of that one at least, that he was going to invest all your money in, Elinor. I hope you found another investment that was quite steady and safe."

"Oh, I suppose so," said Elinor, with some of her old petulance: "don't let us spoil the little time I have by talking about money, mamma!"

And then it was that Mrs. Dennistoun noticed that what Elinor did talk of, hurrying away from this subject, were things of not the least importance--the olive woods on the Riviera, the wealth of flowers, the strange little old towns upon the hills. Surely even the money, which was her own and for her comfort, would be a more interesting subject to discuss. Perhaps Elinor herself perceived this, for she began immediately to ask questions about the Hudsons and Hills, and all the people of the parish, with much eagerness of questioning, but a flagging interest in the replies, as her mother soon saw. "And Mary Dale, is she still there?" she asked. Mrs. Dennistoun entered into a little history of how Mary Dale had gone away to nurse a distant cousin who had been ill, and finally had died and left a very comfortable little fortune to her kind attendant. Elinor listened with little nods and appropriate exclamations, but before the evening was out asked again, "And Mary Dale?" then hastily corrected herself with an "Oh, I remember! you told me." But it was perhaps safer not to question her how much she remembered of what she had been told.

Thus there were notes of disquiet in even that delightful evening, such a contrast as it was to all the evenings since she had left home. Even when John came, what a poor subst.i.tute for Elinor! The ingrat.i.tude of those whose heart is set on one object made Mrs. Dennistoun thus make light of what had been her great consolation. He was very kind, very good, and oh, how glad she had been to see him through that heavy winter--but he was not Elinor! It was enough for Elinor to step across her mother's threshold to make Mrs. Dennistoun feel that there was no subst.i.tute for her--none: and that John was of no more consequence than the Rector or any habitual caller. But, at the same time, in all the melody of the home-coming, in the sweetness of Elinor's voice, and look, and kiss, in the perfection of seeing her there again in her own place, and listening to her dear step running up and down the no longer silent house, there were notes of disquiet which could not be mistaken. She was not unhappy, the mother thought; her eyes could not be so bright, nor her colour so fair unless she was happy. Trouble does not embellish, and Elinor was embellished. But yet--there were notes of disquiet in the air.

Next day Mrs. Dennistoun drove her child to the railway in order not to lose a moment of so short a visit, and naturally, though she had received that unexpected visit with rapture, feeling that a whole night of Elinor was worth a month, a year of anybody else, yet now that Elinor was going she found it very short. "You'll come again soon, my darling?"

she said, as she stood at the window of the carriage ready to say good-bye.

"Whenever I can, mother dear, of that you may be sure; whenever I can get away."

"I don't wish to draw you from your husband. Don't get away--come with Philip from Sat.u.r.day to Monday. Give him my love, and tell him so. He shall not be bored; but Sunday is a day without engagements."

"Oh, not now, mamma. There are just as many things to do on Sundays as on any other day."

There were a great many words on Mrs. Dennistoun's lips, but she did not say them; all she did say was, "Well, then, Elinor--when you can get away."

"Oh, you need not doubt me, mamma." And the train, which sometimes lingers so long, which some people that very day were swearing at as so slow, "Like all country trains," they said--that inevitable heartless thing got into motion, and Mrs. Dennistoun watched it till it disappeared; and--what was that that came over Elinor's face as she sank back into the corner of her carriage, not knowing her mother's anxious look followed her still--what was it? Oh, dreadful, dreadful life! oh, fruitless love and longing!--was it relief? The mother tried to get that look out of her mind as she drove silently and slowly home, creeping up hill after hill. There was no need to hurry. All that she was going to was an empty and silent house, where n.o.body awaited her. What was that look on Elinor's face? Relief! to have it over, to get away again, away from her old home and her fond mother, away to her new life. Mrs.

Dennistoun was not a jealous mother nor unreasonable. She said to herself--Well! it was no doubt a trial to the child to come back--to come alone. All the time, perhaps, she was afraid of being too closely questioned, of having to confess that _he_ did not want to come, perhaps grudged her coming. She might be afraid that her mother would divine something--some hidden opposition, some dislike, perhaps, on his part.

Poor Elinor! and when everything had pa.s.sed over so well, when it was ended, and nothing had been between them but love and mutual understanding, what wonder if there came over her dear face a look of relief! This was how this good woman, who had seen a great many things in her pa.s.sage through life, explained her child's look: and though she was sad was not angry, as many less tolerant and less far-seeing might have been in her place.

John, that good John, to whom she had been so ungrateful, came down next Sat.u.r.day, and to him she confided her great news, but not all of it.

"She came down--alone?" he said.

"Well," said Mrs. Dennistoun, bravely; "she knew very well it was her I wanted to see, and not Philip. They say a great deal about mothers-in-law, but why shouldn't we in our turn have our fling at sons-in-law, John? It was not him I wanted to see: it was my own child: and Elinor understood that, and ran off by herself. Bless her for the thought."

"I understand that," said John. He had given the mother more than one look as she spoke, and divined her better than she supposed. "Oh, yes, I can understand that. The thing I don't understand is why he let her; why he wasn't too proud to bring her back to you, that you might see she had taken no harm. If it had been I----"

"Ah, but it was not you," said Mrs. Dennistoun; "you forget that. It never could have been you."

He looked quickly at her again, and it was on his lips to ask, "Why could it never have been I?" but he did not; for he knew that if it had ever been him, it could not have been for years. He was too prudent, and Elinor, even if she had escaped Phil Compton, would have met some one else. He had no right to say, or even think, what, in the circ.u.mstances, he would have done. He did not make any answer, but she understood him as he understood her.

And later in the evening she asked his advice as to what she should do.

"I am not fond of asking advice," she said, "and I don't think there is another in the world I would ask it from but you. What should I do? It would cost me nothing to run up to town for a part of the season at least. I might get a little house, and be near her, where she could come to me when she pleased. Should I do it, or would it be wise not to do it? I don't want to spy upon her or to force her to tell me more than she wishes. John, my dear, I will tell you what I would tell no one else. I caught a glimpse of her dear face when the train was just going out of sight, and she was sinking back in her corner with a look of relief----"

"Of relief!" he cried.

"John, don't form any false impression! it was no want of love: but I think she was thankful to have seen me, and to have satisfied me, and that I had asked no questions that she could not answer--in a way."

John clenched his fist, but he dared not make any gesture of disgust, or suggest again, "If it had been I."

"Well, now," she said, "remember I am not angry--fancy being angry with Elinor!--and all I mean is for her benefit. Should I go? it might be a relief to her to run into me whenever she pleased; or should I not go?

lest she might think I was bent on finding out more than she chose to tell?"

"Wouldn't it be right that you should find out?"

"That is just the point upon which I am doubtful. She is not unhappy, for she is--she is prettier than ever she was, John. A girl does not get like that--her eyes brighter, her colour clearer, looking--well, beautiful!" cried the mother, her eyes filling with bright tears, "if she is unhappy. But there may be things that are not quite smooth, that she might think it would make me unhappy to know, yet that if let alone might come all right. Tell me, John, what should I do?"

And they sat debating thus till far on in the night.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Mrs. Dennistoun did not go up to town. There are some women who would have done so, seeing the other side of the subject--at all hazards; and perhaps they would have been right--who can tell? She did not--denying herself, keeping herself by main force in her solitude, not to interfere with the life of her child, which was drawn on lines so different from any of hers--and perhaps she was wrong. Who knows, except by the event, which is the best or the worst way in any of our human movements, which are so short-sighted? And twice during the season Elinor found means to come to the cottage for a night as she had done at first. These were occasions of great happiness, it need not be said--but of many thoughts and wonderings too. She had always an excuse for Phil. He had meant until the last moment to come with her--some one had turned up, quite unexpectedly, who had prevented him. It was a fatality; especially when she came down in July did she insist upon this. He had been invited quite suddenly to a political dinner to meet one of the Ministers from whom he had hopes of an appointment. "For we find that we can't go on enjoying ourselves for ever," she said gayly, "and Phil has made up his mind he must get something to do."

"It is always the best way," said Mrs. Dennistoun.

"I am not so very sure, mamma, when you have never been used to it. Of course, some people would be wretched without work. Fancy John with nothing to do! How he would torment his wife--if he had one. But Phil never does that. He is very easy to live with. He is always after something, and leaves me as free as if he had a day's work in an office."

This slipped out, with a smile: but evidently after it was said Elinor regretted she had said it, and thought that more might be drawn from the admission than she intended. She added quietly, "Of course a settled occupation would interfere with many things. We could not go out together continually as we do now."

Was there any way of reconciling these two statements? Mrs. Dennistoun tried and tried in vain to make them fit into each other: and yet no doubt there was some way.

"And perhaps another season, mother, if Phil was in a public office--it seems so strange to think of Phil having an office--you might come up, don't you think, to town for a time? Would it be a dreadful bore to you to leave the country just when it is at its best? I'm afraid it would be a dreadful bore: but we could run about together in the mornings when he was busy, and go to see the pictures and things. How pleasant it would be!"

"It would be delightful for me, Elinor. I shouldn't mind giving up the country, if it wouldn't interfere with your engagements, my dear."

"Oh, my engagements! Much I should care for them if Phil was occupied. I like, of course, to be with him."

"Of course," said Mrs. Dennistoun.

"And it is good for him, too, I think." This was another of the little admissions that Elinor regretted the moment they were made. "I mean it's a pity, isn't it, when a man likes to have his wife with him that she shouldn't always be there, ready to go?"