The Marriage of Elinor Part 24

Did she have her way? It is very much to be doubted whether in such a situation of affairs it would have been possible. The house that was decided upon was not one which she would have chosen for herself, neither would she have taken it from Easter to July. She had meant a less expensive place and a shorter season; but after all, what did that matter for once if it pleased Elinor? The worst of it was that she could not at all satisfy herself that it pleased Elinor. It pleased Philip, there was no doubt, but then it had not been intended except in a very secondary way to please him. And when the racket of the season began Mrs. Dennistoun had a good deal to bear. Philip, though he was supposed to be a man of business and employed in the city, got up about noon, which was dreadful to all her orderly country habits; the whole afternoon through there was a perpetual tumult of visitors, who, when by chance she encountered them in the hall or on the stairs, looked at her superciliously as if she were the landlady. The man who opened the door, and brushed Philip Compton's clothes, and was in his service, looked superciliously at her too, and declined to have anything to say to "the visitors for down-stairs." A noise of laughter and loud talk was (distinctly) in her ears from noon till late at night. When Philip came home, always much later than his wife, he was in the habit of bringing men with him, whose voices rang through the house after everybody was in bed. To be sure, there were compensations. She had Elinor often for an hour or two in the morning before her husband was up. She had her in the evenings when they were not going out, but these were few. As for Philip, he never dined at home. When he had no engagements he dined at his club, leaving Elinor with her mother. He gave Mrs. Dennistoun very little of his company, and when they did meet there was in his manner too a sort of reflection of the superciliousness of the "smart" visitors and the "smart" servant. She was to him, too, in some degree the landlady, the old lady down-stairs. Elinor, as was natural, redoubled her demonstrations of affection, her excuses and sweet words to make up for this neglect: but all the time there was in her mother's mind that dreadful doubt which a.s.sails us when we have committed ourselves to one act or another, "Was it wise? Would it not have been better to have denied herself and stayed away?" So far as self-denial went, it was more exercised in Curzon Street than it would have been at the Cottage. For she had to see many things that displeased her and to say no word; to guess at the tears, carefully washed away from Elinor's eyes, and to ask no questions, and to see what she could not but feel was the violent career downward, the rush that must lead to a catastrophe, but make no sign. There was one evening when Elinor, not looking well or feeling well, had stayed at home, Philip having a whole long list of engagements in hand; men's engagements, his wife explained, a stockbroking dinner, an adjournment to somebody's chambers, a prolonged sitting, which meant play, and a great deal of wine, and other attendant circ.u.mstances into which she did not enter. Elinor had no engagement for that night, and was free to be petted and feted by her mother. She was put at her ease in a soft and rich dressing-gown, and the prettiest little dinner served, and the room filled with flowers, and everything done that used to be done when she was recovering from some little mock illness, some child's malady, just enough to show how dear above everything was the child to the mother, and with what tender ingenuity the mother could invent new delights for the child. These delights, alas! did not transport Elinor now as they once had done, and yet the repose was sweet, and the comfort of this nearest and dearest friend to lean upon something more than words could say.

On this evening, however, in the quiet of those still hours, poor Elinor's heart was opened, or rather her mouth, which on most occasions was closed so firmly. She said suddenly, in the midst of something quite different, "Oh, I wish Phil was not so much engaged with those dreadful city men."

"My dear!" said Mrs. Dennistoun, who was thinking of far other things; and then she said, "there surely cannot be much to fear in that respect.

He is never in the city--he is never up, my dear, when the city men are doing their work."

"Ah," said Elinor, "I don't think that matters; he is in with them all the same."

"Well, Elinor, there is no reason that there should be any harm in it. I would much rather he had some real business in hand than be merely a b.u.t.terfly of fashion. You must not entertain that horror of city men."

"The kind he knows are different from the kind you know, mamma."

"I suppose everything is different from what it was in my time: but it need not be any worse for that----"

"Oh, mother! you are obstinate in thinking well of everything; but sometimes I am so frightened, I feel as if I must do something dreadful myself--to precipitate the ruin which nothing I can do will stop----"

"Elinor, Elinor, this is far too strong language----"

"Mamma, he wants me to speak to you again. He wants you to give your money----"

"But I have told you already I cannot give it, Elinor."

"Heaven be praised for that! But he will speak to you himself, he will perhaps try to--bully you, mamma."

"Elinor!"

"It is horrible, what I say; yes, it is horrible, but I want to warn you. He says things----"

"Nothing that he can say will make me forget that he is your husband, Elinor."

"Ah, but don't think too much of that, mamma. Think that he doesn't know what he is doing--poor Phil, oh, poor Phil! He is hurried on by these people; and then it will break up, and the poor people will be ruined, and they will upbraid him, and yet he will not be a whit the better. He does not get any of the profit. I can see it all as clear---- And there are so many other things."

Mrs. Dennistoun's heart sank in her breast, for she too knew what were the other things. "We must have patience," she said; "he is in his hey-day, full of--high spirits, and thinking everything he touches must go right. He will steady down in time."

"Oh, I am not complaining," cried Elinor, hurriedly dashing her tears away; "if you were not a dreadfully good mamma, if you would grumble sometimes and find fault, that I might defend him! It is the sight of you there, seeing everything and not saying a word that is too much for me."

"Then I will grumble, Elinor. I will even say something to him for our own credit. He should not come in so late--at least when he comes in he should come in to rest and not bring men with him to make a noise. You see I can find fault as much as heart could desire. I am dreadfully selfish. I don't mind when he goes out now and then without you, for then I have you; but he should not bring noisy men with him to disturb the house in the middle of the night. I think I will speak to him----"

"No," said Elinor, with a clutch upon her mother's arm; "no, don't do that. He does not like to be found fault with. Unless in the case--if you were giving him that money, mother."

"Which I cannot do: and Elinor, my darling, which I would not do if I could. It is all you will have to rely upon, you and----"

"It would have been the only chance," said Elinor. "I don't say it would have been much of a chance. But he might have listened, if---- Oh, no, dear mother, no. I would not in my sober senses wish that you should give him a penny. It would do no good, but only harm. And yet if you had done it, you might have said---- and he might have listened to you for once----"

CHAPTER XX.

A few days after this Philip Compton came in, in the afternoon, to the little room down-stairs which Mrs. Dennistoun had made into a sitting-room for herself. Elinor had gone out with her sister-in-law, and her mother was alone. It was a very rare thing indeed for Mrs.

Dennistoun's guest--who, indeed, was to all intents and purposes the master of the house, and had probably quite forgotten by this time that he was not in reality so--to pay a visit "down-stairs." "Down-stairs"

had a distinct meaning in the Compton vocabulary. It was spoken of with significance, and with a laugh, as something half hostile, half ridiculous. It meant a sort of absurd criticism and inspection, as of some old crone sitting vigilant, spying upon everything--a mother-in-law. Phil's cronies thought it was the most absurd weakness on his part to let such an intruder get footing in his house. "You will never get rid of her," they said. And Phil, though he was generally quite civil to his wife's mother (being actually and at his heart more a gentleman than he had the least idea he was), did not certainly in any way seek her society. He scarcely ever dined at home, as has been said; when he had not an engagement--and he had a great many engagements--he found that he was obliged to dine at his club on the evenings when he might have been free; and as this was the only meal which was supposed to be common, it may be perceived that Phil had little means of meeting his mother-in-law; and that he should come to see her of his own free will was unprecedented. Phil Compton had not improved since his marriage. His nocturnal enjoyments, the noisy parties up-stairs in the middle of the night, had not helped to dissipate the effect of the anxieties of the city, which his wife so deplored. Mrs. Dennistoun that very day, when she came down-stairs in the fresh summer morning to her early breakfast, had seen through an open door the room up-stairs which was appropriated to Phil, with a lamp still burning in the daylight, cards lying strewn about the floor, and all in that direful disorder which a room so occupied overnight shows in the clear eye of the day.

The aspect of the room had given her a shock almost more startling than any moral certainty, as was natural to a woman used to all the decorums and delicacies of a well-ordered life. There is no sin in going late to bed, or even letting a lamp burn into the day; but the impression that such a sight makes even upon the careless is always greater than any mere apprehension by the mind of the midnight sitting, the eager game, the chances of loss and ruin. She had not been able to get that sight out of her eyes. Though on ordinary occasions she never entered Phil's rooms, on this she had stolen in to put out the lamp, with the sensation in her mind of destroying some evidence against him, which someone less interested than she might have used to his disadvantage. And she had sent up the housemaid to "do" the room, with an admonition. "I cannot have Mr. Compton's rooms neglected," she said. "The gentlemen is always so late," the housemaid said in self-defence. "I hears them let themselves out sometimes after we're all up down-stairs." "I don't want to hear anything about the gentlemen. Do your work at the proper time; that is all that is asked of you." Phil's servant appeared at the moment pulling on his coat, with the air of a man who has been up half the night--which, indeed, was the case, for "the gentlemen" when they came in had various wants that had to be supplied. "What's up now?" he said to the housemaid, within hearing of her mistress, casting an insolent look at the old lady, who belonged to "down-stairs." "She've been prying and spying about like they all do----" Mrs. Dennistoun had retreated within the shelter of her room to escape the end of this sentence, which still she heard, with the usual quickness of our faculties in such cases. She swallowed her simple breakfast with what appet.i.te she might, and her stout spirit for the moment broke down before this insult which was ridiculous, she said to herself, from a saucy servant-man. What did it matter to her what Johnson did or said? But it was like the lamp burning in the sunshine: it gave a moral shock more sharp than many a thing of much more importance would have been capable of doing, and she had not been able to get over it all day.

It may be supposed, therefore, that it was an unfortunate moment for Phil Compton's visit. Mrs. Dennistoun had scarcely seen them that day, and she was sitting by herself, somewhat sick at heart, wondering if anything would break the routine into which their life was falling; or if this was what Elinor must address herself to as its usual tenor. It would be better in the country, she said to herself. It was only in the bustle of the season, when everybody of his kind was congregated in town, that it would be like this. In their rounds of visits, or when the whole day was occupied with sport, such nocturnal sittings would be impossible--and she comforted herself by thinking that they would not be consistent with any serious business in the city such as Elinor feared.

The one danger must push away the other. He could not gamble at night in that way, and gamble in the other among the stockbrokers. They were both ruinous, no doubt, but they could not both be carried on at the same time--or so, at least, this innocent woman thought. There was enough to be anxious and alarmed about without taking two impossible dangers into her mind together.

And just then Phil knocked at her door. He came in smiling and gracious, and with that look of high breeding and _savoir faire_ which had conciliated her before and which she felt the influence of now, although she was aware how many drawbacks there were, and knew that the respect which her son-in-law showed was far from genuine. "I never see you to have a chat," he said; "I thought I would take the opportunity to-day, when Elinor was out. I want you to tell me how you think she is."

"I think she is wonderfully well," said Mrs. Dennistoun.

"_Wonderfully_ well--you mean considering--that there is too much racket in her life?"

"Partly, I mean that--but, indeed, I meant it without condition; she is wonderfully well. I am surprised, often----"

"It is rather a racket of a life," said Phil.

"Too much, indeed--it is too much--for a woman who is beginning her serious life--but if you think that, it is a great thing gained, for you can put a stop to it, or moderate--'the pace' don't you call it?" she said, with a smile.

"Well, yes. I suppose we could moderate the pace--but that would mean a great deal for me. You see, when a man's launched it isn't always so easy to stop. Nell, of course, if you thought she wanted it--might go to the country with you."

Mrs. Dennistoun's heart gave a leap. "Might go to the country with you!"

It seemed a glimpse of Paradise that burst upon her. But then she shook her head. "You know Elinor would not leave you, Philip."

"Well! she has a ridiculous partiality," he said, with a laugh, "though, of course, I'd make her--if it was really for her advantage," he added, after a moment; "you don't think I'd let that stand in her way."

"In the meantime," said Mrs. Dennistoun, with hesitation, "without proceeding to any such stringent measures--if you could manage to be a little less late at night."

"Oh, you listen for my coming in at night?"

His face took a sombre look, as if a cloud had come over it.

"I do not listen--for happily for me I have been asleep for hours. I generally jump up thinking the house is on fire at the sound of voices, which make listening quite unnecessary, Philip."

"Ah, yes, the fellows are rather noisy," he said, carelessly, "but Nell sleeps like a top, and pays no attention--which is the best thing she can do."

"I would not be too sure she slept like a top."

"It's true; women are all hypocrites alike. You never know when you have them," Phil said.

And then there was a pause; for she feared to say anything more lest she should go too far; and he for once in his life was embarra.s.sed, and did not know how to begin what he had to say.

"Well," he said, quickly, getting up, "I must be going. I have business in the city. And now that I find you're satisfied about Nell's health---- By the way, you never show in our rooms; though Nell spends every minute she has to spare here."

"I am a little old perhaps for your friends, Philip, and the room is not too large."

"Well, no," he said, "they are wretched little rooms. Good-by, then; I'm glad you think Nell is all right."