THE next winter was more dreary still and solitary than the first at Windyhill. The first had been, though it looked so long and dreary as it passed, full of hope of the coming summer, which must, it seemed, bring Elinor back. But now Mrs. Dennistoun knew exactly what Elinor’s coming back meant, and the prospect was less cheering. Three days in the whole long season—three little escapades, giving so very little hope of more sustained intercourse to come. Mrs. Dennistoun, going over all the circumstances—she had so little else to do but to go over them in her long solitary evenings—came to the conclusion that whatever might happen, she herself would go to town when summer came again. She amused herself with thinking how she would find a little house—quite a small house, as there are so many—in a good situation, where even the most fashionable need not be ashamed to come, and where there would be room enough for Elinor and her husband if they chose to establish themselves there. Mrs. Dennistoun was of opinion, already expressed, that if mothers-in-law are obnoxious to men, sons-in-law are very frequently so to women, which is a point of view not popularly perceived. And Philip Compton was not sympathetic to her in any point of view. But still she made up her mind to endure him, and even his family, for the sake of Elinor. She planned it all out—it gave a little occupation to the vacant time—how they should have their separate rooms and even meals if that turned out most convenient; how she would interfere with none of their ways: only to have her Elinor under her roof, to have her when the husband was occupied—in the evenings, if there were any evenings that she spent alone; in the mornings, when perhaps Phil got up late, or had engagements of his own; for the moment’s freedom when her child should be free. She made up her mind that she would ask no questions, would never interfere with any of their habits, or oppose or put herself between them—only just to have a little of Elinor every day.
“For it will not be the same thing this year,” she said to John, apologetically. “They have quite settled down into each other’s ways. Philip must see I have no intention of interfering. For the most obdurate opponent of mothers-in-law could not think—could he, John?—that I had any desire to put myself between them, or make myself troublesome now.”
“There is no telling,” said John, “what such asses might think.”
“But Philip is not an ass; and don’t you think I have behaved very well, and may give myself this indulgence the second year?”
“I certainly think you will be quite right to come to town: but I should not have them to live with you, if I were you.”
“Shouldn’t you? It might be a risk: but then I shouldn’t do it unless there was room enough to leave them quite free. The thing I am afraid of is that they wouldn’t accept.”
“Oh, Phil Compton will accept,” said John, hurriedly.
“Why are you so sure? I think often you know more about him than you ever say.”
“I don’t know much about him, but I know that a man of uncertain income and not very delicate feelings is generally glad enough to have the expenses of the season taken off him: and even get all the more pleasure out of it when he has his living free.”
“That’s not a very elevated view to take of the transaction, John.”
“My dear aunt, I did not think you expected anything very elevated from the Comptons. They are not the sort of family from which one expects——”
“And yet it is the family that my Elinor belongs to: she is a Compton.”
“I did not think of that,” said John, a little disconcerted. Then he added, “There is no very elevated standard in such matters. Want of money has no law: and of course there are better things involved, for he might be very glad that Elinor should have her mother to go out with her, to stand by when—a man might have other engagements.”
Mrs. Dennistoun looked at him closely and shook her head. She was not very much reassured by this view of the case. “At all events I shall try it,” she said.
Quite early in the year, when she was expecting no such pleasure, she was rewarded for her patience by another flying visit from her child, who this time telegraphed to say she was coming, so that her mother could go and meet her at the station, and thus lose no moment of her visit. Elinor, however, was not in good spirits on this occasion, nor was she in good looks. She told her mother hurriedly that Phil had come up upon business; that he was very much engaged with the new company, getting far more into it than satisfied her. “I am terrified that another catastrophe may come, and that he might share the blame if things were to go wrong”—which was by no means a good preface for the mission with which it afterwards appeared Elinor herself was charged.
“Phil told me to say to you, mamma, that if you were not satisfied with any of your investments, he could help you to a good six or seven per cent.——”
She said this with her head turned away, gazing out of the window, contemplating the wintry aspect of the combe with a countenance as cloudy and as little cheerful as itself.
There was an outcry on Mrs. Dennistoun’s lips, but fortunately her sympathy with her child was so strong that she felt Elinor’s sentiments almost more forcibly than her own, and she managed to answer in a quiet, untroubled voice.
“Philip is very kind, my dear: but you know my investments are all settled for me and I have no will of my own. I get less interest, but then I have less responsibility. Don’t you know I belong to the time in which women were not supposed to be good for anything, and consequently I am in the hands of my trustees.”
“I think he foresaw that, mother,” said Elinor, still with her head averted and her eyes far away; “but he thought you might represent to the trustees that not only would it give you more money, but it would be better in the end—for me. Oh, how I hate to have to say this to you, mamma!”
How steadily Mrs. Dennistoun kept her countenance, though her daughter now flung herself upon her shoulder with uncontrollable tears!
“My darling, it is quite natural you should say it. You must tell Philip that I fear I am powerless. I will try, but I don’t think anything will come of it. I have been glad to be free of responsibility, and I have never attempted to interfere.”
“Mother, I am so thankful. I oughtn’t to go against him, ought I? But I would not have you take his advice. It is so dreadful not to appear——”
“My dear, you must try to think that he understands better than you do: men generally do: you are only a girl, and they are trained more or less to business.”
“Not Phil! not Phil!”
“Well, he must have some capacity for it, some understanding, or they would not want him on those boards; and you cannot have, Elinor, for you know nothing about it. To hear you speak of per cents. makes me laugh.” It was a somewhat forlorn kind of laugh, yet the mother executed it finely: and by and by the subject dropped, and Elinor was turned to talk of other things—other things of which there was a great deal to say, and over which they cried and laughed together as nature bade.
In the same evening, the precious evening of which she did not like to waste a moment, Mrs. Dennistoun unfolded her plan for the season. “I feel that I know exactly the kind of house I want; it will probably be in some quiet insignificant place, a Chapel Street, or a Queen Street, or a Park Street somewhere, but in a good situation. You shall have the first floor all to yourself to receive your visitors, and if you think that Philip would prefer a separate table——”
“Oh, mamma, mamma!” cried Elinor, clinging to her, kissing passionately her mother’s cheek, which was still as soft as a child’s.
“It is not anything you have told me now that has put this into my head, my darling. I had made it all up in my own mind. Then, you know, when your husband is engaged with those business affairs—in the city—or with his own friends—you would have your mother to fall back upon, Elinor. I should have just the moments perdus, don’t you see, when you were doing nothing else, when you were wanted for nothing else. I promise you, my darling, I should never be de trop, and would never interfere.”
“Oh, mamma, mamma!” Elinor cried again as if words failed her; and so they did, for she said scarcely anything more, and evaded any answer. It went to her mother’s heart, yet she made her usual excuses for it. Poor child, once so ready to decide, accepting or rejecting with the certainty that no opposition would be made to her will, but now afraid to commit herself, to say anything that her husband would not approve! Well! Mrs. Dennistoun said to herself, many a young wife is like that, and yet is happy enough. It depends so much on the man. Many a man adores his wife and is very good to her, and yet cannot bear that she should seem to settle anything without consulting his whim. And Philip Compton had never been what might be called an easy-going man. It was right of Elinor to give no answer till she knew what he would like. The dreadful thing was that she expressed no pleasure in her mother’s proposal, scarcely looked as if she herself would like it, which was a thing which did give an unquestionable wound.
“Mamma,” she said, as they were driving to the station, not in the pony carriage this time, but in the fly, for the weather was bad, “don’t be vexed that I don’t say more about your wonderful, your more than kind offer.”
“Kind is scarcely a word to use, Elinor, between you and me.”
“I know, I know, mamma—and I as good as refuse it, saying nothing. Oh, if I could tell you without telling you! I am so frightened—how can I say it?—that you should see things you would not approve!”
“My dear, I am of one generation and you are of another. I am an old woman, and your husband is a young man. But what does that matter? We can agree to differ. I will never thrust myself into his private affairs, and he——”
“Oh, mother, mother darling, it is not that,” Elinor said. And she went away without any decision. But in a few days there came to Mrs. Dennistoun a letter from Philip himself, most nobly expressed, saying that Elinor had told him of her mother’s kind offer, and that he hastened to accept it with the utmost gratitude and devotion. He had just been wondering, he wrote, how he was to muster all things necessary for Elinor, with the business engagements which were growing upon himself. Nobody could understand better than Nell’s good mother how necessary it was that he should neglect no means of securing their position, and he had found that often he would have to leave his darling by herself: but this magnificent, this magnanimous offer on her part would make everything right. Need he say how gratefully he accepted it? Nell and he being on the spot would immediately begin looking out for the house, and when they had a list of three or four to look at he hoped she would come up to their rooms and select what she liked best. This response took away Mrs. Dennistoun’s breath, for, to tell the truth, she had her own notions as to the house she wanted and as to the time to be spent in town, and would certainly have preferred to manage everything herself. But in this she had to yield, with thankfulness that in the main point she was to have her way.
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 assails 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 circumstances into which she did not enter. Elinor had no engagement for that night, and was free to be petted and fêted 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 butterfly 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——”