JOHN went down to Windyhill that evening. His appearance alarmed the little household more than words could say. As he was admitted at once by the servants, delighted to see him, he walked in suddenly into the midst of a truly domestic scene. The baby lay on Elinor’s knee in the midst of a mass of white wrappings, kicking out a pair of pink little legs in the front of the fire. Elinor herself was seated on a very low chair, and illuminated by the cheerful blaze, which threw a glare upon her countenance, and called out unthought-of lights in her hair, there was no appearance in her looks of anxiety or trouble. She was altogether given up to the baby and the joy of its new life. The little kicking limbs, the pleasure of the little creature in the warmth, the curling of its rosy little toes in the agreeable sensation of the heat, were more to Elinor and to her mother, who was kneeling beside her on the hearth-rug, than the most refined and lofty pleasures in the world. The most lofty of us have to come down to those primitive sources of bliss, if we are happy enough to have them placed in our way. The greatest poet by her side, the music of the spheres sounding in her ear, would not have made Elinor forget her troubles like the stretching out towards the fire of those little pink toes.
When the door opened, and the voice and step of a man—dreaded sounds—were audible, a thrill of terror ran over this little group. Mrs. Dennistoun sprang to her feet and placed herself between the intruder and the young mother, while Elinor gathered up, covering him all over, so that he disappeared altogether, her child in her arms.
“It is John,” said Mrs. Dennistoun. “God be thanked, it is only John.”
But Elinor, quite overcome by the shock, burst suddenly into tears, to which the baby responded by a vigorous cry, not at all relishing the sudden huddling up among its shawls to which it had been subjected. It may be supposed what an effect this cloudy side of the happiness, which he had not been able to deny to himself made a very pretty scene, had upon John. He said, not without a little offence, “I am sure I beg your pardon humbly. I’ll go away.”
Elinor turned round her head, smiling through her tears. “It was only that you gave me a fright,” she said. “I am quite right again; don’t, oh, don’t go away! unless you object to the sight of baby, and to hear him cry; but he’ll not cry now, any more than his silly mother. Mamma, make John sit down and tell us—Oh, I am sure he has something to tell us—Perhaps I took comfort too soon; but the very sight of John is a protection and a strength,” she said, holding out her hand to him. This sudden change of front reduced John, who had been perhaps disposed for a moment to stand on his dignity, to utter subjection. He neither said nor even thought a word against the baby, who was presently unfolded again, and turned once more the toes of comfort towards the fire. He did not approach too near, feeling that he had no particular share in the scene, and indeed cut an almost absurd figure in the midst of that group, but sat behind, contemplating it from a little distance against the fire. The evening had grown dark by this time, but the two women, absorbed by their worship, had wanted no light. It had happened to John by an extreme piece of luck to catch the express train almost as soon as Lady Mariamne had left him, and to reach the station at Hurrymere before the February day was done.
“You have something to tell us, John—good news or bad?” Mrs. Dennistoun said.
“Good; or I should not have come like this unannounced,” he said. “The post is quick enough for bad. I think you may be quite at your ease about the child—no claim will be made on the child. Elinor, I think, will not be disturbed if—she means to take no steps on her side.”
“What steps?” said Mrs. Dennistoun. Elinor turned her head to look at him anxiously over the back of her chair.
“I have had a visit this afternoon,” he said.
“From—” Elinor drew a long hurried breath. She said no name, but it was evident that one was on her lips—a name she never meant to pronounce more, but to which her whole being thrilled still even when it was unspoken. She looked at him full of eagerness to hear yet with a hand uplifted, as if to forbid any utterance.
“From Lady Mariamne.”
How her countenance fell! She turned round again, and bent over her baby. It was a pang of acute disappointment, he could not but see, that went through her, though she would not have allowed him to say that name. Strange inconsistency! it ran over John too with a sense of keen indignation, as if he had taken from her an electric touch.
“—— Whose object in coming to me was to ascertain whether you intended to bring a suit for—divorce.”
A cry rang through the room. Elinor turned upon him for a moment a face blazing with hot and painful colour. The lamp had been brought in, and he saw the fierce blush and look of horror. Then she turned round and buried it in her hands.
“Divorce!” said Mrs. Dennistoun. “Elinor——! To drag her private affairs before the world. Oh, John, John, that could not be. You would not wish that to be.”
“I!” he cried with a laugh of tuneless mirth. “Is it likely that I would wish to drag Elinor before the world?”
Elinor did not say anything, but withdrew one hand from her burning cheek and put it into his. These women treated John as if he were a man of wood. What he might be feeling, or if he were feeling anything, did not enter their minds.
“It was like her,” said Elinor after a time in a low hurried voice, “to think of that. She is the only one who would think of it. As if I had ever thought or dreamed——”
“It is possible, however,” he said, “that it might be reasonable enough. I don’t speak to Elinor,” who had let go his hand hastily, “but to you, aunt. If it is altogether final, as she says, to be released would perhaps be better, from a bond that was no bond.”
“John, John, would you have her add shame to pain?”
“The shame would not be to her, aunt.”
“The shame is to every one concerned—to every one! My Elinor’s name, her dear name, dragged through all that mud! She a party, perhaps, to revelations—Oh, never, never! We would bear anything rather.”
“This of course,” said John, “is perhaps a still more bitter punishment for the other side.”
She looked round at him again. Looking up with a look of pale horror, her eyelids in agonised curves over her eyes, her mouth quivering. “What did you say, John?”
“I said it might be a more bitter punishment still for—the other side.”
Elinor lifted up her baby to her breast, raising herself with a new dignity, with her head high. “I meant no punishment,” she said, “I want none. I have left—what killed me—behind me; many things, not one only. I have brought my boy away that he may never—never—But if it would be better that—another should be free—”
“I will never give my consent to it, Elinor.”
“Nor I with my own mind; but if it is vindictive—if it is revenge, mother! I am not alone to think of myself. If it were better for—— that he should be free; speak to John about it and tell me. I cannot, cannot discuss it. I will leave it all to John and you. It will kill me! but what does that matter?—it is not revenge that I seek.”
She turned with the baby pressed to her breast and walked away, her every movement showing the strain and excitement of her soul.
“Why did you do this, John, without at least consulting me? You have thrown a new trouble into her mind. She will never, never do this thing—nor would I permit it. There are some things in which I must take a part. I could not forbid her marriage; God grant that I had had the strength to do it—but this I will forbid, to expose her to the whole world, when everything we have done has been with the idea of concealing what had happened. Never, never. I will never consent to it, John.”
“I had no intention of proposing such a step; but the other side—as we are bound to call him—are frightened about it. And when I saw her look up, so young still, so sweet, with all her life before her, and thought how she must spend it—alone; with no expanding, no development, in this cottage or somewhere else, a life shipwrecked, a being so capable, so full of possibilities—lost.”
“I have spent my life in this cottage,” said Mrs. Dennistoun. “My husband died when I was thirty—my life was over, and still I was young; but I had Elinor. There were some who pitied me too, but their pity was uncalled for. Elinor will live like her mother, she has her boy.”
“But it is different; you cannot but see the difference.”
“Yes, I see it—it is different; but not so different that my Elinor’s name should be placarded about the streets and put in all the newspapers. Oh, never, never, John. If the man suffers, it is his fault. She will suffer, and it is not her fault; but I will not, to release him, drag my child before the world.”
Mrs. Dennistoun was so much excited that she began to pace about the room, she who was usually so sober and self restrained. She had borne much, but this she was unable even to contemplate with calm. For once in her life she had arrived at something which she would not bear. John felt his own position very strange sitting looking on as a spectator, while this woman, usually so self-controlled, showed her impatience of circumstances and fate. It was ruefully comic that this should be, so to speak, his doing, though he was the last in the world to desire any exposure of Elinor, or to have any sympathy with those who sought justice for themselves or revenge on others at such a cost.
“I was rash perhaps to speak as I did,” he said; “I had no intention of doing it when I came. It was a mere impulse, seeing Elinor: but you must know that I agree with you perfectly. I see that Elinor’s lot is fixed anyhow. I believe that no decree of a court would make any difference to her, and she would not change the name that is the child’s name. All that I recognise. And one thing more, that neither you nor Elinor has recognised. They—he is afraid of any proceedings—I suppose I may mention him to you. It’s rather absurd, don’t you think, speaking of a fellow of that sort, or rather, not speaking of him at all, as if his name was sacred? He is afraid of proceedings—whatever may be the cause.”
“John, can’t you understand that she cannot bear to speak of him, a man she so fought for, against us all? And now her eyes are opened, she is undeceived, she knows him all through and through, more, far more, than we do. She opened her mind to me once, and only once. It was not that alone; oh, no, no. There are things that rankle more than that, something he did before they were married, and made her help him to conceal. Something dishon—I can’t say the word, John.”
“Oh,” said John, grimly, “you need not mind me.”
“Well, the woman—I blush to have to speak to you even of such a thing—the woman, John, was not the worst. She almost might, I think, have forgiven that. It was one thing after another, and that, that first business the worst of all. She found it out somehow, and he had made her take a part—I can’t tell what. She would never open her lips on the subject again. Only that once it all burst forth. Oh, divorce! What would that do to her, besides the shame? You understand some things, John,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, with a smile, “though you are a man. She would never do anything to give herself a name different from her child’s.”
“Yes,” said John, with a laugh, “I think I understand a thing or two, though, as you say, my dear aunt, I am only a man. However, it is just as well I am that imperfect creature, to take care of you. It understands the tactics of the wicked better than you do. And now you must persuade Elinor and persuade yourself of what I came here on purpose to tell you—not to disturb you, as I have been so unfortunate as to do. You are perfectly safe from him. I will not let the enemy know your sentiments, or how decided you are on the subject. I will perhaps, if you will let me, crack the whip a little over their heads, and keep them in a pleasing uncertainty. But as long as he is afraid that she will take proceedings against him, he will take none, you may be sure, against her. So you may throw aside all your precautions and be happy over your treasure in your own way.”
“Thank God for what you say, John; you take a weight off my heart. But happy—how can you speak of being happy after such a catastrophe?”
“I thought I came in upon a very happy little scene. It might be only pretence, but it looked uncommonly like the real thing.”
“You mean the baby, John, the dear infant that knows no harm. He does take off our thoughts a little, and enable us to bear——”
“Oh, aunt, don’t be a hypocrite; that was never a fault of yours. Confess that with all your misery about Elinor you are happy to have her here and her child—notwithstanding everything—happy as you have not been for many a day.”
She sat down by him and gave him her hand. “John, to be a man you have wonderful insight, and it’s I who am a very, very imperfect creature. You don’t think worse of me to be glad to have her, even though it is purchased by such misery and trouble? God knows,” cried the poor lady, drying her eyes, “that I would give her up to-morrow, and with joy, and consent never to see her again, if that would be for her happiness. John! I’ve not thrust myself upon them, have I, nor done anything against him, nor said a word? But now that she is here, and the baby, and all to myself—which I never hoped—would I not be an ungrateful woman if I did not thank God for it, John?”
“You are an excellent special pleader, aunt,” he said, with a laugh, “as most women whom I have known are: and I agree with you in everything. You behaved to them, while it was them, angelically: you effaced yourself, and I fully believe you never said a word against him. Also, I believe that if circumstances changed, if anything happened to make her see that she could go back to him——”
Mrs. Dennistoun started in spite of herself, and pressed her hands together, with a half sob of dismay.
“I don’t think it likely, but if it were so, you would sacrifice yourself again—I haven’t a doubt of it. Why then, set up this piece of humbug to me who know you so well, and pretend that you are not very happy for the moment? You are, and you have a good right to be: and I say enjoy it, my dear aunt; take all the good of it, you will have no trouble from him.”
“You think so, you really think so, John?”
“I have no doubt of it: and you must persuade Elinor. Don’t think I am making light of the situation: you’ll have plenty to trouble you no doubt, when that little shaver grows up——”
“John!”
“Well, he is a little shaver (whatever that may mean I’m sure I don’t know), if he were a little prince. When he grows up you will have your business laid out for you, and I don’t envy you the clearing up——”
“John don’t speak as if a time would come when you would not stand by us. I mean stand by Elinor.”
“Your first phrase was much the best. I will stand by you both as a matter of course.”
“You must consider I shall be an old woman then; and who knows if I may live to see the poor little darling grow up?”
“The poor little darling may never grow up, and none of us may live to see it. One prediction is as good as another: but I think better things of you, aunt, than that you would go and die and desert Elinor, unless ‘so be as you couldn’t help it,’ as Pearson says. But, however, in the meantime, dying of anybody is not in the question, and I hope both you and she will take as much pleasure out of the baby and be as happy as circumstances will allow. And I’ll tell Pearson that there is no need for him to act the dragon—either the Bible one, whom he did not think you would like to have about the house, or any other—for the danger is over. Trust me at least for that.”
“I trust you for everything, John; but,” added Mrs. Dennistoun, “I wouldn’t say anything to Pearson. If you’ve told him to be a dragon, let him be a dragon still. I am sure you are right, and I will tell Elinor so, and comfort her heart; but we may as well keep a good look out, and our eyes about us, all the same.”
“They are sure I am right, but think it better to go on as if I were wrong,” John said to himself as he went to dress for dinner. And while he went through this ceremony, he had a great many thoughts—half-impatient, half-tender—of the wonderful ways of women which are so amazing to men in general, as the ways of men are amazing to women, and will be so, no doubt, as long as the world goes on. The strange mixture of the wise and the foolish, the altogether heroic, and the involuntarily fictitious, struck his keen perception with a humourous understanding, and amusement, and sympathy. That Mrs. Dennistoun should pose a little as a sufferer while she was unmitigatedly happy in the possession of Elinor and the child, and be abashed when she was forced to confess how ecstatic was the fearful joy which she snatched in the midst of danger, was strange enough. But that Elinor, at this dreadful crisis of her life, when every bond was rent asunder, and all that is ordinarily called happiness wrecked for ever, should be moved to the kind of rapture he had seen in her face by the reaching out and curling in of those little pink toes in the warm light of the fire, was inconceivable—a thing that was not in any philosophy. She had made shipwreck of her life. She had torn the man whom she loved out of her heart, and fled from his neglect and treachery—a fugitive to her mother’s house. And yet as she sat before the fire with this little infant cooing in the warmth—like a puppy or a little pig, or any other little animal you can suggest—this was the thought of the irreverent man—there was a look of almost more than common happiness, of blessedness, in her face. Who can fathom these things? They were at least beyond the knowledge, though not the sympathy, of this very rising member of the bar.