It cost Mrs. Dennistoun a struggle to yield to her daughter and her daughter’s husband, and with her eyes open and no delusion on the subject to throw away her two thousand pounds. Two thousand pounds is a big thing to throw away. There are many people much richer than Mrs. Dennistoun who would have thought it a wicked thing to do, and some who would have quarrelled with both daughter and son-in-law rather than do so foolish a thing. For it was not merely making a present, so to speak, of the money, it was throwing it away. To have given it to Elinor would have been nothing, it would have been a pleasure; but in Phil’s investment Mrs. Dennistoun had no confidence. It was throwing her money after Elinor’s money into that hungry sea which swallows up everything and gives nothing again.

But if that had been difficult for her, it may be imagined with what feelings she contemplated her necessary meeting with John Tatham. She knew everything he would say—more, she knew what he would look: his astonishment, his indignation, the amazement with{vol. i_288} which he would regard it. John was far from being incapable of a sacrifice. Mrs. Dennistoun, indeed, did him more than justice in that respect, for she believed that he had himself been on the eve of asking Elinor to marry him when she was snatched up by, oh, so much less satisfactory a man! which the reader knows is not quite the case, though perhaps it required quite as much self-denial on John’s part to stand by Elinor and maintain her cause under her altered circumstances as if it had been the case. But notwithstanding this, she knew that John would be angry with what she had done or promised to do, and would put every possible impediment in her way: and when she sent for him, in order that she might carry out her promise, it was with a heart as sick with fright and as much disturbed by the idea of a scolding as ever child’s was.

John had been very little to the house at Curzon Street. He had dined two or three times with Mrs. Dennistoun alone, and once or twice Elinor had been of the party; but the Comptons had never any guests at that house, and the fact already mentioned that Philip Compton never dined at home made it a difficult matter for Mrs. Dennistoun to ask any but her oldest friends to the curious little divided house, which was neither hers nor theirs. Thus Cousin John had met, but no more, Elinor’s husband, and neither of the gentlemen had shown the least desire to cultivate the acquaintance. John had not expressed his sentiments on the subject to any one, but Phil, as was natural, had{vol. i_289} been more demonstrative. “I don’t think much of your relations, Nell,” he said, “if that’s a specimen: a prig if ever there was one—and that old sheep that was at the wedding, the father of him, I suppose——”

“As they are my relations, Phil, you might speak of them a little more respectfully.”

“Oh, respectfully! Bless us all! I have no respect for my own, and why I should have for yours, my little dear, I confess I can’t see. Oh, by the way, this is Cousin John, who I used to think by your blushing and all that——”

“Phil, I think you are trying to make me angry. Cousin John is the best man in the world; but I never blushed—how ridiculous! I might as well have blushed to speak of my brother.”

“I put no confidence in brothers, unless they’re real ones,” said Phil; “but I’m glad I’ve seen him, Nell. I doubt after all that you’re such a fool, when you see us together—eh?” He laughed that laugh of conscious superiority which, when it is not perfectly well-founded, sounds so fatuous to the hearer. Elinor did not look at him. She turned her head away and made no reply.

John, on his part, as has been said, made no remark. If he had possessed a wife at home to whom he could have confided his sentiments, as Phil Compton had, it is possible that he might have said something not unsimilar. But then had he had a wife at home he would have been more indifferent to Phil, and might not have cared to criticise him at all.{vol. i_290}

Mrs. Dennistoun received him when he came in obedience to her call, as a child might do who had the power of receiving its future corrector. She abased herself before him, servilely choosing his favourite subjects, talking of what she thought would please him, of former times at the Cottage, of Elinor, and her great affection for Cousin John, and so forth. I imagine that he had a suspicion of the cause of all this sweetness. He looked at her suspiciously, though he allowed himself to be drawn into reminiscences, and to feel a half pleasure, half pain in the affectionate things that Elinor had said. At length, after some time had passed, he asked, in a pause of the conversation, “Was this all you wanted with me, aunt, to talk of old times?”

“Wasn’t it a good enough pretext for the pleasure of seeing you, John?”

He laughed a little and shook his head.

“An excellent pretext where none was wanted. It is very kind of you to think it a pleasure: but you had something also to say?”

“It seems there is no deceiving you, John,” she said, and with many hesitations and much difficulty, told him her story. She saw him begin to flame. She saw his eyes light up, and Mrs. Dennistoun shook in her chair. She was not a woman apt to be afraid, but she was frightened now.

Nevertheless, when she had finished her story, John at first spoke no word: and when he did find a tongue it was only to say,{vol. i_291}

“You want to get back the money you have on that mortgage. My dear aunt, why did not you tell me so at once?”

“But I have just told you, John.”

“Well, so be it. You know it will take a little time; there are some formalities that must be gone through. You cannot make a demand on people in that way to pay you cash at once.”

“Oh, I thought it was so easy to get money—on such very good security and paying such a good adequate rate of interest.”

“It is easy,” he said, “perfectly easy; but it wants a little time: and people will naturally wonder, if it is really good security and good interest, why you should be in such a hurry to get out of it.”

“But surely, to say private reasons—family reasons, that will be enough.”

“Oh, there is no occasion for giving any reason at all. You wish to do it; that is reason enough.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, with diffidence, yet also a little self-assertion, “I think it is enough.”

“Of course, of course.” But his eyes were flaming, and Mrs. Dennistoun would not allow herself to believe that she had got off. “And may I ask—not that I have any right to ask, for of course you have better advisers—what do you mean to put the money in, when you have got it back?”

“Oh, John,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, “you are implacable, though you pretend different. You know what I{vol. i_292} want with the money, and you disapprove of it, and so do I. I am going to throw it away. I know that just as well as you do, and I am ashamed of myself: but I am going to do it all the same.”

“You are going to give it to Elinor? I don’t think there is anything to disapprove of in that. It is the most natural thing in the world.”

“If I could be sure that Elinor would get any good by it,” she said.

And then his face suddenly blazed up, so that the former flame in his eyes was nothing. He sat for a moment staring at her, and then he said, “Yes, if—but I suppose you take the risk.” There were a great many things on his lips to say, but he said none of them, except hurriedly, “You have a motive, I suppose——”

“I have a motive—as futile probably as my act—if I could by that means, or any other, acquire an influence——”

John was very seldom, if ever, rude—it was not in his way—but at this moment he was so bitterly exasperated that he forgot his manners altogether. He burst out into a loud laugh, and then he jumped up to his feet and said, “Forgive me. I really have a dozen engagements. I can’t stay. I’ll see to having this business done for you as soon as possible. You would rather old Lynch had no hand in it? I’ll get it done for you at once.”

She followed him out to the door as if they had been in the country, and that the flowery cottage door, with{vol. i_293} the great world of down and sky outside, instead of Curzon Street: longing to say something that would still, at the last moment, gain her John’s approval, or his understanding at least. But she could think of nothing to say. He had promised to manage it all for her: he had not reproached her; and yet not content with that she wanted to extort a favourable word from him before he should go. But she could not find a word to say. He it was only who spoke. He asked when she was going to return home, with his hand upon the street door.

“I don’t know. I have not made any plans. The house is taken till July.”

“And you have enjoyed it?” he said. “It has answered?”

What a cruel, cruel question to put to her! She going so unsuspectingly with him to the very door! Philip Compton’s servant, always about when he was not wanted, spying about to see whom it was that “down-stairs” was letting out, came strolling into sight. Anyhow, whether that was the reason or not, she made him no reply. He caught her look—a look that said more than words—and turned round quickly and held out his hand. “I did not mean to be cruel,” he said.

“Oh, no, no, no—you did not mean it—you were not cruel. The reverse—you are always so kind. Yes, it has answered—I am more glad than I can tell you—that I came.”

He it was now that looked at her anxiously, while she{vol. i_294} smiled that well-worn smile which is kept for people in trouble. She went in afterwards and sat silent for some time, covering her face with her hands; in which attitude Elinor found her after her afternoon visitors had gone away.

“What is it, mother? What is it, dear mother? Something has happened to vex you.”

“Nothing, nothing, Elinor. John Tatham has been here. He is going to do that little piece of business for me.”

“And he—has been bullying you too? poor mamma!”

“On the contrary, he did not say a word. He considered it—quite natural.”

Elinor gave her mother a kiss. She had nothing to say. Neither of them had a word to say to the other. The thought that passed through both their minds was: “After all it is only two thousand pounds”—and then, aprÈs? was Elinor’s thought. And then, never more, never more! was what passed through Mrs. Dennistoun’s mind.

Phil Compton smiled upon her that day she handed him over the money. “It is a great pity you took the trouble,” he said. “It is a pity to change an investment for such a bagatelle as two thousand pounds. Still, if you insist upon it, mamma. I suppose Nell’s been bragging of the big interest, but you never will feel it on a scrap like this. If you would let me double your income for you now.{vol. i_295}”

“You know, Philip, I cannot. The trustees would never consent.”

“Bother trustees. They are the ruin of women,” he said, and as he left the room he turned back to ask her how long she was going to stay in town.

“How long do you stay?”

“Oh, till Goodwood always,” said Phil. “Nell’s looking forward to it, and there’s generally some good things just at the end when the heavy people have gone away; but I thought you might not care to stay so long.”

“I came not for town, but for Elinor, Philip.”

“Exactly so. But don’t you think Elinor has shown herself quite able to take care of herself—not to say that she has me? It’s a thousand pities to keep you from the country which you prefer, especially as, after all, Nell can be so little with you.”

“It would be much better for her at present, Philip, to come with me, and rest at home, while you go to Goodwood. For the sake of the future you ought to persuade her to do it.”

“I daresay. Try yourself to persuade her to leave me. She won’t, you know. But why should you bore yourself to death staying on here? You don’t like it, and nobody——”

“Wants me, you mean, Philip.”

“I never said anything so dashed straightforward. I am not a chap of that kind. But what I say is, it’s a shame to keep you hanging on, disturbed in your rest{vol. i_296} and all that sort of thing. That noisy beggar, Dismar, that came in with us last night must have woke you up with his idiotic bellowing.”

“It doesn’t matter for me; but Elinor, Philip. It does matter for your wife. If her rest is broken it will react upon her in every way. I wish you would consent to forego those visitors in the middle of the night.”

He looked at her with a sort of satirical indifference. “Sorry I can’t oblige you,” he said. “When a girl’s friends fork out handsomely a man has some reason for paying a little attention. But when there’s nothing, or next to nothing, on her side, why of course he must pick up a little where he can, as much for her sake as his own.”

“Pick up a little!” said Mrs. Dennistoun.

“I wish you wouldn’t repeat what I say like that. It makes a fellow nervous. Yes, of course, a man that knows what he’s about does pick up a little. About your movements, however. I advise you to take my advice and go back to your snug little house. It would kill me in a week, but I know it suits you. Why hang on for Nell? She’s as well as can be, and there’s a few things that it would be good for us to do.”

“Which you cannot do while I am here? Is that what you mean, Philip?”

“I never saw any good in being what the French call brutal,” he said, “I hate making a woman cry, or{vol. i_297} that sort of thing. But you’re a woman of sense, and I’m sure you must see that a young couple like Nell and me, who have our way to make in the world——”

“You know it was for her sake entirely that I came here.”

“Yes, oh, yes. To do coddling and that sort of thing—which she doesn’t require a bit; but if I must be brutal you know there’s things of much consequence we could do if——”

“If what, Philip?”

“Well,” he said, turning on his heel, “if we had the house to ourselves.”

This was the influence Mrs. Dennistoun hoped to acquire by the sacrifice of her two thousand pounds! When he was gone, instead of covering her face as she had done when John left her, Mrs. Dennistoun stared into the vacant air for a minute and then she burst into a laugh. It was not a mirthful laugh, it may be supposed, or harmonious, and it startled her as she heard it pealing into the silence. Whether it was loud enough to wake Elinor up-stairs, or whether she was already close by and heard it, I cannot tell, but she came in with a little tap at the door and a smile, a somewhat anxious and forced smile, it is true, upon her face.

“What is the joke?” she said. “I heard you laugh, and I thought I might come in and share the fun. Somehow, we don’t have so much fun as we used to have. What is it, mamma?{vol. i_298}”

“It is only a witticism of Philip’s, who has been in to see me,” said Mrs. Dennistoun. “I won’t repeat it, for probably I should lose the point of it—you know I always did spoil a joke in repeating it. I have been speaking to him,” she said, after a little pause, during which both her laugh and Elinor’s smile evaporated in the most curious way, leaving both of them very grave—“of going away, Elinor.”

“Of going away!” Elinor suddenly assumed a startled look; but there is a difference between doing that and being really startled, which her mother, alas! was quite enlightened enough to see; and surely once more there was that mingled relief and relaxation in the lines of her face which Mrs. Dennistoun had seen before.

“Yes, my darling,” she said, “it is June, and everything at the Cottage will be in full beauty. And, perhaps, it would do you more good to come down there for a day or two when there is nothing doing than to have me here, which, after all, has not been of very much use to you.”

“Oh, don’t say that, mamma. Use!—it has been of comfort unspeakable. But,” Elinor added, hurriedly, “I see the force of all you say. To remain in London at this time of the year must be a far greater sacrifice than I have any right to ask of you, mamma.”

Oh, the furtive, hurried, unreal words! which were such pain and horror to say with the consciousness of the true sentiment lying underneath; which made Eli{vol. i_299}nor’s heart sink, yet were brought forth with a sort of hateful fervour, to imitate truth.

Mrs. Dennistoun saw it all. There are times when the understanding of such a woman is almost equal to those “larger other eyes” with which it is our fond hope those who have left us for a better country see, if they are permitted to see, our petty doings, knowing, better than we know ourselves, what excuses, what explanations, they are capable of. “As for the sacrifice,” she said, “we will say nothing of that, Elinor. It is a vain thing to say that if my life would do you any pleasure—for you don’t want to take my life, and probably the best thing I can do for you is to go on as long as I can. But in the meantime there’s no question at all of sacrifice—and if you can come down now and then for a day, and sleep in the fresh air——”

“I will, I will, mamma,” said Elinor, hiding her face on her mother’s shoulder; and they would have been something more than women if they had not cried together as they held each other in that embrace—in which there was so much more than met either eye or ear.