<h3><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XLVIII" id="CHAPTER_XLVIII"></SPAN>CHAPTER XLVIII.</h3>
<p> </p>
<p>It was while this conversation was going on that
John Tatham, anxious and troubled about many things,
knocked at the door in Ebury Street. He was anxious
to know how the explanations had got accomplished,
how the boy took it, how Elinor had borne the strain
upon her of such a revelation. Well as he knew Elinor,
he still thought, as is generally thought in circumstances
so painful, that a great crisis, a great mental
effort, would make her ill. He wanted to know how she
was, he wanted to know how Pippo had borne it, what
the boy thought. It had glanced across him that young
Philip might be excited by so wonderful a new thing,
and form some false impression of his father (whom
doubtless she would represent under the best light,
taking blame upon herself, not to destroy the boy's
ideal), and be eager to know him—which was a thing,
John felt, which would be very difficult to bear.</p>
<p>The door was opened to him not by good Mrs. Jones,
the kind landlady, but by the magnificent Jones himself,
who rarely appeared. John said "Mrs. Compton?"
as a matter of course, and was about to pass in, in his
usual familiar way. But something in the man's air
made him pause. He looked at Jones again, who was
bursting with importance. "Perhaps she's engaged?"
he said.</p>
<p>"I think, sir," said John, "that her ladyship is engaged—his
lordship is with her ladyship up-stairs."</p>
<p>"His—what?" John Tatham cried.</p>
<p>"His lordship, Mr. Tatham. I know, sir, as the title
is not usually assumed till after the funeral; but in the
very 'ouse where her ladyship is residing for the moment,
there's allowances to be made. Naturally we're
a little excited over it, being, if I may make so bold as
to say so, a sort of 'umble friends, and long patronized
by her ladyship, and young Lord Lomond too."</p>
<p>"Young Lord Lomond too!" John Tatham stood
for a moment and stared at Mr. Jones; and then he
laughed out, and turned his back and walked away.</p>
<p>Young Lord Lomond too! The boy! who had been
more like John's boy than anything else, but now tricked
out in a new name, a new position, his father's heir.
Oh, yes, it was John himself who had insisted on that
only a few days ago! "The heir to a peerage can't be
hid." It was he that had quoted this as an aphorism
worthy of a social sage. But when the moment came
and the boy was taken from him, and introduced into
that other sphere, by the side of that man who had once
been the <i>dis</i>-Honourable Phil! Good heavens, what
changes life is capable of! What wrongs, what cruelties,
what cuttings-off, what twists and alterations of
every sane thought and thing! John Tatham was a
sensible man as well as an eminent lawyer, and knew
that between Elinor's son, who was Phil Compton's son,
and himself, there was no external link at all—nothing
but affection and habit, and the ever-strengthening link
that had been twisted closer and closer with the progress
of these years; but nothing real, the merest
shadow of relationship, a cousin, who could count how
often removed? And it was he who had insisted, forced
upon Elinor the necessity of making his father known
to Philip, of informing him of his real position. Nobody
had interfered in this respect but John. He had
made himself a weariness to her by insisting, never giving
over, blaming her hourly for her delay. And yet
now, when the thing he had so worked for, so constantly
urged, was done<span class="norewrap">——</span>!</p>
<p>He smiled grimly to himself as he walked away: they
were all together, the lordship and the ladyship, young
Lord Lomond too!—and Phil Compton, whitewashed,
a peer of the realm, and still, the scoundrel! a handsome
fellow enough: with an air about him, a man who
might still dazzle a youngster unaccustomed to the
world. He had re-entered the bosom of his family, and
doubtless was weeping upon Philip's neck, and bandying
about that name of "Nell" which had always
seemed to John an insult—an insult to himself. And
in that moment of bitterness John did not know how
she would take it, what effect it would produce upon
her. Perhaps the very sight of the fellow who had
once won her heart, the lover of her youth, with
whom John had never for a moment put himself in
competition, notwithstanding the bitter wonder in his
heart that Elinor—Elinor of all people!—could ever
have loved such a man. Yet she had loved him, and
the sight of him again after so many years, what effect
might it not produce? As he walked away, it was the
idea of a happy family that came into John Tatham's
mind—mutual forgiveness, mutual return to the old
traditions which are the most endearing of all; expansions,
confessions, recollections, and lives of reunion.
Something more than a prodigal's return, the return of
a sinner bringing a coronet in his hand, bringing distinction,
a place and position enough to dazzle any boy,
enough to make a woman forgive. And was not this
what John wished above all things, every advancement
for the boy, and an assured place in the world, as well as
every happiness that might be possible—happiness!
yet it was possible she might think it so—for Elinor?
Yes, this was what he had wished for, been ready to
make any sacrifice to secure. In the sudden shock Mr.
Tatham thought of the only other person who perhaps—yet
only perhaps—might feel a little as he did—the
mother, Mrs. Dennistoun, upon whom he thought all
this would come like a thunder-clap, not knowing that
she was up-stairs in the family party, among the lordships
and the ladyship too.</p>
<p>He went home and into his handsome library, and
shut the door upon himself, to have it out there—or
rather to occupy himself in some more sensible way
and shut this foolish subject out of his mind. It occurred
to him, however, when he sat down that the best
thing to do would be to write an account of it all to
Mrs. Dennistoun, who doubtless in the excitement
would have a long time to wait for news of this great
change. He drew his blotting-book towards him with
this object, and opened it, and dipped his pen in the
ink, and wrote "My dear Aunt;" but he did not get
much further. He raised his head, thinking how to
introduce his narrative, for which she would in all likelihood
be wholly unprepared, and in so doing looked
round upon his book-cases, on one shelf of which the
reflection of a ray of afternoon sunshine caught in the
old Louis Treize mirror over the mantelpiece was throwing
a shaft of light. He got up to make sure that it
was only a reflection, nothing that would harm the
binding of a particular volume upon which he set great
store—though of course he knew very well that it could
only be a reflection, no impertinent reality of sunshine
being permitted to penetrate there. And then he paused
a little to draw his hand lovingly over the line of choice
books—very choice—worth a little fortune, which he
laughed at himself a little for being proud of, fully
knowing that what was inside them (which generally is
the cream of a book, as of a letter, according to Tony
Lumpkin) was in many cases worth nothing at all. And
then John went and stood upon the hearth-rug, and
looked round him upon this the heart of his domain.
It was a noble library, any man might have been proud
of it. He asked himself whether it did not suit him
better, with all the comforts and luxuries beyond it, than
if he had been like other men, with an entirely different
centre of life up-stairs in the empty drawing-room,
and the burden upon him of setting out children, boys
and girls, upon the world.</p>
<p>When a man asks himself this question, however complacent
may be the reply, it betrays perhaps a doubt
whether the assurance he has is so very sure after all;
and he returned to his letter to Mrs. Dennistoun, which
would be quite easy to write if it were only once well
begun. But he had not written above a few words,
having spent some time in his previous reflections, when
he paused again at the sound of a tumultuous summons
at the street-door. As may be well supposed, his servant
took more time than usual to answer it, resenting
a noise so out of character with the house, during which
John listened half-angrily, fearing, yet wishing for, a
diversion. And then his own door burst open, not, I
need not say, by any intervention of legitimate hands,
but by the sudden rush of Philip, who seemed to come
in in a whirl of long limbs and eager eyes, flinging
himself into a chair and fixing his gaze across the corner
of the table upon his astonished yet expectant
friend. "Oh, Uncle John!" the boy cried, and had not
breath to say any more.</p>
<p>John put forth his hand across the table, and grasped
the young flexible warm hand that wanted something
to hold. "Well, my boy," he said.</p>
<p>"I suppose you know," said Philip. "I have nothing
to tell you, though it is all so strange to me."</p>
<p>"I know—nothing about what interests me most at
present—yourself, Pippo, and what has happened to
you."</p>
<p>John had always made a great stand against that particular
name, but several times had used it of late, not
knowing why.</p>
<p>"I don't know what you thought of me last night,"
said the boy, "I was so miserable. May I tell you
everything, Uncle John?"</p>
<p>What balm that question was! He clasped Pippo's
hand in his own, but scarcely could answer to bid him
go on.</p>
<p>"It was unnecessary, all she wanted to tell me. I
fought it off all the morning. I was there yesterday in
the court and heard it all."</p>
<p>"In the court! At the trial?"</p>
<p>"I had no meaning in it," said Philip. "I went by
chance, as people say, because the Marshalls had not
turned up. I got Simmons to get me into the court.
I had always wanted to see a trial. And there I saw
my mother stand up—my mother, that I never could
bear the wind to blow on, standing up there alone with
all these people staring at her to be tried—for her life."</p>
<p>"Don't be a fool, Philip," said John Tatham, dropping
his hand; "tried! she was only a witness. And
she was not alone. I was there to take care of her."</p>
<p>"I saw you—but what was that? She was alone all
the same; and for me, it was she who was on her trial.
What did I know about any other? I heard it, every
word."</p>
<p>"Poor boy!"</p>
<p>"So what was the use of making herself miserable
to tell me? She tried to all this morning, and I fought
it off. I was miserable enough. Why should I be
made more miserable to hear her perhaps excusing herself
to me? But at last she had driven me into a corner,
angry as I was—Uncle John, I was angry, furious,
with my mother—fancy! with my mother."</p>
<p>John did not say anything, but he nodded his head
in assent. How well he understood it all!</p>
<p>"And just then, at that moment, he came. I am angry
with her no more. I know whatever happened
she was right. Angry with her, my poor dear, dearest
mother! Whatever happened she was right. It was
best that she should not tell me. I am on her side all
through—all through! Do you hear me, Uncle John!
I have seen you look as if you blamed her. Don't again
while I am there. Whatever she has done it has been
the right thing all through!"</p>
<p>"Pippo," said John, with a little quivering about the
mouth, "give me your hand again, old fellow, you're
my own boy."</p>
<p>"Nobody shall so much as look as if they blamed
her," cried the boy, "while I am alive!"</p>
<p>Oh, how near he was to crying, and how resolute not
to break down, though something got into his throat
and almost choked him, and his eyes were so full that
it was a miracle they did not brim over. Excitement,
distress, pain, the first touch of human misery he had
ever known almost overmastered Philip. He got up
and walked about the room, and talked and talked. He
who had never concealed anything, who had never had
anything to conceal. And for four-and-twenty hours
he had been silent with a great secret upon his soul.
John was too wise to check the outpouring. He listened
to everything, assented, soothed, imperceptibly
led him to gentler thoughts.</p>
<p>"And what does he mean," cried the boy at last,
"with his new name? I shall have no name but my
own, the one my mother gave me. I am Philip Compton,
and nothing else. What right has he, the first time
he ever saw me, to put upon me another name?"</p>
<p>"What name?"</p>
<p>"He called me Lomond—or something like that,"
said young Philip: and then there came a sort of stillness
over his excitement, a lull in the storm. Some
vague idea what it meant came all at once into the boy's
mind: and a thrill of curiosity, of another kind of excitement,
of rising thoughts which he did not hardly
understand, struggled up through the other zone of
passion. He was half ashamed, having just poured
forth all his feelings, to show that there was something
else, something that was no longer indignation, nor
anger, nor the shock of discovery, something that had
a tremor perhaps of pleasure in it, behind. But John
was far too experienced a man not to read the boy
through and through. He liked him better in the first
phase, but this was natural too.</p>
<p>"It happens very strangely," he said, "that all these
things should come upon you at once: but it is well
you should know now all about it. Lomond is the
second title of the Comptons, Earls of St. Serf. Haven't
I heard you ask what Comptons you belonged to, Philip?
It has all happened within a day or two. Your father
was only Philip Compton yesterday at the trial, and a
poor man. Now he is Lord St. Serf, if not rich, at least
no longer poor. Everything has changed for you—your
position, your importance in the world. The last Lord
Lomond bore the name creditably enough. I hope you
will make it shine." He took the boy by the hand and
grasped it heartily again. "I am thankful for it," said
John. "I would rather you were Lord Lomond
than<span class="norewrap">——</span>"</p>
<p>"What! Uncle John?"</p>
<p>"Steady, boy. I was going to say Philip Compton's
son; but Lord St. Serf is another man."</p>
<p>There was a long pause in the room where John Tatham's
life was centred among his books. He had so
much to do with all this business, and yet so little. It
would pass away with all its tumults, and he after being
absorbed by it for a moment would be left alone to his
own thoughts and his own unbroken line of existence.
So much the better! It is not good for any man to be
swept up and put down again at the will of others in
matters in which he has no share. As for Philip, he
was silent chiefly to realise this great thing that had
come upon him. He, Lord Lomond, a peer's son, who
was only Pippo of Lakeside like any other lad in the
parish, and not half so important at school as Musgrave,
who did not get that scholarship. What the school
would say! the tempest that would arise! They would
ask a holiday, and the head master would grant it.
Compton a lord! Philip could hear the roar and rustle
among the boys, the scornful incredulity, the asseverations
of those who knew it was true. And a flush
that was pleasure had come over his musing face. It
would have been strange if in the wonder of it there
had not been some pleasure too.</p>
<p>He had begun to tolerate his father before many days
were over, to cease to be indignant and angry that he
was not the ideal father of his dreams. That was not
Lord St. Serf's fault, who was not at all aware of his
son's dreams, and had never had an ideal in his life.
But John Tatham was right in saying that Lord St.
Serf was another man. The shock of a new responsibility,
of a position to occupy and duties to fulfil, were
things that might not have much moved the dis-Honourable
Phil two years before. But he was fifty,
and beginning to feel himself an old fogey, as he confessed.
And his son overawed Lord St. Serf. His
son, who was so like him, yet had the mother's quick,
impetuous eyes, so rapid to see through everything, so
disdainful of folly, so keen in perception. He was
afraid to bring upon himself one of those lightning
flashes from the eyes of his boy, and doubly afraid to
introduce his son anywhere, to show him anything that
might bring upon him the reproach of doing harm to
Pippo. His house, which had been very decent and
orderly in the late Lord St. Serf's time, became almost
prim in the terror Phil had lest they should say that it
was bad for the boy.</p>
<p>As for Lady St. Serf, it was popularly reported that
the reason why she almost invariably lived in the
country was her health, which kept her out of society—a
report, I need not say, absolutely rejected by
society itself, which knew all the circumstances better
than you or I do: but which sufficed for the outsiders
who knew nothing. When Elinor did appear upon
great occasions, which she consented to do, her matured
beauty gave the fullest contradiction to the pretext on
which she continued to live her own life. But old
Lord St. Serf, who got old so long before he need to
have done, with perhaps the same sort of constitutional
weakness which had carried off all his brothers before
their time, or perhaps because he had too much abused
a constitution which was not weak—grew more and more
fond in his latter days of the country too, and kept appearing
at Lakeside so often that at last the ladies removed
much nearer town, to the country-house of the
St. Serfs, which had not been occupied for ages, where
they presented at last the appearance of a united family;
and where "Lomond" (who would have thought
it very strange now to be addressed by any other
name) brought his friends, and was not ill-pleased to
hear his father discourse, in a way which sometimes
still offended the home-bred Pippo, but which the other
young men found very amusing. It was not in the way
of morals, however, that Lord St. Serf ever offended.
The fear of Elinor kept him as blameless as any good-*natured
preacher of the endless theme, that all is vanity,
could do.</p>
<p>These family arrangements, however, and the modified
happiness obtained by their means, were still all
in the future, when John Tatham, a little afraid of the
encounter, yet anxious to have it over, went to Ebury
Street the day after these occurrences, to see Elinor for
the first time under her new character as Lady St. Serf.
He found her in a languor and exhaustion much unlike
Elinor, doing nothing, not even a book near, lying
back in her chair, fallen upon herself, as the French
say. Some of those words that mean nothing passed
between them, and then she said, "John, did Pippo
tell you that he had been there?"</p>
<p>He nodded his head, finding nothing to say.</p>
<p>"Without any warning, to see his mother stand up
before all the world to be tried—for her life."</p>
<p>"Elinor," said John, "you are as fantastic as the
boy."</p>
<p>"I was—being tried for my life—before him as the
judge. And he has acquitted me; but, oh, I wonder, I
wonder if he would have done so had he known all that
I know?"</p>
<p>"I do so," said John, "perhaps a little more used to
the laws of evidence than Pippo."</p>
<p>"Ah, you!" she said, giving him her hand, with a
look which John did not know how to take, whether as
the fullest expression of trust, or an affectionate disdain
of the man in whose partial judgment no justice
was. And then she asked a question which threw perhaps
the greatest perplexity he had ever known into
John Tatham's life. "When you tell a fact—that is
true: with the intention to deceive: John, you that
know the laws of evidence, is that a lie?"</p>
<p> </p>
<h4>THE END.</h4>
<hr class="narrow" />
<p> </p>
<div class="center">
<p><i>BY THE SAME AUTHOR</i><br/>
<span class="small"><i>IN UNIFORM STYLE</i></span></p>
<p><i>MARRIAGE OF ELINOR</i></p>
<p><i>WHITELADIES</i></p>
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<hr class="narrow" />
<p> </p>
<table class="sm" border="0" style="background-color: #E6E6FA; margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="4" summary="Amendments">
<tr>
<td colspan="2">
<div class="center">TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE</div>
<p class="noindent" style="background-color: #E6E6FA">Contemporary spellings have been retained even
when inconsistent. A small number of obvious typographical errors have been
corrected, and missing punctuation has been silently added. The list of additional
works by the author has been moved to the end.<br/>
<br/>
The following additional changes have been made; they can be identified
in the body of the text by a grey dotted underline:</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign="top">I seemed too dear, too peaceful</td>
<td valign="top"><i>It</i> seemed too dear, too peaceful</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign="top">do a thing that its</td>
<td valign="top">do a thing that <i>is</i></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign="top">three tittle escapades</td>
<td valign="top">three <i>little</i> escapades</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>"you gave me a fright," she she said </td>
<td>"you gave me a fright," <i>she</i> said </td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign="top">waiting, with her eyes on Elinora, sign</td>
<td valign="top">waiting, with her eyes on <i>Elinor, for a</i> sign</td>
</tr>
</table>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />
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