A LOVE TALE.
I am obliged at this moment to interrupt the history of Innocent’s
entrance into English life by the intrusion of another event which
occurred quite suddenly, and without adequate preparation, a few days
after the arrival of the traveller, and which threw Innocent for the
moment altogether into the shade. It was not a deeply premeditated
event, as perhaps it ought to have been, aiming as it did at such very
important results, and affecting two lives in so momentous a way. On
this particular afternoon there had been a flood of visitors at the
Elms, such as now and then occurs without rhyme or reason--every
acquaintance the Eastwoods possessed seeming to be moved by a unanimous
impulse. From two o’clock until five the callers kept pouring in. On
ordinary occasions one or two a day kept the house lively; this was one
of those accidental floods which obey, as philosophers tell us, some
fantastic law of their own, like the number of undirected letters put
into the post-office. Two gentlemen arrived among the latest, both of
whom had hoped to find the ladies alone, and who grinned and shook hands
with each other, and told each other the news with the most delightful
amiability, though their internal emotions were less sweet. They arrived
together, and as the room was still tolerably full, they became each
other’s companions, and stood in a corner talking with the most
confidential aspect, after they had shaken hands with Mrs. Eastwood.
Nelly was at the other extremity of the room, at the door-window which
opened into the conservatory, talking to Sir Alexis Longueville, a man
with a rent-roll as long as his name, whom both the gentlemen I have
mentioned regarded with unfavourable feelings.
“What do you suppose people see in that old ass, Molyneux,” said Major
Railton, “that everybody kootoos to him?”
“His money,” said Molyneux sententiously; and for ten minutes more these
gentlemen crushed Sir Alexis under their heels as it were, and ground
him into powder, though no feminine spite could be involved in their
proceedings. He was not an old ass. He was a cynical middle-aged man of
the world, who, notwithstanding his romantic name, had sustained a great
many prosaic batterings and fierce encounters with the world. He had
come to his fortune after his youth was over, and after he had learned
to think badly enough of most people about him, an opinion which was not
altered by the great social success he had when he reappeared as Sir
Alexis, after a somewhat obscure and not much respected career as
Colonel Longueville. It was now generally understood that this hero, the
worse for the wear, was disposed to marry, and indeed was on the outlook
for a suitable person to become Lady Longueville; a fact which his kind
but vulgar sister Mrs. Barclay, who had married a millionaire, made
known wherever she was received. He was “looking for a wife.” Major
Railton and Mr. Molyneux in their corner were both aware of this fact,
and both of them were extremely bitter upon Mrs. Eastwood for allowing
him, as she did quite placidly, to stand talking to Nelly “for hours,”
as Mr. Molyneux expressed it afterwards.
“What a pity that the best of women should be so mercenary!” he said to
his companion.
“They will give anything for a handle to their names,” said the
misanthropical Major, stroking his moustache, with discomfiture in his
countenance. He had come with an estimate in his pocket for the work
that had to be done at the stables, and had calculated on an hour at
least of confidential talk.
And Nelly stood and talked to Sir Alexis, pointing out to him quite
eagerly the different flowers that thrust their pretty heads against the
glass, peering into the room. He knew about flowers. This innocent taste
reigned strangely in his cynical bosom among many other inclinations
much less praiseworthy. He laughed with Nelly over their Latin names,
and told her stories about them and about his conservatories at
Longueville. Perhaps he was not aware of the reckless way in which he
was laying himself open to the remarks of the young men in the room, who
did not leave him a shred of reputation to cover him, as they stood
behind snarling to each other, and united in a common enmity. He was
more amusing than either of them, and though he had no particular
designs upon Nelly, he liked her fresh young face, and her interest in
all that he said. Perhaps, too, a man who is aware of all the advantages
of the youth which he has outlived, has a pleasure in proving himself
more entertaining than younger men. He detained Nelly, and Nelly was not
unwilling to be detained. She had perceived the entrance of the two at
the end of the room, and rather, I fear, enjoyed their gloomy looks; or
rather, she thought nothing whatever about Major Railton, but was
guiltily glad to see the gloom on the countenance of young Molyneux.
“It will teach him to be full five days without calling,” she said to
herself. She had not acknowledged even to herself that she was in love
with young Molyneux, but she had an inward conviction that he was in
love with her, and on the whole liked him for it. Is it not always a
sign of good taste at least? Therefore she stood and talked to Sir
Alexis, looking up brightly in his face, till he, who had no designs
that way, was half subjugated, and asked himself suddenly whether Nelly
Eastwood would not do? which was going a very long way. Time, however,
and Mrs. Barclay’s horses, could not wait for ever, and at last the
baronet was borne away.
“Come to me soon, Nelly dear, and finish what you have begun,” said that
lady, whispering in her ear, as she took leave. Finish what she had
begun! Nelly had no idea what she could mean.
By this time most of the visitors were gone, and Nelly, after a few
minutes’ talk with the pair at the other end of the room, proceeded to
execute some business which she had been kept from doing before. “I am
sure Major Railton and Mr. Molyneux will excuse me,” she said, “but I
must get my primroses now before any one else comes in----”
“I don’t think you will find any,” said Mrs. Eastwood, making her a sign
to stay. But it was getting dark, and Nelly, who was perverse, pretended
not to understand. Any pleasure she might have in the society of one of
the two was neutralized by the presence of both, and perhaps there was
even a thought in her mind that a young lover might take heart of grace
and follow. In the conservatory her white-furred jacket and little
flower-basket were lying on a chair. Before she could throw on the wrap
Molyneux had joined her. “I think Railton has some business to talk
about,” he said aloud, with a slight nod of concealed triumph to his
adversary; “May I come upon the flower-gathering expedition? Gathering
flowers by moonlight has quite a poetical sound.”
“It is too cold to be poetical,” said Nelly. There had been just enough
between this girl and boy to give them both a thrill of the heart when
they went, out of sight and hearing, into the stillness of the garden,
where, indeed, to tell the truth, few primroses were as yet to be found.
It was one of those lovely nights of early spring which sometimes
succeed a boisterous day. The wind had fallen with the evening. The sky
in the west was still full of colour, a pink flush extending far into
the blue. The gorgeous sunset clouds had broken up, but this great
rose-tinted pavilion still stood, spreading out its film of lovely
colour over the house. On the garden side there was a stretch of clear
sky, untinged by this dispersing veil of glory; clear, somewhat cold,
pale, and luminous, with one star set in the midst of it; and separated
from this blue bit of heaven by billows of fleecy cloud, a soft, clear
young moon in her first quarter. It was cold, but to think of cold was
impossible with such a heaven above them--impossible, at least, for
these two, who were young, and who were together. They went along under
the trees for some time without saying anything, except a little
exclamation about the beauty of the sky.
“I am tired,” said Nelly at length; “I am so glad it is over. Calls are
the stupidest of all things. If people would come in in the evening, as
they do abroad--but English people will never understand.”
“Your visitors were not all stupid, I think,” said Molyneux, warming
with the heat of combat.
“Oh no; Sir Alexis, for instance, was very amusing,” said Nelly, feeling
by instinct what was coming, and defying her fate.
“You seemed to think so,” said the young man, with the loftiest tone of
disinterested comment.
“And indeed I did think so; he is excellent company,” said the girl.
Thus the first parallels of warfare were opened. The pair went on quite
beyond the bit of lawn where the primroses grew, and the red in the west
stretched out as if to cover them, and the moon in the east looked down
as if it were hanging over some battlement of heaven to watch. Nelly’s
delicate nostrils had dilated a little with a sense of coming battle,
and as for Molyneux, he held his head high like a war-horse.
“Yes, I am aware that ladies take that view sometimes; he is not popular
among men,” he said, with lofty calm.
“I suppose men are jealous of him,” said Nelly. “Oh dear, yes, men are
very jealous of each other. If you think a girl can have been out two
seasons without perceiving that----”
“I am sorry we should have given you such a bad opinion of us. I am at a
loss to understand,” said Mr. Molyneux solemnly, “what kind of creature
the man could be who would be jealous of an old _roué_ like Longueville.
His character is too well known among men, I assure you, Miss Eastwood,
to make any such feeling possible.”
Nelly coloured with pride and shame. “He ought to have a label on him,
then, to warn the ignorant. Not knowing what his crimes are, I cannot
judge him; he is very amusing, that is all I know.”
“And that, of course, makes up for everything; and when any one ventures
to warn you, Miss Eastwood, instead of listening, you turn your
displeasure against the unfortunate man who feels it on his
conscience----”
“Mr. Molyneux,” cried Nelly, quickly interrupting him, “I don’t know
what right one gentleman, whom mamma knows, has to warn me against
another. Mamma is the person to be spoken to if there is really anything
to say.”
Thus the quarrel flashed and fizzed to the point of explosion; and what
would have happened--whether they would have been driven apart in
fragments, and their budding romance blown into dust and ruin in the
ordinary course of events, had Molyneux responded in the same tone, I
cannot say; but there are resources at the command of lovers which are
not open to the general public. He did not go on in the same tone. He
became suddenly lachrymose, as young men in love are permitted to be on
occasion.
“Miss Eastwood,” he said dolefully, “there have been times when I have
ventured to think that you would not quite place me on the same level
with the last new-comer----”
“Oh, no,” said Nelly, with compunction, “I beg your pardon, that was not
what I meant. We have known you a long time, Mr. Molyneux, and I am sure
have always looked upon you as--a friend.”
“Well, as--a friend,” he said, in the same pathetic tone, “might I not
be allowed to say something when I saw that you were being deceived?
Dear Miss Eastwood, could I stand by, do you think, knowing all I do of
you, and see a man making his way into your esteem under false
pretences?”
“Making his way into my esteem?” cried Nelly with frank laughter.
“Please don’t be so solemn. You can’t think surely for a moment that I
_cared_ for that old Sir Alexis!”
“You are quite sure you don’t?” cried the lover, brightening up.
“Sure! Now didn’t I say it was all jealousy?” cried Nelly, laughing; but
when she had said the words she perceived the meaning they might bear,
and blushed violently, and stopped short, as people in embarrassing
circumstances constantly do.
“You are quite right, as you always are,” said Molyneux, stopping too,
and putting himself directly in front of her. If it were not that the
women who are being proposed to are generally too much agitated to
perceive it, a man about to propose has many very funny aspects. Young
Molyneux placed himself directly in Nelly’s way; he stood over her,
making her withdraw a step in self-defence. His face became long, and
his eyes large. He put out his hands to take hers, if he could have got
them. “Yes, you are right,” he said, more lachrymose than ever; “you are
always right. I should be jealous of an angel if he came too near you. I
am jealous of everybody. Won’t you say something? Won’t you give me your
hand? I don’t care for anything in the world but you, or without you.”
“Mr. Molyneux!” cried Nelly, drawing a little back, with her heart
beating and her cheeks burning, in the soft, starry twilight. He had got
her hands somehow, in spite of her, and was advancing closer and closer.
How unforeseen and unintended it all was! Neither of them had meant
anything half-an-hour ago of this tremendous character. But Molyneux by
this time felt sure that his life depended upon it, and that he had
thought of nothing else for ages; and Nelly’s heart beat so loud that
she thought it must be heard half a mile off, and feared it would leap
away from her altogether. Their voices grew lower and lower, their
shadows more confused in the young moonlight, which made at the most but
a faint outline of shadow. There grew to be at last only a murmur under
the bare branches, all knotted with the buds of spring, and only one
blot of shade upon the path, which was softly whitened by that poetic
light. This happened in the Lady’s Walk, which was on the other side of
the lawn from the elm-trees, narrower, and quite arched and overshadowed
with branches. The pink had scarcely gone out of the sky overhead, and
the one star was still shining serenely in its luminous opening, when
the whole business was over. You might have been in the garden without
seeing, and, certainly, without hearing; but then matters were
delightfully arranged for such interviews in the leafy demesne of The
Elms.
“Oh, dear! I have forgotten my primroses,” said Nelly, “and what will
they think of us in-doors?”
“Never mind; Railton has been very busy talking to your mother about
bricks and slates,” said Molyneux, with a laugh of irrepressible
triumph. They both laughed, which was mean of Nelly.
“Oh, hush! What has poor Major Railton to do with it?” she said. She was
leaning against a lime-tree, a spot which she always remembered. It was
cold, but neither of them felt it. Nelly’s little toes were half frozen,
and she did not mind.
“Look! all the sunset is dying away,” said Molyneux. “It would not go,
Nelly, till it knew how things were going to turn out. ‘Go not, happy
day, from the shining fields----’”
“Don’t talk nonsense--you should say, from the sodden lawn,” said Nelly.
“Let us get the primroses now, or what can I say to mamma?”
“We shall both have a great deal to say to her. She will never once
think of the primroses, Nelly.”
“Oh, don’t call me ‘Nelly’ so loud; some one will hear you. Must we go
and tell directly?” said the girl, with a half-whimper, which the
foolish young man thought celestial. This to be said by Nelly, a girl
who had never in all her life kept a secret half an hour from her
mother! The fact was that she wanted to have the telling herself, and
quaked at the thought of presenting this ardent personage to her mother,
and probably having her dignity compromised before that mother’s very
eyes by “some of his nonsense.” Nelly was very shy, and half ashamed of
coming into the light and looking even her wooer himself in the face.
There were but a very few primroses, and these were half frozen,
cowering among their leaves. Young Molyneux carried away a little
cluster of them, and gave another to Nelly, which was not placed in her
basket, and then they made another final round of the garden, and
walked down the elm-tree avenue solemnly arm in arm. How quickly the
mind gets accustomed to any revolution! This little concluding
processional march threw them years in advance of the more agitating
contiguity of the Lady’s Walk.
“This is how we shall walk about everywhere ten years hence, when we are
sober old married people,” he said; and there glanced over the
imaginations of both a sudden picture, which both would have been sadly
disconcerted to have described. A little tremulous laugh went from one
to the other. How much emotion that cannot express itself otherwise has
vent in such soft laughter? And a sense of the calm of happiness to
come, so different from this delightful dream of the beginning, yet
issuing naturally from it, stole over them and stilled their young
hearts.
This was what was going on in the garden while Major Railton, not
without many a horrible thought of his rival’s advantages, was talking
bricks and slates, as Molyneux flippantly said, to Mrs. Eastwood. They
had come to the length of a pipe and water-butt for the rain-water, and
the plumber’s estimate, when Nelly and Molyneux were gathering the
primroses. How the gallant Major’s heart was being torn asunder in the
midst of those discussions, I dare not attempt to describe. He had
seated himself so that he could see into the garden; but the flicker of
the firelight filled the room, and the Lady’s Walk was invisible from
the windows.
“Don’t you think Miss Eastwood will catch cold? There is an east wind, I
fear,” he said, in the very midst of the discussion about the plumber.
“I told Nelly to wrap herself up,” said Mrs. Eastwood, calmly. She was
not afraid of the east wind. The Eastwoods had never been known to have
any delicacy about the chest. And as for a more serious danger Nelly’s
mother, secure in full possession of her child, had not even begun to
think of that.
She was scarcely alarmed even when the two entered somewhat flushed and
embarrassed, as soon as Major Railton, who, poor man, had an engagement,
had withdrawn breathing fire and flame.
“What a colour you have, Nelly,” said Mrs. Eastwood innocently. “I
suppose it is the wind. The Major tells me the wind is in the east. You
should not have stayed out so long. Come to the fire and warm
yourselves, both of you. I see you have got no primroses after all.”
“There were none,” said Nelly guiltily, putting her hand over the little
cluster in her belt. “It is too cold for them; but I don’t think I ever
was out on such a lovely night.”
“You have no idea how beautiful it is,” said young Molyneux--and then he
took his leave in the most embarrassed way. When he clutched one of her
hands and held it fast, and groped in the dark for the other, Nelly
thanked heaven in mingled fright and gratitude that she had put a stop
to his intention of at once telling her mother. What might he not have
done before Mrs. Eastwood’s very eyes?
“But Nelly,” said the mother, when he was gone, “you should not have
stayed so long out of doors. I don’t want to be absurd, or to put things
into your head; but Ernest Molyneux is quite a young man, and very
nice-looking, and just the sort of person to have stories made up about
him--and really what object you could both have, wandering about on a
cold night, except chatter and nonsense----”
Nelly was kneeling before the fire, warming her cold little fingers. At
this address she sidled up to her mother’s side, and put her flushed
cheek down on Mrs. Eastwood’s silken lap, and began with the most
coaxing and melting of voices,--
“Mamma!”
It is not to be wondered at if an event like this happening quite
suddenly and unexpectedly in an innocent young house which had not yet
begun to afflict itself with love-stories should for the moment have
eclipsed everything, and put the strange inmate and all the
circumstances of her first appearance at once into the shade.