A MOMENTOUS INTERVIEW.
The course of Nelly’s true love did not, however, run so absolutely
smooth as might have been supposed from this beginning. Her own family
received it, as has been recorded, as a matter concerning Nelly’s
happiness, with little of those grave considerations about means and
money which generally attend the formation of such contracts. Perhaps
this might be because she had no father to consider that part of the
question, though Mrs. Eastwood did her best to be business-like. But
then Mrs. Eastwood, being only a woman, believed in love, and chiefly
considered Nelly’s happiness--which, after all, if it were involved, was
of more importance than money. The other side cared nothing about
Nelly’s happiness, and not very much for her lover’s--it concerned
itself with things much more important, with the fact that five
thousand pounds was but a small sum to pay for the honour of being
daughter-in-law to Mr. Molyneux, Q.C., and that Ernest might have done
better. And though Ellinor Eastwood was of better blood than the
Molyneuxes, and better connexions, and really possessed something of her
own, whereas her lover had nothing, his friends did not hesitate to say
among themselves that Mrs. Eastwood had long had her eye upon him, that
the Eastwoods had “made a dead set at him,” and many other flattering
expressions of the same kind, such as are liberally used in polite
society whenever a young man is “caught,” according to the equally
polite expression, by the young woman who, of course, has been angling
for him all her life long. This was the way in which the matter was
regarded by Ernest’s family, who were very much like other people,
neither better nor worse, and took the conventional way of treating the
subject. They had not a word to say against Nelly, but were convinced
she “had made a dead set at him.” Such is the way of the world.
A whole week passed before the Molyneuxes took any notice, and then it
was announced to Mrs. Eastwood that the head of the house, the future
Judge, was to call upon her before he went to his chambers in the
morning. Mrs. Eastwood had been put upon her dignity by this treatment
of her, and though she had allowed Ernest to come to The Elms
constantly, and to dine there every evening, her manner had become day
by day a little colder to him. This made Nelly unhappy, who coaxed and
hung about her mother with appealing eyes.
“But you like Ernest? You are sure you like him?” she would ask ten
times in a day.
“I have nothing to say against Ernest. It is his family, who are not
acting as we have a right to expect of them,” answered her mother; and
she received with great gravity the announcement of Mr. Molyneux’s
intended visit. She would not allow to any one that she was excited by
it, but the family breakfasted half an hour earlier on that particular
morning, in order that everything might be cleared away, and the room in
order for this interview. The dining-room was Mrs. Eastwood’s business
room, where she transacted all her more important affairs. There is
something in the uncompromising character of a dining-room which suits
business; the straight-backed chairs up and down, without compromising
curves or softness, the severe square rectangular lines of the table,
the side-board ponderous and heavy, tons of solid mahogany--even the
pictures on the walls, which were all portraits, and of a gravely severe
aspect--made it an appropriate state chamber for great occasions. When
Mr. Molyneux was ushered in, he found Mrs. Eastwood seated on a hard
chair before the table, with a large inkstand and all her housekeeping
books before her. He was amused by the _pose_, being clever enough to
perceive that it, at least, was not quite genuine, but he lacked the
power to go farther, and immediately made a vulgar estimate of her, such
as vulgar-minded men invariably make of women whose youth and good looks
are waning. Mr. Molyneux was a great speaker, a powerful pleader, but a
vulgar-minded man notwithstanding. He was loosely made and loosely
dressed, with a certain largeness and breadth about him which impressed
his hearers as if it had been a moral quality--and his face was
loquacious, especially the mouth, which had large lips, and lines about
them bearing token of perpetual motion. These lips, and the peculiar way
in which, in repose, they closed upon each other, were enough to prove
to any spectator, that his powers of speech were not to be despised. It
was not an eloquent mouth. There is a great difference between powerful
loquacity and real eloquence. He was not eloquent. A lofty subject would
have disconcerted him, and when he attempted to treat an ordinary
subject in a lofty way, his grandeur became bathos, and called forth
laughter when tears were intended. But he was tremendously fluent, and
he was popular. He did almost what he liked with the ordinary British
jury, and his name in a bad case was almost as good as a verdict of
acquittal.
When this man was ushered in by Brownlow with an importance befitting
the occasion, Mrs. Eastwood momentarily felt her courage fail her. She
knew him but slightly, and had never come into much personal contact
with him, and she had that natural respect, just touched by a little
dread for him, which women often entertain for men of public eminence
who have gained for themselves a prominent place in the world. Nor did
he do anything to diminish her agitation. He looked at her with cool
grey eyes which twinkled from the folds and layers of eyelids that
surrounded them, and with a half sarcastic smile on his face; and he
called her “ma’am,” as he was in the habit of doing when he meant to
bully a female witness. Mrs. Eastwood, striving vaguely against the
feeling, felt as if she too was going to be cross-examined and to commit
herself, which was not a comfortable frame of mind.
“So our children, ma’am, have been making fools of themselves,” he said,
with a twinkle of his eyes, after the preliminary observations about her
health and the weather were over. He followed the words with a chuckle
at the folly of the idea; and Mrs. Eastwood, who was anxiously
determined to fill the part of “mère noble,” was taken aback, and
scarcely knew what to reply.
“They have taken a step,” she said, breathless, “which must very
seriously affect their happiness----”
“Just so,” said Mr. Molyneux, “and you and I must see what can be done
about it. Ernest is not a bad fellow, ma’am, but he is sadly imprudent.
He plunges into a step like this, without ever thinking what is to come
of it. I suppose he has told you what his circumstances are?”
Mrs. Eastwood replied by a somewhat stiff inclination of her head.
“Precisely like him,” said his father, chuckling. “Not a penny to bless
himself with, nor the least idea where to find one; and accordingly he
goes and proposes to a pretty girl, and makes up his mind, I suppose, to
set up housekeeping directly--Heaven help him!--upon nothing a year.”
“This is not what he has said to me,” said Mrs. Eastwood. “In the first
place, though frankly avowing that he had nothing--beyond his allowance
from you--I have understood from him that by greater diligence in the
pursuit of his profession----”
Mrs. Eastwood was interrupted here, by a low “Ho, ho!” of laughter from
her visitor--a very uncomfortable kind of interruption. To tell the
truth, feeling that things were against her, and determined not to let
down Nelly’s dignity, she had taken refuge in a grandeur of expression
which she herself was conscious might be beyond the subject. No woman
likes to be laughed at; and Mrs. Eastwood grew twenty times more
dignified as she became aware of the levity with which the other parent
treated the whole affair.
“Ho! ho! ho! I recognize my boy in that,” said Mr. Molyneux. “I beg your
pardon, but Ernest is too great a wag to be resisted. Greater diligence
in the pursuit of his profession! He ought to be made Lord Chancellor on
the spot for that phrase. Are you aware, my dear ma’am, that he has
never done anything, that boy of mine, in the pursuit of his profession,
or otherwise, since he was born?”
“Am I to understand, Mr. Molyneux,” said Mrs. Eastwood, slightly
tremulous with offence and agitation, “that your object is to break off
the engagement between my daughter and your son?”
“Nothing of the sort, ma’am; nothing of the sort,” said Mr. Molyneux
cheerfully. “I have no objections to your daughter; and if it did not
happen with her, it would happen with some one else. It is for both our
interests, though, that they don’t do anything foolish. What they intend
is that we should pay the piper----”
“You must do me the favour to speak for yourself, and your son,” said
Mrs. Eastwood, with spirit. “My child has no such idea. She has never
known anything about such calculations; and I am sure she will not begin
now.”
“I beg your pardon, and Miss Nelly’s pardon,” said the great man, with
an amused look. “I did not mean to reflect upon any one. But if she has
not begun yet, I fear she will soon begin when she is Ernest’s wife.
They can’t help it, ma’am. I am not blaming them. Once they are married,
they must live; they must have a house over their heads and a dinner
daily. I’ve no doubt Miss Nelly’s an angel; but even an angel, when she
has weekly bills coming in, and nothing to pay them with, will begin to
scheme.”
“Such a thing appears to me quite impossible,” said Mrs. Eastwood, in a
flutter of suppressed indignation, and then she added, pausing to
recover herself, “I must say at once, Mr. Molyneux, that if this is the
way in which you are disposed to look at the matter, I should prefer to
end the discussion. My daughter’s happiness is very dear to me; but her
credit, and my own credit, ought to be still more dear----”
“My dear ma’am,” cried Mr. Molyneux, “now, tell me, as a matter of
curiosity, how your credit is concerned, or why you should be angry? My
point of view is that, of course, the young people mean to get as much
as they can out of us----”
“Perhaps your son does, sir!” cried Mrs. Eastwood, exasperated. “You
ought to know him best.”
“Of course I know him best; and of course that is his object--to get as
much as he can out of _me_,” said Mr. Molyneux, pausing upon the
pronoun. “Since you don’t like it, I will leave the other side out of
the question. I have known Ernest these eight and twenty years, and I
ought to know what stuff he is made of. Now, as there are two parties to
this bargain, we had better know exactly what we mean on either side. I
did not want Ernest to marry now, and in case he did marry, he ought to
have looked higher. I don’t mean to be unpleasant, but I should have
liked him to look out--let us say brutally--for more money. He has cost
a deal of money in his day; and he ought to have brought in more. It is
very likely, indeed, that your views were of a similar character. In
that case, instead of wrangling, we ought to agree. Miss Nelly might
have done better----”
“A great deal better,” said the mother firmly, and with decision.
“Exactly so. At bottom we mean the same thing, though I may speak too
roughly; but, like a couple of young fools, they have gone and run their
heads into a net. Privately I admire your daughter very much,” said Mr.
Molyneux, with a certain oily change in his tone--a confession that the
present subject under treatment was not to be bullied, but required more
delicate dealing; “and though I say it that shouldn’t, my son Ernest is
a fine young fellow. They will make a handsome couple--just the kind of
thing that would be delightful in a novel or in a poem--where they could
live happy ever after, and never feel the want of money. But in this
prosaic world things don’t go on so comfortably. They have not a penny;
that is the question that remains between you and me.”
“Nelly has five thousand pounds; and he has--his profession,” said Mrs.
Eastwood, with a certain faltering in her voice.
“Well, well, well,” said the wise man. “If we were all in a state of
innocence, five thousand pounds would be something; and if we were a
little wickeder, his profession might count; but the world is not so
litigious as might be desired. My son is too grand to demean himself to
criminal cases like that inconsiderable mortal, his father. And do you
mean them to live in London, my dear ma’am, upon Miss Nelly’s
twopence-halfpenny a year?”
“Indeed, I am not so foolish,” cried Mrs. Eastwood; “beside thinking it
wrong as a matter of principle. He must work, of course, before he can
marry. He must have at least the prospect of a sufficient income before
I should ever give my consent.”
“A sufficient income earned by Ernest!” said Mr. Molyneux, with again
that detestable “Ho, ho!” “Pardon me, my dear Mrs. Eastwood; but when I
see how that boy has imposed upon you! No--believe me, who know him
better, that if anything is to come of it, it must be done by you and
me.”
“I do not understand, Mr. Molyneux----”
“I quite believe it,” he said, relapsing into carelessness just touched
with contempt. “Ladies seldom understand such matters. If you will tell
me the name of your solicitor, perhaps it would be better for me to talk
the matter over with him.”
“What is there to talk over?” said Mrs. Eastwood, once more roused into
indignation. “I think, Mr. Molyneux, that we are speaking different
languages. Nelly has her little fortune--as you know--and I am willing
to allow her to wait till Ernest is in a position to claim her. I should
not allow this without your approval, as his father. But as, so far, you
have given your approval, what more does there remain to say?”
The great lawyer looked at his simple antagonist with a kind of
stupefaction.
“We are indeed talking two different languages,” he said. “Tell me who
is your solicitor, my dear lady, and he and I will talk it over----”
“In a matter so important,” said Mrs. Eastwood, plucking firmness from
the emergency, “I prefer to act for myself.”
Perhaps at this moment she achieved the greatest success of her life,
though she did not know it. Mr. Molyneux was struck dumb. He stared at
her, and he scratched his head like any bumpkin. He could not swear, nor
storm, nor threaten, as he would sometimes do with the hapless people in
the witness-box. He was obliged to be civil and smooth-spoken, and to
treat her with a certain degree of politeness; for though he believed
that Ernest might have done better, he had no desire to defy his son,
who was, in his way, a formidable opponent, and he did not quite
venture, knowing the sort of young man he had to deal with, to break off
the match, or do anything violent tending that way.
“Then I must try what can be done by plainer language,” he said, hiding
his bewilderment under a specious appearance of candour. “We must throw
away all circumlocution. Let us be reasonable. I will give my son so
much a year, if you will give your daughter so much a year. That is what
it comes to. If we do this, there may be some possibility for them; but
without this, nothing can be done; and of course, the allowance which
you might be able to give her would determine to some extent what I
should give him.”
“What I might be able to give my daughter?” said Mrs. Eastwood, in
surprise; “but I have nothing to do with it. I give her nothing--she
comes into it by her grandfather’s will.”
“The five thousand pounds--yes, yes, I understand all about that,” said
Mr. Molyneux, with a mixture of disgust and weariness. This
infinitesimal, but always recurring, morsel of money bored him. But he
tried to keep his temper. He explained the duty of parents in such an
emergency with great fulness. If a sacrifice had to be made, it must, he
pointed out, be a mutual sacrifice. The question was not of five
thousand pounds, or five thousand pence, but how to “make up an income”
for the young people. Without an income there could be no marriage; it
was not a matter of feeling, but of arrangement; if the one side did so
much, the other side would do so much more. The great man explained the
position with all his natural wealth of words, and with all the ease of
wealth to which a hundred or two more of expenditure in a year mattered
comparatively little. But Mrs. Eastwood, who, as the reader is aware,
had enough, but not too much, listened with a dismay which she could
scarcely disguise. She who had been obliged to put down her carriage in
order to free her son, was not in a position to give large allowances to
either son or daughter. She made the best effort she could to maintain
her ground.
“I should have thought that your son, in your profession, in which you
are so eminent----” she began with an attempt to propitiate her amicable
adversary, who had changed the question so entirely from what appeared
to her its natural aspect.
“In my profession, ma’am, a man stands on his own merits, not his
father’s,” Mr. Molyneux answered, interrupting her with brusque
decision. What was poor Mrs. Eastwood to do? She could not give to Nelly
without being unjust to her other children, and yet how was she to have
the heart to crush Nelly’s happiness by refusing? A vision of her child,
hollow-eyed and pale, casting pathetic glances at her, which would be
worse than reproaches, flitted before her eyes. Girls have died ere now
of separation from their lovers, and Nelly (the mother thought) was the
kind of girl to break her heart without a complaint. Could she risk the
breaking of Nelly’s heart for a miserable question of money? This was an
influence infinitely more subtle and potent than Mr. Molyneux’s
eloquence. While he talked the good mother fought it out in her own
bosom. She gave her consent that he should see her solicitor and talk
over the matter, with a sort of despairing acquiescence and that
desperate trust in Providence which springs up in an oppressed soul when
driven to its last resources. Something might “come in the way.”
Nothing could be resolved upon at once; neither to-day nor to-morrow
could call for immediate action, and something might come in the way.
Mr. Molyneux saw Nelly before he went away, and was kind and fatherly,
kissing her on the forehead, an act which Mrs. Eastwood half resented,
as somehow interfering with her absolute property in her child. The
lover she tolerated, but the lover’s father was odious to her. And this
trial of her patience was all the more hard that she had to put the best
face upon it before Nelly, and to say that Mr. Molyneux and she did not
quite agree on some points, but that everything would come right by and
by. Nelly had always been her mother’s confidant, knowing everything,
and thrusting her ready youthful opinion and daring undoubting advice
into whatever was going on, and to shut her out now from all
participation in this crowning care was unspeakably hard.
And then the nature of the vexation which she had thus to conceal within
herself was so doubly odious--a question of money, which made her appear
even to herself as if she was a niggard where her child’s happiness was
involved, she who had never grudged Nelly anything all her life! Other
disagreeables, too, mingled in the matter. To be roused from the
pleasant confidence that all your friends think well of you by the
sudden discovery that some of them, at least, hold very lightly the
privilege of your special alliance, is not in itself consolatory.
Everything connected with the subject turned somehow into pain. Since
the time when the carriage was put down, no such incident had occurred
in the family, and Frederick’s debts, which were a kind of natural grief
in their way (for has not every man debts?), were not half so
overwhelming as this, nor did they bring half so many troubles in their
train.
When the love of lovers comes into a house which has hitherto been kept
warm and bright by the loves of parent and children, brother and sister,
the first thing it does in most cases is to make a rent and division. It
calls out the sense of self and personal identity, it breaks the soft
silken bonds of nature, and turns the hands a little while ago so
closely linked almost against each other. Nelly thought her mother was
hard to her Ernest, and Ernest thought his future mother-in-law was
already developing the true mother-in-law character, and was about to
become his natural enemy. He could not help giving hints of this to his
betrothed, which made Nelly unhappy. And then her mother would find her
crying, and on asking why, would be assailed with pitiful remonstrances.
“Dear mamma, why should you turn against Ernest? You used to like him
well enough. Is it because I am fond of him that you turn against him?”
Thus Nelly would moan, rending her mother’s heart.
All this introduced the strangest new commotion into the peaceful
household, and the reader will not wonder that poor Mrs. Eastwood, thus
held on the rack, was a little impatient of other annoyances. On the
very evening of the day on which she had the interview with Mr. Molyneux
above recorded, when she was going through the hall on her way
up-stairs, another vexing and suggestive incident disturbed her. The
hall was square with one little deep window on one side of the door, the
recess of which was filled with a window seat. Here some one was seated,
half visible in the darkness, with a head pressed against the window,
gazing out. Nothing could be more unlike the large windows of the
Palazzo Scaramucci, but the attitude and act were the same. Mrs.
Eastwood stopped, half alarmed, and watched the motionless figure. Then
she went forward with a wondering uneasiness.
“Is it you, Innocent?” she said.
“Yes.”
“What are you doing here? It is too cold to stand about in the hall,
and, besides, it is not a proper place for you. Go into the
drawing-room, dear, or come up-stairs with me. What are you doing here?”
“I am waiting,” said Innocent.
“For what, for whom?” said the mother, alarmed.
“For Frederick,” said the girl, with a long drawing out of breath, which
was almost a sigh.