MRS. EASTWOOD’S INVESTIGATION.
“I feel for you very deeply,” said Mrs. Eastwood. “It is a terrible
calamity. Your child, whom you hoped would close your eyes, whom you
never thought to see taken before you----”
“She was the apple of my eye,” said poor Batty, sobbing. Except when he
stupefied himself with drink, or rushed into his business, and swore and
raged at every one round him, which were the only ways he had of seeking
a momentary forgetfulness, the man, coarse and sensual as he was, was
tragic in his grief. “There was never one like her, at least to me. I do
not say but she might have been faulty to others; but to her old father
she was everything. I thank you from my heart for this respect. You
mightn’t be fond of my girl, while she lived. I ask no questions. It was
because you didn’t know her--how could you?--like I knew her, that have
nursed her, and have doted on her from a baby; but thank you all the
same for the respect. It would have gone to her heart--my poor ’Manda!
Oh, ma’am, the beauty that girl was! I never saw anything to come nigh
to her. Her temper was quick, always hasty, ready with a word or a
blow--but always the first to come round and forgive those that had
crossed her. My life’s over, my heart’s broken. I don’t care for
nothing, horses nor houses, nor my garden, nor my bit of money--nothing,
now she’s gone.”
“Indeed, I feel for you very deeply,” said Mrs. Eastwood, “and at her
age, so young, it is doubly hard--and so unexpected.”
She recurred to this with a reiteration which was unlike her usual
sympathetic understanding of others. There was an eager anxiety in her
eyes when she suggested that Amanda’s death was unlooked for. Frederick
sat by with a countenance composed to the woe of the occasion, and
strangely impressed by the profound feeling in his mother’s face,
watched her anxiously, but could not understand. What did she mean? Was
she really so grieved for Amanda? Had the shock and pain of so sudden an
ending really produced this profound effect upon her? or was she so
conscious of the advantage which Amanda’s death would bring with it,
that natural compunction made her exaggerate her expressions of
sympathy? Frederick could not tell, but he watched his mother,
wondering. There were circles of weariness and care round her eyes, and
signs of suppressed and painful anxiety, and an eager watchfulness,
which was incomprehensible to him, were visible in her whole aspect. She
even breathed quickly, as with a feverish excitement, all the more
painful that it was suppressed.
“I thought you were aware, mother,” he said, “that poor Amanda had been
threatened for years with this which has happened now in so terrible a
way. The doctors have always said----”
“The doctors, confound ’em!” cried Batty. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but
it’s hard for a man to keep his patience. They’re ready enough to talk,
but what can they do, these fellows? Keep her quiet, they told me. My
God! didn’t I do everything a man could do to keep her quiet, gave her
all she wanted, never crossed her, let her have her way in everything!
There is nothing I wouldn’t have done for my girl. She’d have had gold
to eat and drink if that would have done it. I’d have took her anywhere,
got her anything. But no. Ask ’em, and they tell you all that is
unpleasant, but give you a way to mend it--no. They do it, I sometimes
think, to make their own words come true. ‘She’ll go off one day, all in
a moment,’ they said to me, years and years ago. Says I, ‘I’ll give you
half I’ve got, all I’ve got, if you will make it so as this shan’t be.’
Trust them for that. They gave her physic and stuff, and shook their
wise heads, and said she was to be kept quiet. What had keeping quiet to
do with it? We’ve all quick tempers. I never could master mine myself,
and how was she to be expected to master hers? From father to son and
from mother to daughter, the Battys were always a word and a blow. I’d
rather that a deal than your slow, quiet, sullen ones, that hides their
feelings. No, you may say it was unexpected, for how was I to believe
them? A bit of a flare-up never did me no harm. I never believed them.
But now here’s their d----d artfulness--it’s come true.”
“And she knew it herself?” said Mrs. Eastwood, with searching, anxious
gaze. “Oh, Mr. Batty, try and take a little comfort! It must have made
her think more seriously than you suppose, if she knew it herself.”
Batty gave her a dull look of wonder from his tearful blood-shot eyes;
and then he launched forth again into panegyrics upon his lost child.
“She was none of your quiet, sullen ones--still water as runs deep. She
said what she thought, did my ’Manda. She might be too frank and too
open to please them as hide their thoughts, but she always pleased her
father. There’s aunty, now, that was constantly with my girl, will tell
you ’Manda was always the one to make it up; whatever was done or said,
she was the one to make it up. She spoke her mind free, but it was over
directly. You should have seen her when she was a bit of a girl; she’d
ride anything you put her upon--till the doctors said it was bad for
her. When she was a baby I used to grumble and wish for a boy; but I’d
never have been as proud of a boy as I was of my beauty, when I saw what
she was coming to. From fifteen there never was a man as saw her that
wasn’t mad about her. Your son, here, ma’am, Fred, as she always called
him, poor girl, was the one that had the luck to please her; I don’t
know why, for many is the handsome fellow, titles and all that, I’ve had
to send away. I’ve nothing to say against Fred, but she might have done
a deal better. And now she’s gone, where there’s neither marrying nor
giving in marriage. You are sorry for Fred, of course it’s but natural;
but it isn’t half to Fred that it is to me. Give us your hand, my boy; I
always look upon you as my son, for her sake--but it isn’t half the blow
to you as it is to me.”
Frederick had started to his feet when he had heard himself first spoken
of in this familiar fashion. The familiarity chafed him almost beyond
endurance. He stood at the window, with his back towards his
father-in-law, as Batty wept and maundered. Fiery rage was in
Frederick’s mind. What had this man, this fellow, to do with him? a man
with whom he had no relationship, no bond of connexion? He took no
notice of the outstretched hand. When would those slow hours pass, and
the time be over during which decency compelled him to endure his odious
presence? What would he not give when it was all ended, when this
horrible chapter in his life should be closed, and he himself restored
to his natural sphere among his equals, restoring to his mother all the
comforts which Amanda’s existence had diminished, and taking once more
his natural place. How he longed suddenly, all at once, for his old
home! He would never go back to the house which had been Amanda’s; he
would sell everything, disperse everything that could remind him of this
episode which, God be thanked, was over. Batty, though he stretched out
his hand in maudlin affectionateness, was satisfied that Frederick had
not observed the gesture, and did not resent the absence of response.
But Frederick had seen and loathed the offered touch. The days that must
pass perforce before he could finally cut the last lingering ties which
decency required him to respect seemed to him an age.
“I should like to see the--the--excellent person who attended upon poor
Amanda,” said Mrs. Eastwood, whose looks were still watchful and
anxious, though a certain relief had stolen over her face. “Might I
speak to her and thank her for her devotion--to my daughter-in-law?” she
added, almost rousing Frederick from his own preoccupied condition by
the astounding interest and sympathy she showed. What could she mean by
it? When Batty, pleased by the request, went himself to call aunty,
Frederick turned to his mother with something of his old peremptory and
authoritative ways.
“You did not always seem so fond of your daughter-in-law,” he said.
“Oh, Frederick!” cried Mrs. Eastwood, with a depth of feeling which
surprised him more and more. “I never wished her any harm. God forbid
that I should have wished her any harm!”
“Has anyone ever supposed you did?” he cried, with some impatience.
His mother put her handkerchief to her eyes. “God knows I am
sorry--sorry to the bottom of my heart,” she said, “for her, and for the
poor man who has lost his child. Whatever she was to us, she was his
child to him. But, Frederick, I am not quite disinterested in my
motives, God forgive me; it is for Innocent’s sake.”
“Are you out of your senses, mother? For Innocent’s sake?”
“Oh, hush, my dear! that I may ascertain the circumstances exactly, and
how much is known. Oh, hush! Frederick, here they are. Don’t say a word
more.”
He had to conceal his bewilderment, which was beyond describing, as
aunty, in a black gown and with her handkerchief rolled up tight into a
ball in her hand, came into the room. When he heard his mother speak to
this woman in soft caressing tones, and beg to hear an account of
everything, every incident and detail--it seemed to Frederick that his
understanding of the meaning of words must be deserting him. “Tell me
everything; it is all of the deepest interest to me, and there is a
mournful satisfaction in knowing the details,” said poor Mrs. Eastwood,
putting forth the conventional words with an uncomfortable sense of her
son’s criticism, and his doubt of her sincerity. But Batty had no doubt.
He was flattered by Mrs. Eastwood’s anxiety, by her desire to know all.
“I ain’t equal to it myself,” he said, “but she will tell you,” and
withdrew to a corner, to listen and sob, and moan over his child’s name.
Mrs. Eastwood could not see his grief without becoming sympathetic. As
for Frederick, he had heard the particulars often enough, and had no
wish to hear them again. He was surprised and half offended by his
mother’s strange mission. For Innocent’s sake! Were the women all mad
together, one madder than the other? or what did she, what could she
mean? He went out into the garden, his only refuge during these days
when decorum forbade him to be seen; there he lighted a cigar, and with
his hands in his pockets strolled about the paths. His mind turned to
Innocent, and he thought to himself how pleasant it would have been to
have had her there now, holding his arm with her delicate hand, hanging
upon him, looking up in his face. He took almost a fit of longing for
Innocent. But what folly about her could his mother have got into her
head? what did she mean?
Mrs. Eastwood had a long interview with aunty. She heard everything
about Amanda’s illness; how aunty had thought badly of her from the
first, seeing her strength give way; how her excitableness, poor dear,
grew greater and greater, so that not a day passed without one or two
outbreaks; how she took a fancy to “the young lady,” saying she’d have
her to sit with her, and not her ordinary nurse; how there had been a
long silence when Innocent went to the room, while she was reading; how,
after this, aunty had heard Amanda’s voice in high excitement, talking
loud and fast; how there had come a sudden stillness, a stillness so
great that it waked poor aunty from her doze; how she had rushed to the
rooms and found her patient in a faint, as she at first thought, with
“the poor young lady” standing over her. “The poor child ran off from us
in the midst of our bustle,” said aunty, “and I don’t wonder; she was
frightened, and I hope no harm happened to her, poor thing. She was
young to see death, and a nice young lady. I hope she came to no harm?”
“Oh no--except the shock to her nerves,” said Mrs. Eastwood. “She came
straight home. It was the best thing she could do.”
“The very best thing,” assented aunty. “And if you’ll believe me, ma’am,
what with the bustle, and grieving so, and my mind being full of one
thing, I never even thought of the poor young lady till to-day. I’m
thankful to hear she’s all safe, and not another house plunged into
trouble like we are. I was saying an hour since, my heart was sore for
her, poor young thing, her first being from home, as far as I
understood, and to come into a house of such sore trouble, and to see
death without notice or warning. It was hard upon such a child.”
“Yes, it was very hard,” said Mrs. Eastwood. “I left her ill in bed, her
nerves shattered to pieces. And what a shock, what a night for you----”
“Oh, ma’am, you may say that,” cried aunty, with tears. “I’ve nursed her
from a baby, and nobody could care for her like me, except her poor
father, as worshipped the ground she trod on. She’s as beautiful as an
angel,” said the faithful woman; “never all her life, when she was at
her best, did I see her like what she is now. Oh, ma’am, you’ve a
feeling heart, besides being Mrs. Frederick’s mother, and a relation
like the rest of us. You’ll come up-stairs and look at her, poor dear.”
And Mrs. Eastwood was taken up-stairs, and what with infinite pity, what
with unspeakable relief and ease of mind, cried so over Amanda’s deathly
beauty, that Batty and his humble sister-in-law were flattered and
comforted beyond expression. She was a real lady, they both said--no
pride like the other Eastwoods, or the rest of that sort, but with a
feeling heart, and showing such respect as was Amanda’s due. She made a
conquest of both, and the household put itself at her feet when, with
red eyes and a voice tremulous with emotion, she came down-stairs. She
was just in time to receive Miss Vane, who, driving from the High Lodge
in fulfilment of her promise to reclaim Innocent and pay a visit of
ceremony to Mrs. Frederick, discovered to her consternation what had
happened, and was anxiously questioning the servants about Innocent
when Mrs. Eastwood came down-stairs.
“Went away in the middle of the night?” said Miss Vane. “Pardon me for
speaking out. What a very strange thing to do?”
“She is a strange girl,” said Mrs. Eastwood. “She was shocked and
frightened beyond measure. The only thought in her mind was to get
home.”
“It was very odd all the same, very odd, in the middle of the night, and
when she might have been of use. I must write to my brother Reginald,
and let him know she has left me. He will be surprised. I am glad she is
safe in your hands,” said Miss Vane pointedly; “a girl that does such
things is dangerous to have about one.”
“Indeed, you mistake poor Innocent,” said Mrs. Eastwood. “She is not
like other girls----”
“Ah, that is evident,” said Miss Vane. “I liked her too; there were many
things in her that I liked; but a girl that acts so on impulse--I ought,
however, to condole with you, Mrs. Eastwood. How very sad for--your
son.”
“It is a great shock,” said Mrs. Eastwood. She was so much excited and
agitated, that on the smallest inducement she was ready to cry again.
Miss Vane regarded Frederick’s mother with eyes of somewhat severe
criticism. No doubt a certain decorum was necessary; but for the
relations of a man who had made so unfortunate a marriage to pretend to
grieve over the death of the objectionable wife seemed to her absolute
duplicity. She eyed poor Mrs. Eastwood severely, making mental
commentaries upon her red eyes, which were very little to her favour. “I
had never the advantage of seeing Mrs. Frederick Eastwood,” she said,
drily. “She was very handsome, I have always heard.”
Then there was a pause; neither of the ladies knew what to say to each
other. That she should be found here, doing as it were the honours of
Batty’s house, was not a position pleasant to Mrs. Eastwood, and she
realized it for the first time now when her mind was relieved in respect
to Innocent. But what could she say? She could not explain her horror of
fear, her painful mission, to this representative of Innocent’s family,
who already looked suspicious and disapproving both at herself and at
the strange conduct of the poor girl whom no one understood. When the
pause had lasted so long that it was necessary to break it, she said
hurriedly, “If poor Innocent had not been so much startled and
shocked--so overcome, in short, by what happened before her eyes--I am
sure she would have asked me to explain to you. But she is so young, and
had never seen death before, and such a sensitive, imaginative----”
“Do you think she is imaginative? She looks it certainly--but I found
her matter-of-fact,” said Miss Vane, determined to give no countenance
to these wild proceedings. Mrs. Eastwood was thus driven upon another
tack.
“I am going back this afternoon,” she said, “her story was so
incoherent, poor child; and I feared for the effect the shock might
have--upon my son.”
“Is he imaginative too?” asked Miss Vane.
“He is my boy,” said Mrs. Eastwood, with a comforting flush of
indignation and offence, “naturally my first thought was for him. I go
back to my other poor child to-night.”
“A most fatiguing journey for you, I am sure,” said the visitor, and
they took a stately leave of each other, with no very friendly feeling.
Had the brother only been there instead of the sister! Mrs. Eastwood
thought to herself. John Vane was the only person in the world to whom
possibly she might have confided the terror she had gone through--who
might have advised what was best to be done. Even to Frederick, Mrs.
Eastwood reflected, she never could whisper the horrible delusion which
had taken possession of Innocent’s mind. For it could be nothing but
delusion--yet how vivid, how powerful! Nelly knew of it, and Alice, who
were safe as herself; and Mrs. Eastwood could not but recollect the
other listener, whose commonplace imagination would never be satisfied
by any certainty that the confession she had heard was the outburst of a
mere delusion. The experience of life made her very well aware that
nothing is ever long concealed which has been put into words in the
hearing of an uninterested bystander; and should any emergency arise,
what should she--what could she do? There was no one whom she dared
trust--not Frederick, not Ernest Molyneux. The secret must be locked in
their own bosoms; nothing could be done but to keep it a secret. Even
John Vane--but on the thought of him alone her anxious mind reposed with
a certain consolation--of all the world, he was the only one who might,
perhaps, help them, should any terrible necessity for help ever come.
Miss Vane, on her part, went away shaking her head. “There is something
in it all I don’t understand,” she said to the Sister, who awaited her
in the pony carriage outside. “Innocent never concealed her dislike to
Mrs. Frederick. Though she talked so little, she could talk on that
subject.”
“Poor child, she was so simple and sincere, she said what she thought,”
answered Sister Emily, whom Innocent’s church-going ways had deeply
impressed.
“Oh, sincere! well, I suppose you may call that sincerity,” said Miss
Vane; “but few people would like such sincerity in respect to
themselves; and why with these feelings Innocent should have been so
shocked, I can’t imagine. Depend upon it, there is something more in the
whole business than meets the eye. I shall write to my brother all about
it to-day.”