THE FIRST DESERTER.
The next morning after this event, Ernest Molyneux, with a newspaper in
his hand, jumped out of a hansom at the door of The Elms and rushed into
the house. The door was open; a certain air of agitation and excitement
was about the place, some trunks stood in the hall, corded and labelled
as for a journey. He told Brownlow, who came out of the dining-room at
the sound of his arrival, to send Miss Eastwood to him directly, and
made his way into the drawing-room, which was empty. Empty, arranged
with all its usual peaceful order and grace, full of sunshine, sweet
with the flowers which looked in brightly through the round window-door
of the conservatory, with novels from Mudie’s on the table, Mrs.
Eastwood’s work-basket, and Nelly’s knitting. Nothing can excuse
untidiness in an English house--the housemaid must do her duty whether
we live or die, or even if things happen to us which are worse than life
or death. Molyneux was confounded by the tranquil comfort, the
brightness and calm of this shrine of domestic life. It checked him in
his eagerness and heat. The horrible news in the paper seemed to lose
all appearance, all possibility of truth. He calmed down. He asked
himself what he would have to say to Nelly after demanding her presence
in such hot haste if this rumour was not true. A little shame, a little
compunction came into his mind. He had not come here to console, but to
reproach. He had to wait for some time before she came, and in the
meantime the absolute stillness of the house, the tranquillizing warmth
and brightness of the sunshine, worked upon him with the most curious
effect. He became more and more ashamed of himself, and I do not know
what moral result might have been produced in the end had Nelly delayed
her coming much longer, or had her own demeanour carried out the effect
of this scene. But Nelly came in with red eyes and pale cheeks, in the
simplest of travelling dresses, with this look of mingled excitement and
exhaustion which more than anything else betrays “something wrong” in
the history of a family. She came in eagerly, almost running to him,
with that instinctive and unconscious appeal which is conveyed by
visible expectation, and which it is so difficult to disappoint, her
hands outstretched, her eyes ready to fill with tears. The sight of her
emotion, however, had an effect upon Molyneux which totally counteracted
the calm of the house. It restored him to his position of criticism and
superiority. He took her hands, it is true, and even kissed her cheek,
though with something of that indifference which comes with habit. But
he made no demonstration of sympathy. He said hastily, “Nelly, I am come
to you for information. Have you seen what is in the papers? Surely,
surely, it cannot be true!”
The check and sudden revulsion which comes to all who expect too much
came to Nelly. She withdrew her hands from him. Her tears, which were
ready to fall, went back somehow. She retreated a little from his side;
but her pride supported her. At that moment and for ever Nelly closed
the doors of her heart against her lover. It is true indeed, as the
reader will perceive, that she threw them open again once, and once
only, not knowing that her decision had been made, and believing there
was still a place of repentance; but certainly, though she was not aware
of it, those doors closed now with a crash of sound which rang in her
ears and made her deaf to everything else. She thought for the moment,
however, that the ringing in her ears meant only weariness and pain, and
sat down, to keep herself from fainting, in her mother’s chair.
“If you mean is it true that Innocent, poor Innocent, has done what they
say,” said Nelly, low and trembling, “but all the rest is true enough.
They have put her in---- Oh me! Oh me! how can I say it? It is those
dreadful people, whom Frederick bound himself to for a curse to us all.”
“But,” said Molyneux--he was more bewildered than I can say to find
himself uncontradicted, to know that anything so incredible was really
true--“but those dreadful people, as you call them, could not do this
without some cause, something to build upon. For God’s sake, tell me!
How do they dare? Is there any foundation?”
“Mamma went down to inquire the very day,” said Nelly dreamily,
repeating the old story; “she lost no time. She came back saying it was
sheer delusion, nothing more. There was no foundation. Every one was
quite satisfied that Mrs. Frederick died of heart-disease. Nobody,
except Innocent herself, ever dreamt of anything of the kind.”
“But Innocent herself--what was it that she dreamt of? What was the
delusion?”
“She had to give a sleeping draught, and she gave--too much,” said Nelly
simply. “She was frightened to death. She left the house instantly, and
came home. Oh, how well I recollect that dreadful morning. She came in
accusing herself, and Jane heard what she said. Ernest, could such
evidence harm her? Is it possible? Her own wild idea, nothing more.”
“I am bewildered by all this,” said Molyneux. “You have known it ever
since Mrs. Frederick’s death, and I have been allowed to---- You have
never breathed a syllable to me.”
“Oh, how could I?” cried Nelly. “Think, to put it into words was like
giving some sanction to it; and you were not fond of her as we were. It
was on my lips a hundred times. But, Ernest, you were not fond of her.”
“No, thank Heaven!” he said, walking up and down the room. The chief
feeling in his mind was anger, mingled with a certain satisfaction in
the sense that he had a right to be angry. “I hope, at least,
Longueville knew,” he added, after a pause. “I hope you think he, being
fond of Innocent, had the right----”
“Ernest,” said Nelly piteously, moved by one of those last relentings of
love which cannot, for very pity, consent to its own extinction, “surely
you have some feeling for us in our great trouble. It was because poor
Innocent told him, appealed to him, that they ever married at all. He
was very, very kind, very good--to us all.”
“Apparently, then, everybody has been considered worthy of your
confidence but myself,” said Molyneux; but, notwithstanding, the
knowledge that Sir Alexis knew made him think better of the business.
Longueville, he thought, was not such a fool as to have married a girl
against whom there was real evidence of such a tremendous character. “It
is a very good thing that you have Longueville to depend upon,” he said,
after a pause. “Of course, it is chiefly his business; of course, he has
been making his arrangements to meet the danger; he will get the best
counsel--the best----”
“Ernest,” said Nelly, rising from her seat. She put her hands together
unconsciously as she went up to him--“Ernest! We have often talked of
what might be, if something really worth your while should offer; not
mere troublesome law-business, but something that would really exercise
your mind--something worthy of you. And, Ernest, would it not be all the
more great, the more noble, if it was to save an innocent creature from
destruction? You know her almost as well as we do,” cried the girl, the
big tears running down her pale cheeks. “You have seen her grow from
almost a child. You know how simple she is, how innocent, like her name.
Perhaps she was slow at first to see that we loved her. Perhaps we did
not go the right way. But you have seen it all, Ernest; you have known
her from the first--from a child. She never was anything but a child.
And you are eloquent--you could bring any one through whose cause you
took up. Oh, what a power it is--and when you can use it to save the
innocent, Ernest! I do not say for my sake----”
She stood before him more eloquent in her tears than he, with all his
cleverness, could ever have been, with one soft appealing hand on his
arm, and the other raised in passionate entreaty. Her eyes were fixed
upon him with a prayer as passionate--all Nelly’s heart, all her soul,
was in this appeal. It was for Innocent--to save her; it was for
Ernest--to save him; it was for herself, poor Nelly, to change her
despairing into life and hope. Never was face more full of emotion than
the glowing, moving, tearful face, every line quivering, every feature
inspired, which she turned upon him. Her very look was a prayer intense
and passionate. But opposite to this entreating face was one which
lowered like the skies when everything is black with storm. Ernest shut
himself as heaven itself seems to close sometimes upon the prayers of
the despairing. He stood obdurate, unmoving, unmoved, looking at her
with blank brows, answering with a hard abstinence from all emotion the
imploring look, the impassioned words. Nelly saw how it was before she
had ceased speaking; but she repulsed the chill of certainty from her
heart, and prayed on with eyes and gestures, even when she felt herself
to be praying against hope.
At last he threw off, not roughly, but crossly, her hand from his arm,
and, as he himself would have said, “put a stop to it.”
“Nelly,” he said, “are you mad? What do you mean? Longueville, you may
be sure, has secured counsel already; I suppose he has not been taken by
surprise as I have been? And supposing I could do it, would you have me
begin my career under such unfavourable circumstances, on the spur of
the moment, for the sake of mere family connexion? I have often heard
that women carried their feeling for their own family a very long way;
but to prefer this girl and her folly to the interests of your future
husband--to ask _me_ to commit myself---- Are you mad, Nelly? Why, my
interests are yours--my character is yours. You should beg me rather to
keep out of it--you should keep out of it yourself, for my sake. What is
Innocent to us?--a silly, creature, half idiot, an ungrateful little
minx, fond of nobody but Frederick, and, I daresay, capable of striking
a bold stroke for him, as she seems to say she has done. Don’t look at
me as if you would eat me. I don’t say she has done it. I know nothing
but what you have told me.”
Nelly shrank away from him to her mother’s chair. A burning blush
covered her face; her tears dried up as if by scorching heat. Her eyes
flashed and shone; her whole aspect, her very figure seemed to change.
“I may ask at least one thing of you,” she said; “and that is to forget
what I told you. I was very foolish to say so much. Women are prone to
that, I suppose, as you say; but I may trust to your honour to forget
it? not to repeat it to any one? I shall be very thankful if you will
promise that.”
“Why, Nelly!” he cried, “_I_ repeat what you have said to me! You don’t
take me for a scoundrel, I hope, because I don’t act upon everything you
say----”
She smiled faintly, and bowed her head, accepting the assurance; and
then between these two, who had loved each other, who were betrothed and
bound to each other, there ensued a pause. She said nothing, she did not
even look at him; and he looking at her, feeling somehow that greater
things had happened even than those which appeared, cast about in his
mind how to speak, and did not know what to say.
“Nelly,” he said, at last, clearing his throat, “I see you are angry
with me; and, though I think you are rather unreasonable, I am very
sorry to vex you. I would do as much as most men for the girl I love;
but I should be compromising your prospects, as well as my own, were I
to plunge into this business without reflection, as you tell me. I am
sure, when you are cool and able to think, you will see the justice of
what I say.”
Still Nelly made no answer. She could not trust herself to speak; her
heart beat too loudly, her breath came too fast. But to him it seemed
obduracy, determined and conscious resistance, like his own.
“If this is how you take it, of course I can’t help myself,” he said;
“but you are very unjust--and unreasonable. A woman may stretch her
demands too far. There is much that I would be glad to do for your sake;
but, even for your sake, it is best that I should employ my own
judgment; and I cannot do what that judgment condemns----”
“No,” said Nelly, “No--I did not say for my sake; but if I did it would
not have mattered. No, you must use your own judgment. But will you
excuse me now,” she added, after a momentary pause, “if I say good-bye?
We are going--to Sterrington directly, and I have still some things to
do.”
“To Sterrington! To mix yourself up with Innocent, and trumpet your
connexion with her to all the world!”
“To stand by one of mamma’s children in her trouble,” said Nelly,
looking at him with tears shining in her eyes, and with a smile which
increased his exasperation a hundredfold. “I am sorry you do not
understand. Mamma’s place is with Innocent, and mine with mamma.”
“This is folly, Nelly,” he cried, “absolute folly. She has her husband
to look after her. Have I no claims? and for my sake you ought not to
go.”
She rose, holding out her hand to him, still with that pale smile upon
her face. “Let us part friends,” she said. “This is not a time to
discuss any one’s claims. What you cannot do for my sake I will not do
for yours. Good-bye.”
“Is this final?” he cried, in rage and dismay.
“It would be best so,” said Nelly gently.
But she did not know how he went away. She kept her composure, and
appeared, so far as he could make out, as resolute as she was calm; but
there was a dimness in Nelly’s eyes and a ringing in her ears. The room
seemed to swim about her, and his face, which flamed into sudden rage,
then went out, as it were, like an extinguished light. Gradually the
darkness that closed over everything lightened again, and she found he
had gone. She had not fainted nor lost consciousness, but a mist had
overspread her soul and her thoughts, and all that was done and said.
She sat still where he left her, quite silent, coming to herself. She
forgot that she had things to do, and that it would soon be time for the
train. She sat still, realizing what had happened, looking, as it were,
at what she had done. She was not sorry but stunned, wondering how she
came to do it--not grieved that she had done it. I don’t know how long
she sat thus; it seemed to her hours, but that of course was a mere
impression. What roused her at last was the entrance of another man, as
much excited, as anxious, and curious as Ernest had been. He came to
offer his services, to ask if he should go at once and put himself at
the disposal of Sir Alexis; and in the second place--only in the second
place--to ask what it meant. Nelly sat and listened to his eager
questions, and then burst into sudden tears. She gave him no reason for
them--why should she? There were reasons enough and to spare, without
diving into her personal history, for any outburst of sorrow. John Vane
put no questions, but he had met Ernest rushing in the opposite
direction, and I think he divined that some reflection of a personal
misery was in Nelly’s paleness and agitation. But he asked her no
questions, and he tried not to ask himself any, which was harder still.
When Mrs. Eastwood came into the room, which she did very soon after in
her bonnet and cloak ready for the journey, Vane went up to her, holding
out his hand.
“Forgive me,” he said humbly, “for having done you a temporary wrong in
my thoughts.”
“How so, Mr. Vane?” said Mrs. Eastwood, with a faint smile, the first
that had relieved the tension of her pale face since the terrible news
came.
“I can understand now all about Innocent’s marriage,” he said. “God
forgive me for doubting her best friends. I thought you were like other
women--thinking of a good match above everything.”
“Are you so sure that other women think of a good match above
everything?” said Mrs. Eastwood, once more with a smile, and then as she
had spared a moment from Innocent, compunction seized her. “What are we
to do,” she cried, “oh, what are we to do for my poor child?”
“I am going with you,” said Vane, to whose own eyes (though he was a man
not given to emotion) the moisture rose. Mrs. Eastwood sent Nelly away
to put on her bonnet, knowing nothing of the interview which Nelly had
gone through in the meantime--and entered into all the dismal story
which Nelly had briefly unfolded to him. He made no reproaches as Ernest
had done--that he had not been told at the time. He understood without
explanations how unwilling they must have been to confide such a story
to any one, even to Innocent’s relation; and he listened with the
deepest attention to Mrs. Eastwood’s account of her own cursory visit to
Sterborne, and the total absence of all suspicion at the time of
Amanda’s death. John Vane, an idle man, had read for the bar in a wrong
way in his youth, not pursuing the study, but yet retaining some
fragments of knowledge--and it seemed to him that this was very
important. He discussed the whole matter closely, giving, his companion
thought, his whole attention to it; but yet--will the reader think less
well of John Vane for it?--within a corner of his mind or heart, if you
like the word better, he was following Nelly, wondering why she took so
long to put on her bonnet--whether she was crying, poor soul, over some
lost illusion, some disappointed hope of her own, as well as over her
cousin? He was almost glad to think that he alone was, as it were, in
her confidence--that even her mother did not know that Molyneux had been
there and had disappointed Nelly. He must have disappointed her (this
train of thought went on like an undercurrent while he discussed, and
that with an anxiety beyond words, the fate of Innocent)--he must have
disappointed her, for he had left her. No true lover--no man worthy to
be Nelly’s husband--would have left her at such a moment. Had she been
wise enough to see this? Would she be strong enough to perceive it
hereafter? Mrs. Eastwood did not know--she made not the slightest
allusion to Ernest. When Nelly had come down-stairs, and the cab had
driven up to the door which was to take them to the railway, she left
detailed instructions with Brownlow as to the messages to be given to
callers. “You can tell Mrs. Everard and Mr. Brotherton, if they call,
that they will hear from me very soon,” she said; “and the same to Mr.
Molyneux; though, indeed, Nelly, it is negligent not to have let Ernest
know sooner.”
“I have let him know,” said Nelly softly; and Vane thought she gave him
a piteous appealing look, as if to beg him not to say anything--a look
which almost made him glad, though she was in trouble, and they were all
in trouble. There are things that make one’s heart rise even in the
midst of lamentation and woe.
“That is well--that is always something spared,” said Mrs. Eastwood,
with a sigh; “and be careful of the young gentlemen, Brownlow. Ask Mr.
Eastwood if he would like any change made in the dinner-hour while I am
away, and see that Mr. Richard is called regularly at seven, and that he
has his coffee. My poor Dick must go on working, whatever happens,” she
said, taking her place in the cab with a sigh.
And thus Innocent’s friends, all who loved her, gathered round in her
direst need. There was but one deserter, and he no friend of hers.