CONCLUSION.
Some time after this last calamity a large party was assembled, one
bright October morning, in the drawing-room at The Elms. The house was
full of flowers,--it was full of commotion. Many carriages had cut up
the orderly little gravel drive round the shrubbery in front,--the door
had been standing open all the morning, there were groups of people
everywhere, even in the bedrooms, and the maids, in white ribbons,
fluttered about the staircase, and bran-new trunks, with shining leather
covers, stood in the hall. The dining-room door stood open, disclosing
more flowers; a large, long table, covered with the remains of a feast;
chairs thrust aside, and white napkins lying about as they had been left
when the party adjourned into the drawing-room, where they had all
gathered together in bright-coloured groups, waiting till the bride
should be ready. The bridegroom was already in the hall, looking at his
watch, and hearing gibes about the putting on of bonnets, and the
putting up of baggage, which was henceforward to be his accompaniment
through life;--his kind eyes shone as if they had been ten years
younger,--you could scarcely guess that he was getting bald about the
temples, so glorified was the man with that wonderful glow of happiness
which has a certain pathos in it when it comes a little later than
usual. And yet it was not late; he was quite a young man still, even the
bridesmaids said,--and his two young brothers-in-law, and his old
sister, all clustering about him at this moment in the hall, were ready,
at a moment’s notice, all three of them, to have gone to the stake for
John Vane. It speaks well for a man when he is thus supported on both
sides. A great deal of talk was coming from the drawing-room, where the
friends of the family, left to themselves, were discussing the matter,
as people say our friends always discuss us when our backs are turned.
There was nobody to keep this crowd in order. Mrs. Eastwood was
up-stairs with the bride. The rest of the domestic party were in the
hall, as I have said, consoling the bridegroom. Mrs. Everard, who rather
took it upon her to do the honours of the place when the head of the
house was absent, was herself the ringleader in this talk. Perhaps the
gentle reader would like to know what they were saying, before Nelly, in
her grey gown,--Nelly sobered out of her white into walking
costume,--Nelly with her eyes rather red, and her lip trembling a
little,--comes down-stairs.
“I never believed in the other business, for my part,” said Mrs.
Everard, dropping her voice. “Of course, we must not so much as allude
to it now, but you remember as well as I do when Nelly was supposed to
be going to do something very different. I never believed in it, not
even when we met him here continually, and the poor dear mother, who is
too good for this world, let it all go on without taking the most
ordinary preventives----”
“But, dear me!” said Mrs. Brotherton, the clergyman’s wife, “we heard
that every arrangement was made, and that the judge and his family went
into it quite as heartily as the Eastwoods did. Indeed, my husband met
them here at dinner when the engagement was declared.”
“Oh yes, exactly; so did I,” said Mrs. Everard, “but there are wheels
within wheels. I don’t mean to say I approve of that sort of thing, for
I’ve known it to spoil a girl’s prospects, and cause a great deal of
unhappiness; but, if you don’t care about feelings, acquiescing in an
engagement is a great deal better than opposing it, and often comes to
exactly the same thing.”
“I always understood,” said Mrs. Brotherton, indignantly, “that the
Eastwoods broke it off in consequence of the way in which he behaved
when poor Innocent was in trouble.”
“Are you talking of young Molyneux?” said her husband, interrupting; “My
dear, the less said about that the better. No man likes to remember that
his wife was once to have been somebody else’s wife----”
“Oh, you always take the man’s view of everything,” said the parson’s
wife, “but what I say is that it was Nelly who broke it off, and that
she was quite justified, and I wish all girls had as much spirit and
sense, to stand up for proper treatment.”
“Take my word for it, the Molyneuxes never meant it to come to
anything,” said Mrs. Everard, “they wouldn’t oppose, of course, for the
judge is wise, and knew that opposition is the very best way to fix a
young man. But I saw through it, from the beginning. I said to them over
and over again, ‘Why don’t you settle about the marriage?’”
“And why didn’t they? because he had not the heart to go and work at his
profession,” cried Mrs. Brotherton; “he was not well enough off to
marry, and he never will be, unless the judge dies and leaves him rich,
or unless he marries a woman with heaps of money. I am glad Nelly would
have nothing to do with him,” cried the parson’s wife, who stood up for
her own side. “What a comfort it is when a girl shows some spirit--there
is so little in the world.”
“I doubt if Nelly’s spirit had so much to do with it as you think,” said
Mrs. Everard mysteriously. “It was very silly of her mother not to tie
him up and settle the business. I always said so from the first. She
played into the judge’s hand, and let him do as he liked. You may depend
upon it, _he_ never meant it to come to anything from the very first.”
“Then he is a shabby wretch, and worse than I thought even a man could
be!” cried the other, with vehemence.
“Oh, trust me, he always knew what he was doing; and the poor dear
Eastwoods are sad simpletons,” cried Mrs. Everard, shaking her head with
a pity which was not, perhaps, quite respectful. And, indeed, I think
that this view of the question was generally adopted by society, which
likes to think that the woman has had the worst of it in all such cases.
Some one advanced however at this moment to ask information about “poor
Lady Longueville” in the most hushed and sympathetic tones, putting an
end to the previous subject.
“One does not like on such a day as this to say anything which could
bring a painful suggestion,” said this considerate personage; “but I
should like to know what has become of that poor girl.”
“She is very well indeed,” interposed Mrs. Brotherton. “She is with her
cousin, Miss Vane, at that quaint establishment of hers--You never heard
of it? It is not a sisterhood, and it is not a school----”
“I disapprove of all such mummery and nonsense,” said another guest,
rushing in. “Sisterhoods! what do we want with sisterhoods? Popish
rubbish--I’d send them all off to Rome; a pack of silly women----”
“‘Silly’ is the appropriate adjective to women, I believe,” said Mrs.
Brotherton, who was advanced in her views; “just as my husband puts
‘grey-haired’ to the noun ‘father,’ and ‘kind’ to the noun ‘mother’ in
his sermons. Innocent, however, is very happy among these silly
women--being silly herself, I suppose.”
“Very happy? after all that has happened?” said the sympathetic
questioner, holding up her hands with wonder and horror.
“Well! after a great misfortune, which was no fault of hers--and which,
fortunately, ended in no harm; to be sure she has lost her husband, poor
little thing--”
“That was a mistake--another mistake,” said Mrs. Everard, shaking her
head. “Poor Innocent is as well as can be expected, Lady Dobson. She is
very childish, and never will be anything else, I fear. She ought not to
have been allowed to marry. As for poor dear Sir Alexis, she could not
appreciate him when he was living, and she can’t be expected, I suppose,
to feel his death very much. It was a mistake altogether. Of course,
nobody could expect Mrs. Eastwood to do anything but jump at such a
marriage for her niece. But it was injudicious--and, for my part, I
always knew she was making a mistake.”
“What a sad story altogether! and to end in a convent--how romantic!”
“Convent, indeed! I did not know they went so far as to use that word in
Protestant England! What are we coming to, good heavens!”
“But the Eastwoods were always an obstinate race--- no getting them to
take advice--whenever they make up their minds to anything, wild horses
would not move them. What, Nelly coming down-stairs! Then let us see the
last of her, ladies,” said Mrs. Everard, remembering that it was her
place to do the honours as the most intimate friend of the house.
Nelly stood on the threshold in her grey gown; her mother held her by
one hand, her husband by the other. She looked back upon a cloud of
faces, all smiling, throwing good-byes and kind wishes at her--and, on
the other side, the horses pranced and tossed their proud heads, the
gates stood open, the sunshine streamed down through the brown trees,
the world lay before her.
“Good-bye, everybody,” she said; “and to you, for a little while,
mamma.” And that was the last of Nelly. There was never a Nelly yet
carried off by eager horses, by an eager bridegroom, among storms of
white shoes and good wishes, who was more dearly taken care of
thereafter than was the Nelly who signed herself from that day in
stately fashion, “Ellinor Vane.”
“You are all that are left to me now, boys,” said Mrs. Eastwood, as she
sat between them that evening, over the first fire of the season, which
had been lighted for consolation. “Nelly will come back, but she will
not be quite Nelly; one has to put up with it. You are all that are left
to me now----”
“And Innocent.”
“Yes, Innocent, poor child!----”
“Look here, mother,” said Jenny, somewhat hoarsely, “none of us know yet
what Innocent will come to. She’s had hard work for a beginning,--none
of us have had such hard work. As for Dick’s and mine, though we’re
sorry enough for ourselves, what has it been to hers? But you’ll see
there’s something to come of it. I suppose all that trouble is not
likely to be for nothing, is it?” he said, almost indignantly, as if
some one were opposing him; “if you mean what you say about Providence,
do you think that can be all for nothing? I don’t.”
“God bless her, poor child!” said the mother, with more faith than
conviction. “You always believed in her, Jenny.”
“And I do now more than ever,” said the boy, with a flush on his cheek,
going to the window, where he stood for five minutes, gazing out into
the darkness, though there was nothing to see. He was twenty by this
time, and his mind was one of those which work up to conclusions long
made, with an obstinacy which often brings about its own long-determined
aim. “It’s a fine night,” he added, coming back, as if the weather had
been all his thought. “What a bore that there’s no river to Sterborne! I
tell you what, Dick, the next best thing is to drive,--we’ll get a
carriage to-morrow, and drive my mother there----”
“What, drive me all the way?” cried the mother, half alarmed, yet
pleased that her boy should think of her pleasure.
“We could do it in two short days--like the people in the book you are
reading,” said Jenny: “why not? We’ll take you to the High Lodge to
Innocent, instead of going by the railway--and of course you’ll bring
her back with you here--Dick and I will look after the carriage
to-morrow morning--and we’ll expect you to be ready by twelve, mamma.”
“Bravo, old fellow!” said Dick, delighted; “and, Winks, my old friend,”
he added, as Winks dropped from his chair and came forward, stretching
himself, to inquire into the proposition which had startled him out of a
nap, “you shall go too----”
“But, my dear boys----” Mrs. Eastwood began in a tone of remonstrance.
“The best thing in the world for you, mamma,” said Dick, “and jolly for
us, once in a way, to have you all to ourselves.”
What could mortal woman, being the boys’ mother, say more? I am afraid
she would have considered favourably the idea of going to Nova Zembla,
wherever that may be, under such conditions. And Winks, though he yawned
as he listened, thought well of it too; he liked driving, on the whole,
though too much of it bored him, and he had not at all approved when his
mistress “put down” her carriage. They set off next morning in the
brightness of noon, through the country which had not yet lost any of
its beauty, though here and there the trees had yellow patches on them,
and the parks were all burnt brown with the heat of summer. They were a
very merry party, notwithstanding that the final examination was hanging
over Dick’s head, and the parting which must follow. Winks, for his
part, after two or three hours of it, got bored with the levity of the
conversation, and rustled about so, that he was put out of the carriage
to run for the good of his health. He went along for a mile or two,
pleased enough, gathering dust in clouds about him. But when he
intimated a desire to be taken in, the boys, hard-hearted beings,
laughed in the face of Winks.
“A run will do you good, old fellow,” said Dick, with cruel
satisfaction. A short time afterwards, I am sorry to say, a dreadful
accident, nature unknown, happened to Winks. He uttered a heart-rending
shriek, and appeared immediately after making his way towards the
carriage, holding up one feathery paw in demonstrative suffering. The
anxious party stopped immediately, and Winks made his way to them,
laboriously limping and uttering plaintive cries. But when, all a-dust
as he was, this hypocrite was lifted into the carriage, holding up the
injured member--and was softly laid upon the softest cushion to have it
examined, words fail me to express the sardonic grin with which he
showed his milk-white teeth. There was no more the matter with the
little villain’s paw, my gentle reader, than with yours or mine.
Never was there a pleasanter two days’ journey than this which Mrs.
Eastwood made with her boys through the sunshiny autumn country, along
the road, where gold-coloured leaves dropped in her lap as they drove
her along, now one on the box, now another, in their turn; till the High
Lodge at last appeared in sight all covered with white downy clusters of
clematis done flowering, with late roses, and matted network of
interlacing leaves. Innocent rushed to the door, slim and pale in her
black dress, her eyes shining with sudden delight, her soft face
inspired.
“You have come to take me home. I am Nelly now!” she cried, throwing her
arms about the common mother. Jenny, whom she had not noticed, leant
back upon the carriage, looking at her with eyes that glowed under his
dark brows. He had always stood by Innocent since the day when he had
read Greek to her in the Lady’s Walk; he had always been sure that
“something would come of her.” “We don’t know half what Innocent will
come to!” he repeated now to himself.
GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, PRINTERS, ST. JOHN’S SQUARE, LONDON.