Chapter XLII: After the Wedding

The ball at Mrs. Barclay’s was brilliant, and the Eastwood family were, as was natural, the most honoured guests. And I suppose that Nelly and her brothers, being young, enjoyed themselves, as the phrase is, and were able to cast off their melancholy. Dick at least was perfectly able to cast it off, the more especially as he met the reigning lady of his affections--the girl whom he had many thoughts of asking to go out with him to India--thoughts which were tempered by the wholesome fear of having his proposal treated with much contumely as a boy’s fancy at home. He danced with her half the evening, and sat out with her on the crowded staircase, and consumed much ice and lemonade in her company, and was very happy. Jenny, who had not been properly looked after in his dancing when he was young, and was very doubtful of his own steadiness in a waltz, stalked about the rooms and talked to the people he knew, and said it was a great bore, yet was vaguely exhilarated, as one is when under twenty, by the crowd, and the lights, and the music. Frederick, of course, being still in the first gloom of his widowhood, did not come. And, as for Nelly, though she expected nothing but to be miserable, she, too, found the evening pass off much less disagreeably than she anticipated. Molyneux, somewhat frightened by the decided stand she had made, and piqued by the possibility of rejection after all, was more constantly at her side than he had been since the early days of their engagement; and Vane, looking more friendly than in the morning, asked her to dance with him, on purpose it would seem to make up for his former coldness. He kept aloof from Mrs. Eastwood, but he sought Nelly. “If you will accept so poor a partner,” he said; “my dancing days are about over.”

“I do not see why that should be,” said Nelly, looking brightly up at him, pleased to hear his voice soften into its old tone.

“Ah, pardon, I do,” he said, with a smile, “I am growing old. I shall go and set up a monkery one of these days beside my sister’s nunnery. I am not like Longueville; no means are afforded to me of renewing my youth.”

“But you are not old, like Sir Alexis,” cried Nelly.

“Not like Sir Alexis; but old--tolerably old in years--a great deal older in heart.”

“Oh, how wrong you are!” said Nelly; “on the contrary, you are young. I am a bystander, and I can see better than you can. You are a great deal younger than many who are--not so old as you are.” Her eyes went wandering over the room as she spoke, and John Vane made out in his own mind that she was looking for Molyneux--a thing which I cannot take upon me to affirm.

“You give me consolation,” he said, shaking his head; “and, indeed, I am young enough to be very foolish, and as curious as a child. I wonder now--you are honest, Miss Eastwood, and say what you think--I wonder if you would tell me the real cause of poor little Innocent’s marriage, and all her odd ways?”

Nelly’s countenance changed in spite of herself, and in her mind there rose a painful debate. Should she make him some conventional answer, evading his question? or should she answer him in sincerity? After all, she could harm no one by honesty, though it would make her answer unsatisfactory. She looked at him gravely, trying to frame her reply so as to reveal nothing; and then the natural honesty to which he had appealed gained the upper hand.

“Mr. Vane” she said, hurriedly, “if I tell you that I cannot tell you, will you be satisfied? It is a strange way to answer, perhaps, but I cannot do any more. Perhaps some time--but just now I cannot. There is a reason,” she said, growing more agitated. “Oh, please do not take advantage of my wish to tell you, and make me say more.”

“Do you wish to tell me?” he said, touched in spite of all his prejudices.

“Yes,” she cried, “and so did mamma. If we could but have seen you before she went to Sir Alexis; you were the first person we thought of; we have always felt we could trust you. Ah, don’t make me say any more!”

“I will not,” he said gravely. The anxious appeal in her face filled John Vane with many feelings, the foremost of which perhaps did not concern Innocent. “Confound the fellow!” he said within himself, as he had done many times before; and it was not Longueville he meant. They were silent for the rest of the dance through which this very serious conversation ran, but Nelly felt that the cloud between herself and her friend had passed away. He was a true friend, more to be trusted perhaps than--some others who were really more important in her life. Nelly reflected to herself that after all this serious position of counsellor if possible--of sympathizer when counsel was not possible--was rather a friend’s place than a lover’s. A lover (said Nelly to herself) is less concerned with your family and affairs, and more with you. He wants you to enter into his concerns, not he into yours; he is more fond of you, and therefore more exacting. It is you--you--he wants. He thinks nothing of so much importance as to have you to himself. This thought brought a blush upon her cheek, and some small degree of momentary comfort to her heart. It was flattering, at least--for passion is at all times a better excuse than indifference. But John Vane saw clearly, with eyes unblinded by passion--he was clear-sighted enough to see that something was wrong, and being a good kind friend only, not a lover, tried to show his sympathy, and to help if that should be possible. In this point of view a friend might be more satisfactory--more consolatory than a lover; but still friendship and love were very different things. This was the argument that went through Nelly’s mind in the frivolous atmosphere of the ballroom, and while she was dancing with some indifferent person who was neither friend nor lover. “Yes, the rooms are very pretty, Mrs. Barclay has a great deal of taste,” she said, through the midst of her thoughts. “She is very nice indeed, always good-natured and kind. The Longuevilles are coming back for the season to their house in Kensington. They will not go to Italy till next winter.” This kind of prattle can go on very easily on the surface of much graver thoughts.

“What were you talking to John Vane about?” said Ernest, when his turn came.

“About Innocent,” said Nelly, quietly.

“About Innocent! It must be very pleasant to have such an interesting subject. You looked as if your whole hearts were in it--he asking and you replying. An indifferent spectator might have thought the subject of discussion more personal,” said Molyneux, with an angry countenance.

“Innocent is very interesting to me,” said Nelly, with spirit, “and also to Mr. Vane. Though you do not care for her, Ernest, that is not to say that I must become indifferent to my cousin. She has need of her friends, poor child!”

“Poor child!” said Ernest, “I like that. She has just made one of the best matches going, and got herself established as very few girls do, I can tell you. She has carried her innocence to an excellent market, Nelly. I don’t see why her fortunes should call forth so much sympathetic discussion, especially between you and John Vane. I detest the fellow, putting himself forward on all occasions. Who wants his interference, I should like to know?”

“I do!” cried Nelly, bravely, “and so does mamma. He is the only one of her relations who has taken any interest in Innocent. We should both be distressed beyond measure if he did not interfere.”

“Confound Innocent!” said Molyneux, under his breath. “Why there should be all this fuss about a half-witted girl is more than I can say; especially now, when she is off your mother’s hands, Nelly. Our own affairs are more interesting to me.”

“Yes, clearly,” Nelly said to herself, “a lover is very different. What he wants is to have you to himself, not necessarily to please _you_;” but she suppressed the retort which rose to her lips. She had no desire, however, to prolong her dance, or to go out to the conservatory, or even the staircase, where Dick was in Elysium, and which she herself on other occasions had found very pleasant. “I would rather go to mamma,” she said. “We are both tired, and I think we must go early. A wedding is a very fatiguing business.”

“A wedding is a very tiresome business, especially if one never hears the end of it,” said Ernest, and he left Nelly by her mother’s side with considerable dudgeon. Though poor Nelly had explained it all to herself so philosophically, and had even felt herself flattered by her own definition of the peculiarities of a lover, she could have cried as she sat down by her mother. She was prettily dressed, and her eyes were bright, and altogether her aspect was such as to justify Mrs. Barclay’s plaudits, who declared her, if not the prettiest, at least one of the very prettiest girls present; but if she could have cried with vexation and mortification and chill disappointment, it would have done her all the good in the world. Instead of crying, however, she had to smile, and to look pleased when Mrs. Barclay brought some new piece of emptiness up to her with a simper on its countenance and a flower in its coat. “You must not really go yet. I cannot have Nelly carried off in the midst of the fun,” said Mrs. Barclay, “how can you be so hard-hearted?” and Nelly’s mother had to smile too, and yield. Such things, I suppose, will happen at balls everywhere, now and then, till the end of the world.

After this great event there followed another lull--a lull of strange calm and quiet, almost incomprehensible to the family after the curious interval of suppressed excitement through which they had passed, and which seemed to have made an atmosphere of secrecy and mystery congenial to them. Jenny returned to Oxford; Dick, who was approaching his final examination, was once more kept to his work by every one in the house with a zeal which his mother, who began now to feel the separation approaching, felt almost cruel, though, moved by stern force of duty, she herself was foremost in the effort. The only comfort in the matter Dick himself felt was, that after this there would be no more Exams.--a fond hope in which, as the better-instructed reader knows, a Competition Wallah, with all the horrors of Tamil and Telugu before him, would soon discover himself to be disappointed. In the meantime an additional torment was added to him, in being recommended by everybody who “took an interest” in his success, to read books about India in the few leisure hours which hitherto had been dissipated by the aid of Mr. Mudie. Dick did not object to “Tara: a Mahratta Tale;” but he kicked at the history and travels in India which Mrs. Everard disinterred from her shelves for his benefit. “I shall make out all about it when I get there,” he said, piteously. “Why should a fellow be compelled to remember every hour of the day that he is going to India? I shan’t have home so very much longer. You may let me have a little peace as long as I am here.” At this speech the tears would mount to Mrs. Eastwood’s eyes, and Winks would come down from his favourite chair, and place himself before Dick, and wag his tail sympathetically. When Dick continued--“Confound India! I wish it was at the bottom of the sea,” Winks sat up solemnly and waved his feathery forepaws at his young master. What he meant by this last proceeding--whether to entreat him not to be too pathetic, or to mock satirically at his self-pity--no one knew; there are moments of mystery in all characters of any depth; some men are angry when they are in trouble--some fictitiously gay when they are angry. All that can be said is, that Winks expressed his feelings thus when his sympathy got beyond the reach of ordinary expression, and the effect upon Dick, at least, was always soothing and consolatory. “I won’t, old fellow, since you make such a point of it,” he would say; and then Mrs. Eastwood would laugh to hide her crying. In this way Winks found his way to the very depths of their hearts, becoming a creature of domestic emotion, half humorous, yet all-penetrating in its pathos.

Other matters, too, besides Dick’s training began to ripen towards a crisis. Mr. Justice Molyneux had, as has been said, gained that elevation which all his friends had foreseen for him, and the family had proportionally risen in importance, and it had become a matter of general remark among the friends of both parties that the engagement between Nelly and Ernest had lasted quite long enough. “What are they waiting for?” everybody said. Most people had a high opinion of the young man’s powers, if he could only be prevailed upon to set to work. His articles in the _Piccadilly_ were a proof that he could express himself as forcibly and much more elegantly than his father, who in his day had been a perfect master of the British jury, and whose summings-up were now cited as models of clear-headedness--not elegant--the judge had never gone in for elegance--but forcible and clear in the highest degree. The son of such a father, with the powers which Ernest was known to possess, and with all the advantages derived from his position, could not fail to have a fine career before him. “What are they waiting for?” Mr. Parchemin, who was Mrs. Eastwood’s financial adviser, one day took upon him to say, “These long engagements are always doubtful things, but sometimes there may be occasion for them--a clergyman, for instance. But in this case there seems no reason. You must pardon me for my plain speaking, as I have always taken an interest in Nelly. But what are they waiting for?”

“I suppose,” said Mrs. Eastwood, who was sore on this subject, “till Mr. Molyneux has fairly entered upon his career.”

“His career! My dear madam, a career does not come to such a man. He must go and look after it,” said Mr. Parchemin. “I should have offered my services--any little interest I have with the solicitors--long ago, if I had not thought it quite unnecessary in the cause of his father’s son.”

“I am afraid I cannot interfere,” said Mrs. Eastwood. “I don’t wish to get rid of my daughter.”

“But, my dear madam, you prefer her being comfortably settled, I suppose,” said the financial counsellor. And, indeed, he expressed the opinions of all Mrs. Eastwood’s advisers. Mrs. Everard was still more decided and emphatic. “I should speak to him, and ask him what he means,” she said; “I should not put up with any shilly-shally. Nelly’s happiness ought to be a great deal more to you than any nonsensical scruples of delicacy. I should ask him what he means.”

“I do not hold Nelly so cheap,” cried Mrs. Eastwood, with a little flush of anger. “I think the best man in the world is not too good for Nelly. And he ought to ask her from me, not compel me to thrust her upon him. No, not if he was the only man in the world!”

“For my part I should not be so scrupulous,” said Mrs. Everard; “I would not stand on my dignity when my child’s happiness was involved. If Nelly likes him she should have him--or I would know the reason why!”

“One can only act according to one’s nature,” said Mrs. Eastwood, less amenable than usual to her friend’s persuasions. But the fact that everybody did remark and wonder made her doubly angry with herself and every one. Ought she to have offered sacrifices on her own part to secure, as was the phrase, her child’s happiness? Ought she to have taken the initiative without thus waiting, with a sense of proud repugnance, for the “other side”? Was she risking Nelly’s happiness? These questions Mrs. Eastwood asked herself with a troubled heart. Nelly meanwhile went on tranquilly with her usual life, and made no sign. Sometimes she would redden, sometimes grow pale, when Ernest came as usual. He came always, but not so regularly as of old, and it seemed to Mrs. Eastwood that Nelly’s expectations of his coming were not always pleasant. She was as quick to recognize his ring at the door, and to know his step, as ever, but no flush of joy came upon her face when she heard them. Quite as often a line of embarrassment, of anxiety, of incipient pain appeared on her forehead. The long engagement, was it?--or something else? Certainly, as day by day went on, Nelly grew more and more like one who drags a lengthening chain.

Jane, the housemaid, the most insignificant member of the household, became also at this time an embarrassment and trouble. With a strong desire to keep everything quiet, and hope that it might be accomplished, Mrs. Eastwood had recommended Nelly to make experiment of her powers as lady’s maid; and Nelly, half reluctant, had consented. “I hear you want to try another kind of situation,” Nelly said to her. “Come and help me while I dress, and then I shall be able to tell mamma what you can do.”

“It ain’t that I want another sort of situation--I want to be maid to my lady,” said Jane.

“Well, it would be much finer, of course, than being maid to me,” said Nelly, laughing; “but you had better try your skill on me first. If we come to grief, it will not be of so much consequence.” This she said merrily, being less impressed than her mother was, and much less than the young woman herself was, with Jane’s harm-doing powers.

“That ain’t my meaning, miss,” said Jane, very solemnly; “I mightn’t know enough for you, but I knows plenty for my lady. It’s a different thing. My friends all tell me as it’s my own fault if my fortune’s not made. I knows enough for my Lady Longueville--ay, and more than enough, if all was said.”

“It seems to me you are rather impertinent,” said Nelly, reddening. “I don’t know what you mean by it. I will take you on trial if you like, because mamma wishes it; but Lady Longueville, you may be sure, will not have you, unless you give proof of your knowledge more satisfactory than words.”

“Oh, there’s sometimes a deal of use in words, miss,” said Jane, oracularly. Nelly went down-stairs fuming to her mother, demanding that she should be sent away.

“Send away Jane! Nelly, you are crazy. I might have let her go with Innocent, trusting that Sir Alexis would be able to manage her; but otherwise she must stay under my own eye. Think, Nelly, what she knows! She heard what Innocent said, every word.”

“She is very impertinent,” said Nelly. “If you keep her she will grow more and more so, and one day or other she will do the worst she can. Why should you pay any attention to her? Send her away, and let her do her worst!”

“Not for the world!” cried her mother. They had an argument about it which almost came to a quarrel; but the result was that Nelly was vanquished, and Jane stayed.