Chapter LIV: 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.