Innocent

CHAPTER XLI.

AN UNPOPULAR WEDDING.

The marriage of Innocent took place on one of the first days of February, a day of the “seasonable” kind, with black skies, a dark gray atmosphere, and occasional downpours of steady rain. The raw cold penetrated to one’s bones and one’s heart, and even the show of costly flowers which had been procured for the occasion failed to make the rooms look cheerful. Innocent herself, in her white bridal dress and veil, was like the snowdrops. Her head drooped a little, her cheeks were not much less pale than her dress. She was not a blushing, or a smiling, or a weeping bride. Her eyes were full of a certain awe, sometimes varied by alarm, when the prospect of leaving home came uppermost; but she was passive in all things, gentle and grateful, as calm in her new position as she had been in the former. The only one thing she had been anxious about, the one trouble and mystery in her life, had been set right (as she thought) by her bridegroom’s exertions. He had taken upon him to arrange all that: to explain it, to make everything clear; and Innocent, trustful and ignorant, had not doubted his power to do so. Mrs. Eastwood’s anxious assurances that she was mistaken, that her belief about Amanda was a delusion, had never made any impression on the girl. But when Sir Alexis accepted her story as true, and pledged himself to set everything right, the practical part of her mind, which was in reality the only intellectual part of her which had any power, accepted his assurances, and trusted in them. Why should any one bid her believe that it was a delusion? Innocent knew that it was no delusion; but at the same time she was quite simple enough and foolish to believe that Sir Alexis could set it all to rights, without inquiring how. He would give her a caressing answer when she asked him about it, and tell her that all was being settled; and in her ignorance she believed him, and was lightened of her burden. The wedding was to be a very quiet one, partly (as it was announced) because of Innocent’s health—partly because of the mourning of the family. John Vane, who had been summoned for the occasion, was to give her away as the representative of her father’s family—for Frederick, morose and melancholy (feeling the death of his wife, poor fellow—for she was very beautiful, though it was quite a mésalliance), would have nothing to do with it. And a few of Mrs. Eastwood’s friends and counsellors were in attendance, and two or three friends of Sir Alexis; but it was not a gay ceremonial. The Molyneuxes were present, for Ernest had not intimated to his family any doubt as to eventual union with Nelly, nor had he accepted her virtual dismissal of him; but they, like many other people, after having received the announcement of the marriage with enthusiasm, had come prepared at the last moment to criticize.

“How could she allow that poor child to marry such a man?” whispered Miss Molyneux to her mother.

“Hush, child!” said the mother; “the Eastwoods are people who will do anything for money.”

“How pale she is; do you think they can have used force?” the same young lady asked of Ernest.

“No more force than that of wealth and finery—a force women are always glad to yield to,” said Ernest, almost in Nelly’s hearing.

She heard the last words, and divined the first. They had “made up” their quarrel, as people say, but Nelly’s heart was very sore, quivering with pain present and pain past. Even the marriage itself was nothing to be happy about. How would poor Innocent bear it, when she was gone, away from all who cared for her, with her old-new husband? How selfish it was of him, Nelly thought, to insist upon marrying Innocent because in her trouble she had committed herself to him!—but all men were now selfish; they were not to be judged as women are. It came natural to them to consider themselves, their own will, their own gratification before everything else. This conviction was the bitter product of Nelly’s own experience, which she endeavoured to soften by generalization, as men and women do invariably on both sides. All men were like that, she said to herself; it took off something of the sharp edge of self-seeking from the man whom she had herself chosen from all the world—or rather, who had chosen her, as he himself would have preferred to have said.

John Vane did not come to her until the weary morning was nearly over, till after the bride and bridegroom had departed, and the other guests were dropping away. The guests in general had not been cheerful in their comments; most of them had expressed themselves warmly delighted at the prospect of so good a match for Innocent—but the compliments they paid to the mistress of the house now were not so agreeable.

“I am afraid poor little Lady Longueville is very delicate,” said one, shaking her head.

“Everything has gone off very nicely,” said another; “but I wish, poor thing, she had looked a little happier.”

“I don’t understand a bride looking very happy on her wedding day,” said a more benevolent critic; “and she is so young and so—inexperienced——”

“He has plenty of experience for both,” said a fourth.

“I should like to see that girl safe back from her wedding tour,” said Mrs. Everard, who was privileged to speak her mind. “She looks to me a great deal too like a Lucia di Lammermoor, my dear. She wanted nothing but her hair down, and a confidant in white muslin. I hope he will take care of her.”

“There can be no doubt that he will take every care of her,” said Mrs. Eastwood, who was tired and irritated. “That was my great comfort in giving my consent.”

“Well, at all events, the responsibility is off your hands,” said Mrs. Everard, nodding her head half in congratulation, half in pity.

Thus the marriage was set down on all hands as a mercenary match made by Mrs. Eastwood, of which poor Innocent was the victim. Her very sons thought so; and with better reason John Vane thought so, whom she had thought of as her counsellor, and whose moral support would have done her good. But how was he to judge, except as other people did, from the surface? and Mrs. Eastwood felt that she must bear it all, and dared not say anything in her own defence. John Vane was cold and grave even to Nelly. He seemed to intend to go away without speaking to anyone beyond the ordinary civilities; but something in Nelly’s face seemed to bring him back from the door, when he had all but taken his leave. He approached her reluctantly, she thought, and his manner was not as of old. He told her he was sorry he had not known of this sooner—that it must all have been arranged very suddenly—and that he would have been glad to have been consulted about a matter so important to his poor little cousin’s happiness.

“We should have liked more time, too,” said Nelly, in her turn indignant; “but Innocent settled it all by herself, and Sir Alexis insisted that there should be no delay.”

“Innocent settled it all by herself?”

“Yes, Mr. Vane; it looks very strange, but it is true. I see you blame poor mamma, who never was a matchmaker in her life; but it was Innocent who settled everything. I hate it,” said Nelly, with warmth; “and when she sees what she has done—poor Innocent! But he is a kind man,” she added, more calmly, “and he will be very good to her, as mamma says.”

“I do not understand Innocent,” said Vane. “They told me a very strange story at Sterborne——”

“A story—about what?” said Nelly, growing breathless with excitement and terror.

“She seems to have gone home in so strange a way, so suddenly, so oddly altogether,” he said, with an uneasy look. “And yet she is not really an idiot—only odd. I am very sorry for my sister’s sake—it has disturbed her so much. Indeed, I often regret deeply that I took Innocent to the High Lodge.”

“Oh, if you had not done so!” cried Nelly, with that horrible perception of how a whole world of trouble might have been avoided, which comes so often after the event. “Oh, if you had not done it!” Then she restrained herself, as he could see, with a sudden movement of alarm.

“There is something behind that I do not know,” said Vane, looking at her.

“Oh, no, no, pray don’t think so! She was frightened and nervous: that was all,” cried Nelly.

How she longed to tell him, to set him right in his injurious opinion, to vindicate her mother and herself! Few of the only denials of life are equal to this, when men or women are compelled by honour to abandon their honour to public comment, and to accept blame which is not justly theirs. Vane looked at her curiously, even with something like anxiety; but he remained silent. He was confounded by all that had happened, and offended by the complete want of confidence shown by them. And what could he say beyond what had been said?—that Innocent had been permitted, or perhaps induced—forced, the bolder spirits said—into a mercenary match which she did not wish; which she was passive in, if not less than passive? Vane stood silently by Nelly’s side, for some time, wondering, trying to think what the secret could be—what extenuating circumstances might exist. At least, he concluded to himself, Nelly could not be to blame. She could have nothing to do with the matter; one young girl would not help to force another on that painful road. Nelly, at the worst, must have been herself passive—perhaps she was herself fated to be the next victim. Vane watched curiously the greetings between her and the Molyneuxes, as this thought passed through his mind. The aigre-doux of their salutations was unchanged; they were not warmer than before, nor more familiar; it was evident that no change had taken place, there, in the position of affairs. He thought it was evident (looking again at Nelly herself) that she was not more happy than she had been. Why had not Mrs. Eastwood exerted herself to further her daughter’s prospects, instead of thus fatally deciding poor Innocent’s? He went away at last with his mind in a very uncomfortable state; grieved for Innocent, troubled about Nelly, wondering and confused altogether. The only thing he was sure of was another generalization, such as in all similar cases men find it safe to take refuge in—that it must be the mother’s fault. She it was who must have “managed” and schemed for the one gilded unhappiness, and who must be permitting, for her own ends, the other. Poor Mrs. Eastwood! this was all the reward she got for her much anxiety and motherly care.

Another incident had occurred a few days before, which she had confided to no one but Nelly, and which had seriously disturbed her. Jane the housemaid, whose quiet demeanour had lulled all her fears to rest, had come to her suddenly, and demanded to be promoted to the post of lady’s maid to the future Lady Longueville.

“Lady’s maid! you, Jane? but you don’t understand the duties,” Mrs. Eastwood had said in consternation.

“Oh, ma’am, I know a deal as no one thinks of,” said Jane, significantly, with a look that froze the blood in her mistress’s veins.

“That may be, perhaps,” Mrs. Eastwood said, trying to cover her confusion with a nervous laugh; “but you do not know how to make dresses, or how to do hair—or any of a maid’s special duties. Household work is a different sort of thing.”

“My friends has told me to apply for the place,” said Jane, “and them as knows thinks me well qualified. They say as how I have the best right. I knows a deal more than any one thinks for,” the woman repeated doggedly, like a lesson she had learned by rote.

A swift calculation passed through Mrs. Eastwood’s mind—was it better to keep this dangerous knowledge within her own reach, where she could prevent its evil use, or try to prevent it? or, on the other hand, would Jane be safer within the steady grasp of Sir Alexis, who would stand between Innocent and harm? It was a difficult question to settle in a moment. Mrs. Eastwood leaped at the more generous decision; she took the burden on herself.

“I have no wish to part with you,” she said, diplomatically; “but if you want to better yourself, to try another kind of place, I shall be glad to let you try how you can get on with Miss Ellinor at home. For Lady Longueville, I should like a person of more experience to begin with. You can speak to my daughter about it, if you please.”

“But, ma’am,” Jane was beginning, pertinaciously.

“No more just now—I am busy. After the wedding I shall have more time,” said Mrs. Eastwood. But this interview gave her another ache in her heart.

All these things concurred to make the wedding day a painful one. As the family were in mourning, and as the wedding had been so quiet, they had excused themselves from any further festivities in the evening: and who does not know how dismal is the languid close of the day, when all is over, after the excitement of the morning, and of the busy days preceding, when there was so much to do? Dick sauntered about the garden with his wedding favour still on his coat, shedding bits of wedding-cake all over his path, which Winks, following at his heels, condescended to pick up, though Winks had not approved of the wedding any more than the rest of the family. Winks had never had any opinion of Sir Alexis. A connoisseur, fond of art, of dainty furniture, and fine gardens, has seldom much sympathy with the four-footed visitor, whose appreciation of the finest collection is generally somewhat contemptuous, to say the least. Winks retired to a corner when Sir Alexis visited The Elms. He declined to take any notice of him. “He is not in my style,” the little cynic said very plainly; and he retired from his usual leading part in the family life while this objectionable visitor remained. Other events that day had combined to derange Winks’s temper, and wound him in his tenderest feelings. Mr. Justice Molyneux (for the Q.C. was now a Judge) had attempted to give him a kick in the hall, where Winks was contemplating the arrival of the guests with much dignity; Mrs. Everard had trodden on the flowing fringes of his tail; he had been hustled out of his favourite chair, and interfered with in all his usual habits. Winks was very tolerant when this sort of thing happened in the evening. He accepted the fact of a ball with a certain benevolent interest, and wagged his tail condescendingly at the young people, bidding them enjoy themselves, before he went off on three feet, like the philosopher he was, to enjoy tranquillity in the one comfortable chair in the library, congratulating himself that dogs do not dance. But a ball, or something like a ball, in the morning was a mystery to Winks. He thought he had got rid of all that crowd of unnecessary people when they went off to the church; but to see them come back in full daylight, not twelve o’clock, and fill the room once more, was beyond the endurance even of a philosopher. He was so far disturbed out of his ordinary calm as to bark indignantly when the bride and bridegroom went away, and a few of the livelier spirits in the party, headed by Dick, threw old shoes after them. Winks read Dick a lecture on the subject afterwards. He looked at him with a mixture of reproach and contempt, as he stood in the hall, with his hands full of old slippers. He was too much disgusted even to follow his young master back into the house when the carriage drove away, but shook his head and marched off round the side walk into the garden, feeling that such absurdity was not to be borne. I cannot quite explain how it was that he condescended to pick up the bits of wedding-cake; perhaps with a thrifty idea that it was best they should not be lost; or perhaps he was satisfied that Dick was ashamed of himself, and saw the familiar book in his pocket which was Dick’s signal-flag and intimation to all concerned that he had returned to the duties of ordinary life.

“It was fun, though, by Jove, to see that old slipper with the high heel hit Longueville on his old nose,” Dick said with a laugh, as he held up a larger bit of cake than usual; and Winks, mollified, grinned in acknowledgment of the joke. He made one round of the garden after the cake was finished, to show that he was not mercenary, and then trotted indoors, where, providentially, all was now quiet. The family were assembled in the drawing-room, where, though the chairs and tables had been put in their usual places, there was still an air of excitement, and a sentiment of disorder. Winks came in and set himself down in front of the fire, and looked at them all. “What do you think of your handiwork now it is finished?” he seemed to say, severely, looking at his mistress, curling up one black lip over his white teeth; he would not condescend to wag his tail.

“Oh, Winks, don’t look so diabolical,” said Nelly, trying to laugh; perhaps it was as good a way of relieving her feelings as crying would have been.

“Don’t sneer, you brute!” cried Jenny, indignant. Winks fixed upon them all a look of contemptuous disapproval, and then trotted off to a chair at the window. They were not even amusing in their exhaustion—he preferred his own company to theirs.

After a while Jenny followed Winks’s example.

“What a bore a wedding is,” he said, stretching himself, “in the morning, leaving one’s afternoon on one’s hands. I shall go out for a walk till dinner.”

“Don’t go out in the rain with your cold, dear,” said Mrs. Eastwood.

“Pshaw! what’s a cold?” said Jenny. The rain was nothing to the chill discouragement and inarticulate vague misery which seemed to fill the house from garret to basement. A sense of unhappiness, which he did not know how to struggle against, was in Jenny’s own mind. Nothing uncomfortable had happened to him in his personal career. He had pleasant rooms, was in a good set, and fortune smiled upon him. Nevertheless he too was dully miserable, as the house was; he did not know why. He was too young for sentiment, or, at least, too boyish and defiant of sentiment, to take himself to task in the matter, or ascertain what ailed him. Perhaps even the boy was wise enough not to wish to come to any clear conclusion in the matter; but he was dull, dull as ditchwater, according to his own simile.

They were all going to a dance at Mrs. Barclay’s that night, which was some relief. She was full of triumph and exultation in the event which had brought so little comfort to the Eastwoods. She had asked everybody—the Molyneuxes, who were to be “connexions,” through Nelly, and John Vane, who was already her “connexion,” through Innocent—and all the habitués of the Elms. Jenny spent the time till dinner in a wretched walk, and came in drenched, with his cold considerably increased, which, on the whole, he was rather glad of; and Mrs. Eastwood, yielding to the general misery of the circumstances at last, went “to lie down”—an indulgence unknown to her on ordinary occcasions. Dick went to his own room, where Winks, on being whistled for five times, condescended to follow him; and they two, I think, had the best of it. Frederick had sole possession of the library, where he sat over the fire with his feet on the grate, and a countenance which was dark as the sky. And Nelly went to poor Innocent’s room and put things tidy with her own hands, and cried over the little empty white bed, as if Innocent had died. A wretched day, rain outside, cold, dulness, and misery within; but if people will marry in February, what else can be looked for? for the home of the bride is seldom a very cheerful habitation on the evening of the wedding day.

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.

CHAPTER XLIII.

THE GATHERING OF THE STORM.

Some time after the above events, Frederick’s little house in Mayfair—which had been the only advantage poor Amanda had gained by marrying him, and which had been furnished according to her taste, in a somewhat showy, modern fashion, with dashes of ill-considered and ill-fitting antiquity—became vacant. The tenant who had taken it for the winter months gave it up at the end of February: as it had proved a somewhat profitable investment, Frederick, who had a lease of the house, decided on letting it again, furnished. A little more money is never a matter of indifference to a young man with expensive tastes, and he was very willing to add to his income in this way. Before the house was let again, however, it was necessary that all the personal lumber Mrs. Frederick had left behind her should be cleared away. Her trunks, which had been placed in one locked-up room, her knick-knacks, the trifles with which she had filled her drawing-room, had to be put in order, and either restored to their places or distributed to her friends. Frederick found his mother and sister quite adverse to the office of looking over Amanda’s “things.” Her clothes and her finery were objects in which they took no interest, except the pitiful and painful one which now encompassed everything she had possessed. But they would neither accept this melancholy, tawdry inheritance which she had left behind her, for themselves, nor did they feel any inclination to take upon them the office of arbitrators and distributors among her friends. He sent for Aunty in his perplexity from Sterborne. He had sworn to have nothing to do with the family henceforward, but in this strait he did not hesitate. Aunty came up to London on his application, almost by return of post. The dead woman’s finery was all interesting to her. She had a pleasure in trying it on, in estimating its value, in selecting some for herself, in laying aside various articles for other friends. The office pleased Aunty immensely; and as this sad but satisfactory piece of business entailed the necessity of a prolonged visit to town,—where she lived in Frederick’s house “like a lady,” with two maids to serve her, and a room for a friend, and the most congenial occupation—it is not wonderful that she should have regarded it with pleasure. It pleased Batty too that his son-in-law, whom he described in his own circle as being proud as Lucifer, yet acknowledged in this way the existence and the claims of his wife’s family. He sent a friendly message by Aunty to the effect that he himself would soon pay Frederick a visit. He had begun to recover the shock of his daughter’s death. Marriage had already separated her from him, and such grief as his does not resist the softening influence of time and circumstances. Frederick’s “attention” flattered and pleased him,—and Frederick’s family was always something to brag of. Even Innocent’s marriage was a feather in Mr. Batty’s cap,—“My poor girl’s cousin,” he called her. He was most amiable to the Eastwoods, who had showed, he said, every respect to his girl. It was only when any appearance of indifference to Amanda’s memory displayed itself that his violence of grief returned. When some one suggested that his son-in-law would soon marry again, his face clouded over; “Confound him! if he can forget my girl so soon!” he cried; but Frederick’s appeal to Aunty mollified him entirely. “He was bound up in my poor girl, was Frederick Eastwood,” he said after that. And during the winter he had been afflicted with rheumatism, and with brandy-and-water, as bad a form of disease; therefore he had not gone to town, nor put his son-in-law’s friendliness to the test. But the invitation to Aunty opened the door to further intimacy; so Frederick did not intend—but so Batty thought.

It was a disappointment to both of these personages to find that their host was not really their host, and that in reality it was an empty house in which they were sent to live. The table was indeed supplied at Frederick’s cost, and he himself was guiltless of any idea that he was not doing everything that could be required of him; but Amanda’s relations were sensitive. Then, too, the maids were not so respectful as Aunty felt they ought to have been. They judged her, I suppose, as we are all disposed to do, by her appearance, and were not careful to do their service according to the strict measure of their duty. She had expected to go to Frederick’s house to become for the time his housekeeper and virtual mistress of his dwelling—to be supreme over the servants, and have the management in her hands—perhaps to drive out in the brougham which Amanda had told her of; and thus to relieve her heavier labours by a few London sights such as had not for a long time been afforded to her. As for Batty, though he intended his visit to be a short one, he, too, expected to be Frederick’s guest, to see Frederick’s friends, to go with him to his club, and to pick up at least a few names which he could in the future produce among his friends as “cronies of my son-in-law’s.” He had no intention of being hard upon Frederick. He already knew, and had known before Amanda’s reign commenced, that the morality of the young man was far from perfect. If he had discovered new traces of indulgences similar to those he had witnessed in Paris, he would have thought the poor fellow excusable, and would have made every allowance for him. But it was a very different thing to arrive in Frederick’s empty house—to be received by Aunty alone, whose society he did not prize highly—to have a dinner served up to him imperfectly cooked, the maids not caring to put themselves out of the way for such guests—to be shown into a bedroom partially dismantled, and in which no particular preparations for his comfort had been thought necessary. “By George! What does it all mean?” he said. “It means that Frederick Eastwood don’t think us good enough for his company,” said Aunty, who was much galled by the want of reverence for herself shown by the servants. “Well, well,” said Batty, persevering in his good-humour, “I dare say he’s got other things to think of. I’ll set all that right to-morrow.” In his heart he concluded that Frederick’s reluctance to set up house with Aunty was natural enough, but his own presence would alter all that. He put up with it accordingly the first night. He went to look at his daughter’s dresses hung up to air in the best bedroom, and his heart softened more and more. “I don’t doubt now as my poor girl was very happy here,” he said, looking round upon all the fittings of the room which had been hers. They were of a kind which he considered luxurious—as such they had been chosen by her. No want of “respect” was visible in this bower, which she had fitted up for herself. He went to his own room after this inspection, melancholy and slightly maudlin, but satisfied, and had a little more brandy-and-water, and concluded that next day he should see Frederick, and set all right.

Next day, however, things were not set right. He went to the Sealing Wax Office, and found that his son-in-law was out. Frederick was no longer afraid of him, and the senility of fear was over for ever in his mind. Before his marriage he would not have dared to be out of the way when a man commanding the secret of his life called upon him; but everybody knew now what a mistake and mésalliance poor Eastwood had made, and how he had been providentially delivered from it. Batty, gradually growing furious, proceeded in the afternoon to The Elms, to call upon the ladies. He saw, or thought he saw, them at the window, as he drove to the door in his Hansom, and was about to enter with familiar freedom as a connexion of the family, when Brownlow stopped him solemnly with a “Not at home, sir.”

“Not at home!” cried Batty, “I saw them at the window. Take in my name, my good fellow. I am not a stranger. Your mistress will see me.”

“My mistress is out,” said Brownlow solemnly—which was true to the letter, as Mrs. Eastwood and Nelly had escaped by the garden door at sight of the visitor, and were now deep in the recesses of the Lady’s Walk.

Batty looked at him like an infuriated bull—his face growing red, and his eyes projected out of his head. “By Jove, sir, you shall smart for this!” he cried in spite of himself.

Brownlow held his ground with all the imperturbability of a well-trained serving-man.

“Not at home, sir,” he repeated, steadily. “Perhaps you would like, sir, to leave a message? My mistress will be in to dinner.”

Batty closed the door of his Hansom with a crash that rang through the whole neighbourhood. He drove off furious. But still, after all the business of the day was done, he returned to the little house in Mayfair, feeling it impossible that Frederick could have the audacity to leave him another evening alone. He found Aunty again by herself, almost weeping over the insolence of the maids, with another careless dinner, indifferent service—altogether a contemptuous mode of treatment. “Hang me if I stand this!” he said, making off as soon as he had eaten his badly-cooked meal to his son-in-law’s club, resolute to find him, one way or another, and “to have it out with him.” Aunty remained behind in equally high dudgeon. She said to herself that “these Eastwoods” must have suborned the servants to be insolent to her. Thus, in the most unconsidered and, so to speak, innocent way did this unfortunate family forge against themselves the thunderbolt which was to strike them almost into social ruin. Frederick had certainly meant to avoid his wife’s relations, but not with any such determined and insolent purpose as Batty gave him credit for; and Mrs. Eastwood and Nelly did, indeed, run out of the house in order to avoid receiving the visit of Amanda’s father, but only from the impulse of the moment, without any concerted plan. And when it was done, compunctions rose within the breasts of the ladies. Mrs. Eastwood accused herself of her fault at dinner on the same night.

“Should you like me to call on—Miss Johnson, Frederick?” she said. “I am sorry that Nelly and I were so foolish. I am sure I have often received people I had as little sympathy with as Mr. Batty. Indeed, poor man, I have a great deal of sympathy with him. Should you like me to call on Miss Johnson?”

“Who on earth is Miss Johnson?” cried Frederick. “Aunty, do you mean? Why should you call on her? She has not any social pretensions, that I know of. Poor soul, to do her justice, she never went in for that sort of thing.”

“Then you think I need not call?” Mrs. Eastwood said, with a look of relief; “I confess I would rather not. Brownlow,” she said, some time after, “you will find a parcel in the library, addressed to Miss Johnson, at Mr. Eastwood’s. Will you take it to-night, or to-morrow morning? Leave it with my compliments, and say I hope to have the pleasure of calling before she leaves town. Perhaps it is better to say that,” added the diplomatist. “Things might occur to prevent our having the pleasure—but it is as well not to offend any one, unless we cannot help it.” She said this without the least idea that anything more than a breach of her own perfect good manners could be involved in offending the Batty family. She had wounded her own sense of right and wrong by avoiding Batty’s visit. It did not occur to her to think what effect her “rudeness” might have produced on him.

The parcel in the library contained a few books, some music, a fan, and a handkerchief, left at various times by Amanda at The Elms. Brownlow grumbled slightly, as he went down-stairs, at this commission.

“If a man is to be kept running of errands all day long, ’ow is ’is work to get done?” said Brownlow. Jane, the housemaid, not generally considered very “ready to oblige,” answered this appeal at once.

“It’s a fine evening,” she said, “and I’d like a walk. I’ll take ’em for you, Mr. Brownlow, and leave the message. My work’s done, and I’m sick of needlework. Don’t say a word about it. I’d like the walk.”

“There’s some one a-waiting, I make no doubt, under the lamp-post,” said Brownlow; and Jane had to bear the brunt of some raillery, such as abounds in the regions down-stairs. She took it very calmly, making no protestations.

“There may be half-a-dozen under the lamp-post, for what I know,” said Jane.

Thus the matter arranged itself with the utmost simplicity. Never did messenger of evil leave a household more unsuspicious. Mrs. Eastwood had as little conception of what was in preparation as had the innocent Brownlow, who would have walked to the end of the world rather than accept this fatal substitute, had he known. But neither he knew, nor any one. The soft spring air caressed Nelly’s face as she looked out from the hall window, wondering if any one was coming, and saw Jane’s dark figure passing through the gate; just as softly it caressed the countenance of Jane herself, on her way to spread havock and consternation. But the girl at the window had no fear, and the girl at the door only an excited sense of importance. Jane had not even any very bad meaning, so far as she was aware. She was bursting with the something which she had to tell; this could not but bring some advantage to herself, she thought; as for the disadvantage to others, she did not realize to what length that might go, or feel that its greatness would overbalance the importance and benefit to come to her. On this point her imagination altogether failed her. I believe, for my own part, that imagination is the first faculty wanting in those that do harm to their kind, great or small.

Just about the same moment Batty, breathing fire and flame, had found Frederick, and was pouring out the history of his grievances.

“Do you ask a man to your house, you fine gentleman, when you’re not at home?” cried Batty. “Lord, I wouldn’t invite a dog, unless I meant him to share my kennel. A miserable, empty place, with a couple of impudent maids—that’s what you call giving your friends hospitality, eh? You invite a gentleman like that——”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Frederick; “I am not aware that I ever took so great a liberty as to invite you.”

“Confound your politeness and your impudence!” said the other: and became so noisy that Frederick left the club, enduring without replying to the abuse of his companion, who, however, gradually calmed down as they emerged into the open air, where there was no one to hear what he said. He told his son-in-law of the affront put upon him at The Elms—how the door had been shut in his face, though he had seen the ladies at the window—and demanded to be invited there, as a proof that no insult was intended. “I don’t care twopence for your paltry dinner,” he said. “Thank God, I can feed myself and all belonging to me, without being beholden to any man or woman either; but hang me if I’ll stand your disdainful ways. If you want to quarrel, say so; now that my poor girl’s gone, you and your stuck-up set are nothing to me. But a man’s honour’s his honour, however you take it. If there weren’t no affront intended, as you say, get the old lady to send me an invite, and I’ll look over it. I could not speak more fair.”

“What you ask me is quite impossible,” said Frederick. “Dine with me to-morrow if you will, either at my house, where you are, or somewhere else. I’ll arrange it, and I’ll give you a good dinner, a better dinner than my mother understands. But I can’t interfere with her arrangements. I live at home because it suits me, and there is room; but I never interfere with her guests. My mother has a will of her own. She leaves me my freedom, and I never interfere with her.”

From this position Frederick would not recede. Batty, stung by the refusal, furious at himself for having asked, and at his son-in-law for not having granted, left him at last with a mind on flame, asking himself how he could be revenged on the ungrateful husband who, no doubt, had ill-treated his girl and made her miserable. He soothed and stimulated his feelings by extensive potations upon his drive back in his Hansom to the little house in Mayfair. He would not spend another night under that d——d roof, he would get his traps and go to his hotel, where he was known as a man that could pay his way; the old cat might stay if she liked, but as for him he would have no more of their d——d impertinence. But he’d go to the office next morning and expose the d——d scoundrel, d——n him if he wouldn’t. Thus Batty blasphemed as his Hansom drove violently to the door of Frederick’s house. He rushed in and mounted the stairs to the deserted-looking drawing-room, in which there were lights. “Get me my things together, old woman,” he cried; “quick, I have not a moment to lose. They’re all a pack of d——d impudent good-for-nothings. I’ll see Frederick Eastwood at Jericho before I stay another night in his d——d miserable house!”

Aunty was standing dissolved in tears, with a coloured photograph in her hand, in a tawdry frame, a portrait of Mrs. Frederick which had been done before she married, and in which her blue gown appeared to perfection, if nothing else. She was not alone; another individual, of whom Batty knew nothing, stood by in a corner, curtseying to him as he came in. Aunty held out the photograph to him, with the tears running down her cheeks.

“Look what I found in an old cupboard among the rubbish!” she cried; “the picture we was all so proud of. Oh, the lovely creature! and them as got her thinking nothing on her. And, oh Batty, there’s that to hear as neither you nor me knows nothing about. Look at her, the sweet darling! She’s been took from us, she’s been murdered! and neither you nor me knows nothing about it! Sit down, man, if you’re a man and loved your child. Sit down and listen to what this woman’s got to tell you. Sit, Batty, don’t be thinking of yourself. Sit down and hear.”

He was at once stupefied and excited by the drink he had swallowed, and lost in an intoxication of rage scarcely less confusing. The first words of the tale to which he was thus entreated to listen called up in him a passion of vindictive grief and misery more potent still. He listened with muttered curses mingling with his sobs, looking at the poor faded picture, the simpering image of his daughter who was dead—of his daughter who was murdered—of Amanda, whom he had loved better than anything in the world, and for whom he could take a terrible revenge on the people whom he hated worse than anything in the world. He sat, and sobbed, and swore, and listened. No suspicion had ever crossed his mind before—now he felt that this was not suspicion, but certainty. That girl had done it—that girl who loved Frederick—and by whom vengeance dire and dreadful could be taken upon Frederick and Frederick’s family, upon all who had slighted his child and slighted him. I cannot describe the mixture of real emotion and fictitious excitement, of passionate grief and injured self-love, of fierce desire for justice and wild vindictive personal rage which overwhelmed him. It was terrible, and it was horrible. Jane, frightened at herself, frightened at him, was not allowed to leave the place where he was; he stayed at Frederick’s house to mature his vengeance upon Frederick, and he seized upon his witness who was all-important to him, with a force entirely beyond her feeble powers of resistance. Jane, poor creature, not meaning so much harm to others as good to herself, was there and then taken out of her own hands. The harm, too terrible to think of, too fatal to forecast, was no longer problematical. She had set the storm a-going, but only heaven knew where it would end.

CHAPTER XLIV.

THE THUNDERBOLT.

Longueville Hall, the principal residence of Sir Alexis Longueville, Bart., is one of the first houses of its class in the south of England. It is not of the first magnitude, but it is of the first excellence. It has always been the home of wealth—nothing about it has ever fallen into decay. The façade is pure Italian, and has been ascribed to a very great name indeed in architecture; but in the east wing, which is the oldest part of the house, there are traces (as the “Handbook” to the county will tell you) of much older work. The kitchen is a great vaulted Gothic chamber, whispering recollections of Wolsey, and guests archiepiscopal at the least, and the building has been carefully toned up or down to these relics. You can see at a glance that nothing has ever been neglected or forsaken at Longueville Hall. The Longuevilles had always been a very proud family, though Sir Alexis, by dint of being of the younger branch—not a younger son, but, what is worse, a younger nephew—had learned to veil his native haughtiness in a semblance of theoretical equality; but even he had all the pride of the Longuevilles, though he knew better than to exhibit it where there was no need of such vanities. And to all the Longuevilles their house had always been the first of houses, the one sacred shrine to which no evil was permitted to approach. They had worshipped it with a certain superstition, and the consequence was that few houses in such perfect preservation were to be found in England. Almost all that remained for Sir Alexis to do when he came into possession was the remodelling of the gardens, and the rearrangement of the picture gallery—not that either was in bad order, indeed, but that, as a connoisseur and amateur flower-gardener of the first water, it was for him one of the first necessities of life to conform these sovereign luxuries to his own fancy. Sir Alexis was luxurious in everything. He was rich, and had few claims upon him beyond those of his own tastes, and accordingly he had spared nothing in the gratification of those tastes. The house accordingly was the pride of the county, the standard of grace and of art for the whole district. “Ah, you should see Longueville,” the rural squires said, when they were told of Chatsworth or of Trentham; and when a newly-married gentleman of the district remodelled his old rooms for his bride’s arrival, furtive recollections of the reigning house were ever visible in his furniture and flower-beds. Simplicity itself came into fashion through the example of Sir Alexis; and, though the magnificence was less easy to be copied, the attempt was made out with still more eager servility. Every new detail in the great house was described and dwelt upon with unfailing interest throughout the neighbourhood, and when it was known that Sir Alexis was about to introduce that crowning novelty, that final luxury, a young and beautiful wife, the interest rose to a climax. This was a particular in which few of the rural great people could copy, in which most of them had preceded, the baronet. But still in hall, and park, and parsonage throughout the country the new Lady Longueville was looked for with almost enthusiasm. People were honestly glad that the old house was not to die out. Whatever advances democratical feeling may have made, this pleasure in the continuance of a family is, I believe, universal in England. It gave an almost personal gratification to people who had no connexion whatever with the Longuevilles—such a gratification as bystanders have in seeing an apparently failing cause or combatant pick up strength, and gain at the very end an unhoped-for triumph.

There were all kinds of rejoicings on the estate itself, and it was under triumphal arches, with ringing of bells, and sound of music, with a bodyguard of mounted tenantry, and shouts that rent the sky, that Innocent was conducted to her future home. I do not know if she understood the full meaning of such a demonstration, or took in, in the smallest degree (I do not believe it), the elevating sense of local, almost national importance, the quasi-sovereignty which such a reception might convey. But her mind was full of a kind of wondering pleasure—the phantasmagoria in this case which glided before her dreamy eyes was pleasant and bright, and amusing and pretty; and she had one strong staff of reality to support her in her husband, her perfectly kind and always attentive companion, who took complete charge of her, told her what to do, cared for her in everything, and never scolded her; conditions which made up all the Elysium Innocent had ever dreamed of. Sir Alexis had happily hit upon the right key-note at the very beginning. He had taken up, after careful thought, the position which Frederick had stumbled into by chance, and which had bound Innocent to him in absolute allegiance for so long. Sir Alexis, thinking it all carefully over, and determined to be successful in this last great venture of his life, had not been above taking a lesson, even from that attachment to Frederick, which was the only thing he resented, and the only thing he feared in his simple young wife; and the experiment had all the appearance of being triumphantly successful. After the first bewilderment and agitation inseparable from the beginning of a life so strangely new and different from all her past, Innocent had settled down with sweet docility into all the novel habits of her changed existence. The magnificence that surrounded her pleased her. She took to it naturally. The great rooms, the larger lines of drapery, the size and space about her, supplied a want which she had vaguely felt during all her life at The Elms. The want of space was the first thing which had struck her on her arrival, and during all the interval she had been conscious of it. To be sure, the magnificent perfection of Longueville was very unlike the scanty poverty and bareness of the Palazzo Scaramucci; but yet this great house was more like home to her than were the smaller crowded rooms, clothed from top to bottom, of her Aunt’s house. She had room to breathe. I think Sir Alexis was disappointed that she did not choose for herself one of the smaller rooms, to make of it her own special bower and the future domestic centre; but he was wise and very tolerant, and did not interfere. “All that will come in time,” he said to himself. He did not even ask questions about what she liked or did not like, but skilfully watched and followed the unconscious leading of her inclinations. Few men would have had the patience to do this, as few men would have been able to gratify these inclinations as they showed themselves. But Sir Alexis was capable of both.

I cannot follow out the course of this curious idyll. I suppose it is within the bounds of possibility that a man of fifty might find himself able to play the impassioned part of the young lover in an idyll of the more usual land, though I avow that to a woman approaching that period of life the possibility appears half humbling, half comical; but Sir Alexis did not attempt this particular rôle, which indeed would have been incomprehensible to Innocent. Their mutual position was of a different kind. In marrying a creature so unlike ordinary women—so undeveloped, so simple in mind and thoughts—Sir Alexis had accepted all the responsibilities of the position. He showed his love for her rather in the calm way in which a father displays his sentiments than with the passion of a young husband. Her beauty delighted him, and the pride of possessing so rare a piece of Nature to crown his collections; and her simplicity—even her pensiveness and silentness had a charm for the man of the world, whom the world had often wearied, but who found a kind of renewal in the society of this soft companion, who accepted all he said with little response but no contradiction, and who turned to him after a while as flowers turn to the sun. And it would be simple foolishness to say that Innocent loved Sir Alexis as women love their husbands; she was incapable of such a sentiment; but she had a gentle affection for him, made up of gratitude and the soft response to kindness which every gentle nature gives. She learned soon and without words the pleasant lesson that her comfort and happiness and well-being were dear to him beyond everything else, that he would neglect no indication of her wishes, no germ of inclination on her part. He took care of her whatever she did, wherever she went, he shaped all his acts and his ways to please her, or—which was just as good—he implied her acquiescence in all he wished, and told her to do what she was glad and pleased to do in obedience to him. He made her drive, he made her ride, he took her out walking, he filled her life with gentle occupation. Sometimes she would write something for him at his dictation, or at his desire—sometimes she would play for him, pleased to think she pleased him, and with growing certainty day by day that everything she did pleased him, because she did it, a certainty which is more potent in attracting and confirming affection than perhaps any other secondary influence. And haply Sir Alexis himself not only endured patiently, but enjoyed this curious placid life, which was so strangely different from the ordinary honeymoon. His pride was involved, as well as his affection. Many men dream (I believe) of training their wives into perfect accord, perfect harmony, or rather reflection of their own being; but few men have ever had such an opportunity. Innocent seemed the blank sheet on which he could write his name, the virgin wax which he could mould into any form he pleased. He did not put actual educational processes in operation, but he began to guide her towards the things that pleased him. He praised her music, and so persuaded her to cultivate that faculty, which was perhaps the only one by which she could have reached a certain kind of excellence; he read to her, not inquiring much into her opinions, hoping for little beyond impression, yet placing a certain trust in that. He talked to her, and told her stories of people and places and things, of pictures which she had a natural love for, and books which she respected with a certain awe. His object was not only to ripen and mature the pretty Innocent he was fond of, but to produce out of this germ of being the Lady Longueville, who would be the mother of his children, and mistress of his house—when his work was done.

They spent some weeks thus together, pleasant and soft and free from care. Thus all February, with its winds and chills passed over them, and March began. They had not, however, quite completed the honeymoon, when a vague, indescribable shadow fell on this tranquil sweetness. The shadow fell, not on Innocent, who, however, once or twice vaguely fancied on looking at her husband that he might be “angry,” but on Sir Alexis alone, who sat long over the newspaper one particular morning, rose pallid as a ghost from reading it,—locked it carefully away in his desk, and telegraphed immediately after to his solicitor in town. His countenance was changed when his young wife came into the room, and that was the first time that Innocent fancied he was angry, but when she asked him, he took her in his arms with more passionate fervour than he had ever shown before.—“Angry! my darling,—can I ever be angry with you?” he cried, frightening her by his vehemence. The solicitor, Mr. Pennefather, a serious man, whom Innocent had scarcely seen before, came next day, and there were very long and solemn discussions between the two men, during which she was left alone, and felt somewhat desolate, poor child; but she was perfectly satisfied when she was told it was business, and asked no questions. When Mr. Pennefather went away, the shadows seemed to pass, and all was well again. The great woods about Longueville began to thrill with the new life of spring, and to open new buds to the genial sun. They seemed an emblem of their master, who was also clothing himself with a new existence, and delights, and hopes. The green slopes of the park surrounded the pair with miles and miles of a lovely solitude, stately in immemorial splendour, yet fresh as a village common. On the terrace, which occupied the front of the house, and upon which opened the many windows of the great drawing-room which Innocent loved, great baskets of flowers were already placed. It had a southern exposure and was sheltered from the winds, and the gardeners were skilful and many. Sir Alexis took pleasure in placing these great bouquets of blossom in his young wife’s favourite walk; and if any delicate plant succumbed to the frost, there were abundant means of replacing it. In the distance the broad lawn was marked out with deep golden lines of crocuses, and waving airy anemones, and every common flower that loves the spring; for he was wise enough not to despise the common children of Nature, the sweetest and most abundant riches of the season. After the momentary cloud which had passed over their sky, he was more tender than ever, more constantly watchful over her; and much of their time was spent on this terrace, where they would sometimes sit together, sometimes wander, from one end to another, talking as they called it, which meant that Sir Alexis would talk and Innocent listen, looking up at him with docile, grateful eyes—or reading, when she was more attentive still, absorbed with the story; for it was always story, either poetry or prose. This was how they were occupied on one mild afternoon early in March. The sun slanted from the west upon the green terrace, one end of which lay in full light, while the other was turned into a chill corner of shadow by the projection of the west wing. The husband and wife were walking slowly along the sunny side, now and then making a long pause by one of the flower baskets, gay with hyacinths and hardy azaleas. Sir Alexis, with the sunshine streaming upon the crisp curls of his hair, which was getting grey, read to her one of Tennyson’s lighter and more youthful poems. I think it was “The Miller’s Daughter.” Sometimes, if he thought her attention was wandering, he would put out his hand and lay it lightly on her shoulder, holding the book from which he read in his other hand; and on these occasions Innocent turned to him with a smile, in which a faint dawning sense of amusement at his solicitude mingled with the natural dreamy sweetness. She was dressed in a gown made of white cashmere, somewhat more akin to the fashion than was her wont, yet falling in the soft, clinging folds peculiar to the material, with a grace which modern fashion scarcely permits—and a little cloak of pale blue velvet, gray-blue, with a bloom upon it such as painters love, made after the fashion of the old cloak which had been her constant wrap in Pisa. It was Sir Alexis who had disinterred the ancient garment, and had learned the associations it had to her. He was a man who thought of such trifles, and he had himself chosen with great trouble the colour of the material in which it was reproduced. Her hair had been allowed to fall down, as of old, on her shoulders. Nobody could be more strenuous on the point of appearance than was Sir Alexis on state occasions, but he liked to see his young wife look as childlike as when he saw her first. Thus she strayed along by his side, a child, yet with the mysterious maturity of wifehood in her eyes—a gentle vagrant in a world not half realized, yet one whose simple feet had trod through mysteries and wonders of life and death—the simplest of girls, yet a great lady-sovereign in a breadth of country as great as many a principality, and with power for good or evil over many a soul unborn. The evening sun slanted down upon her uncovered head, the princely house held all its windows open behind her, the afternoon bees, ready to fly home, sucked their last at the hyacinths with drowsy hum, and the soft grass felt warm under her feet. There was not a cloud upon the sky, save those which had already began to perform the final ceremonial of the sunset in the west. How peaceful the scene! Tranquil happiness in the air, soft sunshine, nothing impassioned, lofty, ecstatic, but a gentle perfection of well-being. Every line of those trees, every blade of the growing grass, seemed to bear its part in the peaceful fulness of enjoyment, which was almost too still and soft to be called by that name.