“Yes, it happened late on Saturday. Innocent is somehow mixed up in it. I mean she was there, and saw it happen, and it has—almost—turned her brain.”
“She had not much to turn,” said Ernest carelessly. “But what does all this mean? Mrs. Frederick dead? You don’t mean to tell me, Nelly, that you were so much attached to her as to make a great trouble of that?”
“No, I suppose not,” said Nelly, looking at him wistfully, “but still, when any one dies—it is a—shock.”
She used her mother’s word unconsciously. Words for the moment had become to Nelly symbols, not for the expression, but for the concealment of her meaning; and oh! he surely might have read that there was more than her words said, in her eyes.
“Oh, a shock!” he said contemptuously. “Of course you would not have done anything to bring it about, but when Providence has been so kind as to deliver you from such an unpleasant connexion, you might be grateful at least. By Jove, what a lucky dog he is! he has had his swing, and as soon as the consequences threaten to be unbearable, here comes in some cold or something and carries her off.”
“Do you call that lucky?” said Nelly, somewhat woe-begone. “I suppose he loved her, or thought he did!”
“He has given up thinking anything of the sort for some time back, you may be sure,” said Ernest. “Well, Nelly, I suppose the conventional correct sort of thing is right for women. Granted that you have had a—shock. But Mrs. Frederick’s death cannot have made such a deep impression that you should look ready to cry at every word——”
“I suppose not,” repeated Nelly, with a painful smile. She was indeed “ready to cry,” but not for Mrs. Frederick’s death—for many reasons that he could little divine.
“It is not cheerful for a man to come a long round out of his way to see you and find you like this,” continued Molyneux. “I don’t want to find fault, heaven knows; but when you are of so much importance to me, I ought to be of a little importance to you, don’t you think, Nelly? A dowdy old gown, and your eyes red with gazing in the fire, or something else—and the lamp burning low, and a supper-tray or something on the table. Good heavens, what hugger-mugger ways you women fall into when you are left to yourselves! And what now, crying? Nelly, upon my word I don’t think I deserve this——”
“I am in trouble, Ernest,” said the poor girl, “and you are not. You can’t enter into my feelings. I do not want to annoy you with things that you have nothing to do with, as you once upbraided me for doing. Next time perhaps I shall be in better spirits. It is very foolish certainly to cry.”