“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.