“If I must say it in so many words,” said the officer, “I have come for my Lady Longueville. Here’s my warrant. It’s all in the paper.—‘Dame Innocent, wife of Sir Alexis Longueville, Bart.——’”
“For what? Good heavens!”
How vain it was to ask!—as if since even he saw these men the certainty of it, the shame, the misery, the horrible possibilities which might follow, had not risen like a picture, pale against a lurid background of suffering, before his eyes.
“For the murder of Amanda Eastwood, at Sterborne, on the 21st of October last——”
For the first time Innocent was fully roused. She uttered a low cry—she turned to her husband with a wild look of wonder and appeal.
“You said it would all be made right—all right!” she said, clasping her helpless hands, appealing against her sudden misery to heaven and earth.
CHAPTER XLV.
THE FIRST DESERTER.
The next morning after this event, Ernest Molyneux, with a newspaper in his hand, jumped out of a hansom at the door of The Elms and rushed into the house. The door was open; a certain air of agitation and excitement was about the place, some trunks stood in the hall, corded and labelled as for a journey. He told Brownlow, who came out of the dining-room at the sound of his arrival, to send Miss Eastwood to him directly, and made his way into the drawing-room, which was empty. Empty, arranged with all its usual peaceful order and grace, full of sunshine, sweet with the flowers which looked in brightly through the round window-door of the conservatory, with novels from Mudie’s on the table, Mrs. Eastwood’s work-basket, and Nelly’s knitting. Nothing can excuse untidiness in an English house—the housemaid must do her duty whether we live or die, or even if things happen to us which are worse than life or death. Molyneux was confounded by the tranquil comfort, the brightness and calm of this shrine of domestic life. It checked him in his eagerness and heat. The horrible news in the paper seemed to lose all appearance, all possibility of truth. He calmed down. He asked himself what he would have to say to Nelly after demanding her presence in such hot haste if this rumour was not true. A little shame, a little compunction came into his mind. He had not come here to console, but to reproach. He had to wait for some time before she came, and in the meantime the absolute stillness of the house, the tranquillizing warmth and brightness of the sunshine, worked upon him with the most curious effect. He became more and more ashamed of himself, and I do not know what moral result might have been produced in the end had Nelly delayed her coming much longer, or had her own demeanour carried out the effect of this scene. But Nelly came in with red eyes and pale cheeks, in the simplest of travelling dresses, with this look of mingled excitement and exhaustion which more than anything else betrays “something wrong” in the history of a family. She came in eagerly, almost running to him, with that instinctive and unconscious appeal which is conveyed by visible expectation, and which it is so difficult to disappoint, her hands outstretched, her eyes ready to fill with tears. The sight of her emotion, however, had an effect upon Molyneux which totally counteracted the calm of the house. It restored him to his position of criticism and superiority. He took her hands, it is true, and even kissed her cheek, though with something of that indifference which comes with habit. But he made no demonstration of sympathy. He said hastily, “Nelly, I am come to you for information. Have you seen what is in the papers? Surely, surely, it cannot be true!”
The check and sudden revulsion which comes to all who expect too much came to Nelly. She withdrew her hands from him. Her tears, which were ready to fall, went back somehow. She retreated a little from his side; but her pride supported her. At that moment and for ever Nelly closed the doors of her heart against her lover. It is true indeed, as the reader will perceive, that she threw them open again once, and once only, not knowing that her decision had been made, and believing there was still a place of repentance; but certainly, though she was not aware of it, those doors closed now with a crash of sound which rang in her ears and made her deaf to everything else. She thought for the moment, however, that the ringing in her ears meant only weariness and pain, and sat down, to keep herself from fainting, in her mother’s chair.
“If you mean is it true that Innocent, poor Innocent, has done what they say,” said Nelly, low and trembling, “but all the rest is true enough. They have put her in—— Oh me! Oh me! how can I say it? It is those dreadful people, whom Frederick bound himself to for a curse to us all.”