“But,” said Molyneux—he was more bewildered than I can say to find himself uncontradicted, to know that anything so incredible was really true—“but those dreadful people, as you call them, could not do this without some cause, something to build upon. For God’s sake, tell me! How do they dare? Is there any foundation?”
“Mamma went down to inquire the very day,” said Nelly dreamily, repeating the old story; “she lost no time. She came back saying it was sheer delusion, nothing more. There was no foundation. Every one was quite satisfied that Mrs. Frederick died of heart-disease. Nobody, except Innocent herself, ever dreamt of anything of the kind.”
“But Innocent herself—what was it that she dreamt of? What was the delusion?”
“She had to give a sleeping draught, and she gave—too much,” said Nelly simply. “She was frightened to death. She left the house instantly, and came home. Oh, how well I recollect that dreadful morning. She came in accusing herself, and Jane heard what she said. Ernest, could such evidence harm her? Is it possible? Her own wild idea, nothing more.”
“I am bewildered by all this,” said Molyneux. “You have known it ever since Mrs. Frederick’s death, and I have been allowed to—— You have never breathed a syllable to me.”
“Oh, how could I?” cried Nelly. “Think, to put it into words was like giving some sanction to it; and you were not fond of her as we were. It was on my lips a hundred times. But, Ernest, you were not fond of her.”
“No, thank Heaven!” he said, walking up and down the room. The chief feeling in his mind was anger, mingled with a certain satisfaction in the sense that he had a right to be angry. “I hope, at least, Longueville knew,” he added, after a pause. “I hope you think he, being fond of Innocent, had the right——”
“Ernest,” said Nelly piteously, moved by one of those last relentings of love which cannot, for very pity, consent to its own extinction, “surely you have some feeling for us in our great trouble. It was because poor Innocent told him, appealed to him, that they ever married at all. He was very, very kind, very good—to us all.”
“Apparently, then, everybody has been considered worthy of your confidence but myself,” said Molyneux; but, notwithstanding, the knowledge that Sir Alexis knew made him think better of the business. Longueville, he thought, was not such a fool as to have married a girl against whom there was real evidence of such a tremendous character. “It is a very good thing that you have Longueville to depend upon,” he said, after a pause. “Of course, it is chiefly his business; of course, he has been making his arrangements to meet the danger; he will get the best counsel—the best——”
“Ernest,” said Nelly, rising from her seat. She put her hands together unconsciously as she went up to him—“Ernest! We have often talked of what might be, if something really worth your while should offer; not mere troublesome law-business, but something that would really exercise your mind—something worthy of you. And, Ernest, would it not be all the more great, the more noble, if it was to save an innocent creature from destruction? You know her almost as well as we do,” cried the girl, the big tears running down her pale cheeks. “You have seen her grow from almost a child. You know how simple she is, how innocent, like her name. Perhaps she was slow at first to see that we loved her. Perhaps we did not go the right way. But you have seen it all, Ernest; you have known her from the first—from a child. She never was anything but a child. And you are eloquent—you could bring any one through whose cause you took up. Oh, what a power it is—and when you can use it to save the innocent, Ernest! I do not say for my sake——”