“No,” said Nelly, “No—I did not say for my sake; but if I did it would not have mattered. No, you must use your own judgment. But will you excuse me now,” she added, after a momentary pause, “if I say good-bye? We are going—to Sterrington directly, and I have still some things to do.”
“To Sterrington! To mix yourself up with Innocent, and trumpet your connexion with her to all the world!”
“To stand by one of mamma’s children in her trouble,” said Nelly, looking at him with tears shining in her eyes, and with a smile which increased his exasperation a hundredfold. “I am sorry you do not understand. Mamma’s place is with Innocent, and mine with mamma.”
“This is folly, Nelly,” he cried, “absolute folly. She has her husband to look after her. Have I no claims? and for my sake you ought not to go.”
She rose, holding out her hand to him, still with that pale smile upon her face. “Let us part friends,” she said. “This is not a time to discuss any one’s claims. What you cannot do for my sake I will not do for yours. Good-bye.”
“Is this final?” he cried, in rage and dismay.
“It would be best so,” said Nelly gently.
But she did not know how he went away. She kept her composure, and appeared, so far as he could make out, as resolute as she was calm; but there was a dimness in Nelly’s eyes and a ringing in her ears. The room seemed to swim about her, and his face, which flamed into sudden rage, then went out, as it were, like an extinguished light. Gradually the darkness that closed over everything lightened again, and she found he had gone. She had not fainted nor lost consciousness, but a mist had overspread her soul and her thoughts, and all that was done and said. She sat still where he left her, quite silent, coming to herself. She forgot that she had things to do, and that it would soon be time for the train. She sat still, realizing what had happened, looking, as it were, at what she had done. She was not sorry but stunned, wondering how she came to do it—not grieved that she had done it. I don’t know how long she sat thus; it seemed to her hours, but that of course was a mere impression. What roused her at last was the entrance of another man, as much excited, as anxious, and curious as Ernest had been. He came to offer his services, to ask if he should go at once and put himself at the disposal of Sir Alexis; and in the second place—only in the second place—to ask what it meant. Nelly sat and listened to his eager questions, and then burst into sudden tears. She gave him no reason for them—why should she? There were reasons enough and to spare, without diving into her personal history, for any outburst of sorrow. John Vane put no questions, but he had met Ernest rushing in the opposite direction, and I think he divined that some reflection of a personal misery was in Nelly’s paleness and agitation. But he asked her no questions, and he tried not to ask himself any, which was harder still.
When Mrs. Eastwood came into the room, which she did very soon after in her bonnet and cloak ready for the journey, Vane went up to her, holding out his hand.
“Forgive me,” he said humbly, “for having done you a temporary wrong in my thoughts.”