“How so, Mr. Vane?” said Mrs. Eastwood, with a faint smile, the first that had relieved the tension of her pale face since the terrible news came.
“I can understand now all about Innocent’s marriage,” he said. “God forgive me for doubting her best friends. I thought you were like other women—thinking of a good match above everything.”
“Are you so sure that other women think of a good match above everything?” said Mrs. Eastwood, once more with a smile, and then as she had spared a moment from Innocent, compunction seized her. “What are we to do,” she cried, “oh, what are we to do for my poor child?”
“I am going with you,” said Vane, to whose own eyes (though he was a man not given to emotion) the moisture rose. Mrs. Eastwood sent Nelly away to put on her bonnet, knowing nothing of the interview which Nelly had gone through in the meantime—and entered into all the dismal story which Nelly had briefly unfolded to him. He made no reproaches as Ernest had done—that he had not been told at the time. He understood without explanations how unwilling they must have been to confide such a story to any one, even to Innocent’s relation; and he listened with the deepest attention to Mrs. Eastwood’s account of her own cursory visit to Sterborne, and the total absence of all suspicion at the time of Amanda’s death. John Vane, an idle man, had read for the bar in a wrong way in his youth, not pursuing the study, but yet retaining some fragments of knowledge—and it seemed to him that this was very important. He discussed the whole matter closely, giving, his companion thought, his whole attention to it; but yet—will the reader think less well of John Vane for it?—within a corner of his mind or heart, if you like the word better, he was following Nelly, wondering why she took so long to put on her bonnet—whether she was crying, poor soul, over some lost illusion, some disappointed hope of her own, as well as over her cousin? He was almost glad to think that he alone was, as it were, in her confidence—that even her mother did not know that Molyneux had been there and had disappointed Nelly. He must have disappointed her (this train of thought went on like an undercurrent while he discussed, and that with an anxiety beyond words, the fate of Innocent)—he must have disappointed her, for he had left her. No true lover—no man worthy to be Nelly’s husband—would have left her at such a moment. Had she been wise enough to see this? Would she be strong enough to perceive it hereafter? Mrs. Eastwood did not know—she made not the slightest allusion to Ernest. When Nelly had come down-stairs, and the cab had driven up to the door which was to take them to the railway, she left detailed instructions with Brownlow as to the messages to be given to callers. “You can tell Mrs. Everard and Mr. Brotherton, if they call, that they will hear from me very soon,” she said; “and the same to Mr. Molyneux; though, indeed, Nelly, it is negligent not to have let Ernest know sooner.”
“I have let him know,” said Nelly softly; and Vane thought she gave him a piteous appealing look, as if to beg him not to say anything—a look which almost made him glad, though she was in trouble, and they were all in trouble. There are things that make one’s heart rise even in the midst of lamentation and woe.
“That is well—that is always something spared,” said Mrs. Eastwood, with a sigh; “and be careful of the young gentlemen, Brownlow. Ask Mr. Eastwood if he would like any change made in the dinner-hour while I am away, and see that Mr. Richard is called regularly at seven, and that he has his coffee. My poor Dick must go on working, whatever happens,” she said, taking her place in the cab with a sigh.
And thus Innocent’s friends, all who loved her, gathered round in her direst need. There was but one deserter, and he no friend of hers.
CHAPTER XLVI.
THE EVIDENCE.
“But it is true—I killed Frederick’s wife,” said Innocent.
Her voice was tranquil as usual; but her eyes were dilated and full of woe, like the eyes of a dumb creature hardly used. The scene had strangely changed for her. Instead of the sunny terrace at Longueville, the sunny garden at The Elms, the four gray walls of a prison-cell surrounded her. I will confess to the gentle reader that I never was in a prison, and I do not know how it looked; but I never heard that there were special hardships in poor Innocent’s case, and I believe, indeed, that she was allowed many relaxations of the ordinary prison rules. She was seated on her little bed, Mrs. Eastwood was with her, her husband, and Mr. Pennefather, the solicitor, who had visited Sir Alexis at Longueville, had come down to Sterrington with the eminent lawyer who was to defend poor Innocent, to have a personal interview with her. These two learned persons were subjecting the poor girl to a private examination, and straining all their faculties to get at the exact facts of the case.