“You have been a good child to me, poor Innocent. God bless you!” said the dying man, putting his hand upon her head; and then he asked feebly and anxiously, “You forgive me for what I said?”
“I did not do it,” said Innocent, looking at him very earnestly. “I did not do it.” There was no anger in her eyes, only a firm, almost wild denial, which yet she was anxious that he should believe.
“I know you did not,” he cried. “Oh, Innocent, my child, kiss me and forgive me! you have been as good as an angel to me. It is I that have been unkind, only I——”
She stooped down over him, her face melting a little, and kissed him—then by a sudden impulse knelt down by his side. Innocent had but one thing that it came into her head to do when she knelt down upon her knees. She said “Our Father” reverently and slowly like a child by her husband’s bedside: “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that have trespassed against us.” I have heard that there was not a dry eye in the room; and when she rose up from her knees she kissed him again, and held his hand till he died.
CHAPTER LIII.
CONCLUSION.
Some time after this last calamity a large party was assembled, one bright October morning, in the drawing-room at The Elms. The house was full of flowers,—it was full of commotion. Many carriages had cut up the orderly little gravel drive round the shrubbery in front,—the door had been standing open all the morning, there were groups of people everywhere, even in the bedrooms, and the maids, in white ribbons, fluttered about the staircase, and bran-new trunks, with shining leather covers, stood in the hall. The dining-room door stood open, disclosing more flowers; a large, long table, covered with the remains of a feast; chairs thrust aside, and white napkins lying about as they had been left when the party adjourned into the drawing-room, where they had all gathered together in bright-coloured groups, waiting till the bride should be ready. The bridegroom was already in the hall, looking at his watch, and hearing gibes about the putting on of bonnets, and the putting up of baggage, which was henceforward to be his accompaniment through life;—his kind eyes shone as if they had been ten years younger,—you could scarcely guess that he was getting bald about the temples, so glorified was the man with that wonderful glow of happiness which has a certain pathos in it when it comes a little later than usual. And yet it was not late; he was quite a young man still, even the bridesmaids said,—and his two young brothers-in-law, and his old sister, all clustering about him at this moment in the hall, were ready, at a moment’s notice, all three of them, to have gone to the stake for John Vane. It speaks well for a man when he is thus supported on both sides. A great deal of talk was coming from the drawing-room, where the friends of the family, left to themselves, were discussing the matter, as people say our friends always discuss us when our backs are turned. There was nobody to keep this crowd in order. Mrs. Eastwood was up-stairs with the bride. The rest of the domestic party were in the hall, as I have said, consoling the bridegroom. Mrs. Everard, who rather took it upon her to do the honours of the place when the head of the house was absent, was herself the ringleader in this talk. Perhaps the gentle reader would like to know what they were saying, before Nelly, in her grey gown,—Nelly sobered out of her white into walking costume,—Nelly with her eyes rather red, and her lip trembling a little,—comes down-stairs.
“I never believed in the other business, for my part,” said Mrs. Everard, dropping her voice. “Of course, we must not so much as allude to it now, but you remember as well as I do when Nelly was supposed to be going to do something very different. I never believed in it, not even when we met him here continually, and the poor dear mother, who is too good for this world, let it all go on without taking the most ordinary preventives——”
“But, dear me!” said Mrs. Brotherton, the clergyman’s wife, “we heard that every arrangement was made, and that the judge and his family went into it quite as heartily as the Eastwoods did. Indeed, my husband met them here at dinner when the engagement was declared.”
“Oh yes, exactly; so did I,” said Mrs. Everard, “but there are wheels within wheels. I don’t mean to say I approve of that sort of thing, for I’ve known it to spoil a girl’s prospects, and cause a great deal of unhappiness; but, if you don’t care about feelings, acquiescing in an engagement is a great deal better than opposing it, and often comes to exactly the same thing.”
“I always understood,” said Mrs. Brotherton, indignantly, “that the Eastwoods broke it off in consequence of the way in which he behaved when poor Innocent was in trouble.”