“‘Silly’ is the appropriate adjective to women, I believe,” said Mrs. Brotherton, who was advanced in her views; “just as my husband puts ‘grey-haired’ to the noun ‘father,’ and ‘kind’ to the noun ‘mother’ in his sermons. Innocent, however, is very happy among these silly women—being silly herself, I suppose.”
“Very happy? after all that has happened?” said the sympathetic questioner, holding up her hands with wonder and horror.
“Well! after a great misfortune, which was no fault of hers—and which, fortunately, ended in no harm; to be sure she has lost her husband, poor little thing—”
“That was a mistake—another mistake,” said Mrs. Everard, shaking her head. “Poor Innocent is as well as can be expected, Lady Dobson. She is very childish, and never will be anything else, I fear. She ought not to have been allowed to marry. As for poor dear Sir Alexis, she could not appreciate him when he was living, and she can’t be expected, I suppose, to feel his death very much. It was a mistake altogether. Of course, nobody could expect Mrs. Eastwood to do anything but jump at such a marriage for her niece. But it was injudicious—and, for my part, I always knew she was making a mistake.”
“What a sad story altogether! and to end in a convent—how romantic!”
“Convent, indeed! I did not know they went so far as to use that word in Protestant England! What are we coming to, good heavens!”
“But the Eastwoods were always an obstinate race—- no getting them to take advice—whenever they make up their minds to anything, wild horses would not move them. What, Nelly coming down-stairs! Then let us see the last of her, ladies,” said Mrs. Everard, remembering that it was her place to do the honours as the most intimate friend of the house.
Nelly stood on the threshold in her grey gown; her mother held her by one hand, her husband by the other. She looked back upon a cloud of faces, all smiling, throwing good-byes and kind wishes at her—and, on the other side, the horses pranced and tossed their proud heads, the gates stood open, the sunshine streamed down through the brown trees, the world lay before her.
“Good-bye, everybody,” she said; “and to you, for a little while, mamma.” And that was the last of Nelly. There was never a Nelly yet carried off by eager horses, by an eager bridegroom, among storms of white shoes and good wishes, who was more dearly taken care of thereafter than was the Nelly who signed herself from that day in stately fashion, “Ellinor Vane.”
“You are all that are left to me now, boys,” said Mrs. Eastwood, as she sat between them that evening, over the first fire of the season, which had been lighted for consolation. “Nelly will come back, but she will not be quite Nelly; one has to put up with it. You are all that are left to me now——”