THE COUSINS.
This little scene was odd and somewhat embarrassing to a young
Englishman utterly unaccustomed to have his hand kissed; but I think it
highly probable that Frederick would have felt much less objection to it
had it not been for the presence of that Gorgon of British propriety,
which kept staring at him with an expression of shocked and suspicious
watchfulness from the other side of the stove. He laughed with the
embarrassment common to his nation under the circumstances. There is
nothing so awkward, so unhappy, and unready, as an Englishman who is
called upon to show any natural feeling of the softer kind before
strangers. Why we all, and we alone, should feel that we are ridiculous
when our hearts are touched, I cannot tell; but so it is. Frederick
Eastwood was affected by the eager passion of his welcome; but with Mrs.
Drainham’s eyes upon him, he could do nothing but laugh. The
primitive-minded girl, who was not aware of this tacit necessity, shrunk
back into herself when, as she thought, he laughed at her. But the
spectator felt that it was the right thing to do, and her disapproval
softened. She indicated a chair to the new comer with a little wave of
her hand.
“Dear child,” she said in a caressing tone, “you must moderate your
feelings. We all understand you; we all excuse you; but these are not
English ways. Sit down a little, while I talk to you and to this
gentleman. Mr. Eastwood, I think?--so far as one can understand an
Italian’s version of the name we were expecting to hear--”
“Yes,” said Frederick, “I should have arrived a week ago, but
for--indisposition. I am glad to find my cousin in such good hands.”
Here they paused, and looked at each other, with sentiments which were
not unfriendly, but a certain English community of feeling that made
them sensible of the necessity of some sort of preliminary antagonism
before the one agreed to accept the other as the person he claimed to
be. Mrs. Drainham was a pretty woman, though it was appointed to her at
this moment to act the Gorgon’s part. And Frederick, with his peaked
beard and melancholy eyes, was a handsome young man. The tone of the
British matron perceptibly softened, as she took in at a glance the
various evidences before her that the new comer was “a
gentleman”--all-expressive and all-embracing phrase. She even laughed a
little in her turn, and coloured very becomingly as she executed the
sterner part of her duty.
“I am afraid you will think me impertinent,” she said; “and I feel
ridiculous; but as my husband and I have taken a great interest in Miss
Vane, would you pardon me for asking if you have--any credentials--or
authority? I am sure I beg your pardon. You will understand what I
mean----”
Then they both laughed together, which advanced matters still farther.
“I have a letter from my mother to my cousin,” he said. “I might have
got a certificate of identity, had I thought she was so well guarded.
And here is my card,” he added, taking it out smilingly.
It was the card Batty had found in the Paris hotel, which was the first
one that came to his hand. He knew it by a crease in the corner, and
pushed it back again with a little shudder which he could not account
for: for indeed the Batty episode had faded into unimportance already.
The card, however, was given and accepted with a gracious smile and bow.
That celestial address, the “Junior Minerva,” impressed Mrs. Drainham,
as it had impressed Frederick’s less desirable acquaintance. A little
conversation of the most amicable character ensued, winding up by an
invitation to dinner for that evening.
“And you will come too, my dear,” said the doctor’s wife; “though it is
a thing you could not do in ordinary circumstances. Nobody could reflect
upon you for departing from the usual rules in your position. I will ask
no one to meet you. Mr. Eastwood will bring you to us at seven o’clock.”
Innocent had listened to this conversation vaguely, in a kind of stupor,
feeling as if they spoke a language of which she had never before heard
a word. Greek would have been as intelligible to her. It even hurt her
vaguely that they seemed to understand each other in the language which
she could not understand. She had been thrust back upon herself, which
is always painful--thrust back after, as she thought, a gleam of new
life and a new world, into the old dreary world, much drearier than ever
by the contrast, though it was but momentary. The visionary intensity of
a mind living in its own sensations almost annihilates space and time;
and though it was but half an hour since Frederick Eastwood came upon
the scene at all, there was room enough in that half hour to make the
girl feel the force of two revolutions--the one from her dreary solitude
into a new sphere of brightness, tenderness, companionship, which was as
a revelation of heaven to her; and the other, a dreary circle back
again, out of the light, out of the society, out of the strange
delightful newness which seemed to have changed her being all in a
moment. The one was a sudden sun-rising, the other an equally sudden
eclipse. She had been raised up to heaven and then suddenly tossed down
again. The amount of emotion involved was quite excessive and
extravagant, out of all keeping with the momentary character of the
incidents; but Innocent was not aware of this, nor could have believed
how utterly unimportant to the others was the half hour which subjected
her to such vicissitudes of feeling as she had never before felt in her
life. She made no reply to Mrs. Drainham’s invitation, which, indeed,
she scarcely comprehended. She did not understand the civilities with
which her two companions parted, Frederick accompanying Mrs. Drainham to
the door. What she imagined was that he had thus gone away without
taking any further notice of her, and that all was over, and the new
hope to which she seemed to have a right, taken from her. She sat in a
stupor, watching them go away, fingering the folds of the old velvet
cloak, which she had picked up mechanically from the floor, and feeling
a mingled chill--of her shoulders from the want of her mantle, and of
her heart from this strange desertion--which made her shiver all over,
and gave her that nervous and passionate impulse to cry, which children
and women are so seldom able to resist, but which poor Innocent had been
victorious over often, tears being among the things which her father
turned into highest ridicule. She had ceased almost to be able to
weep--forgotten the way; the natural emotions had been frozen in their
fountains. But the thrill of new existence of which she had been
conscious had broken those frozen chains, and she began to struggle with
a hysterical passion which roused all her pride and all her spirit to
conquer it. No doubt, she thought, this new cousin, like her father,
would despise the weakness which women indulged in. Innocent despised
herself for being a woman, and she would have died sooner than yield to
what she supposed to be a purely feminine impulse. She was struggling
thus with herself, fighting the hardest battle she had fought since the
time when goaded by his ridicule she had rushed upon her father like a
little tiger, beating him with her baby fist, choking with suppressed
passion, when the door opened again, and Frederick came in once more.
She gazed at him with her breast heaving, and her eyes dilated, in the
fierceness of her struggle to keep off the tears. And if he had laughed,
or treated her emotion lightly, Innocent would have conquered. But
Frederick’s heart was really touched. He felt benevolent, paternal, full
of patronage and kindness. He went up to her, and laid his hand
caressingly on her head.
“My little cousin, we must make friends now that woman is gone,” he
said, smiling upon her.
Poor child, she knew nothing of self-control, scarcely anything of right
and wrong. She threw out her arms and clung to him, in a simple effort
of nature to grasp at something; and fell into such a passion of sobs
and cries on his bosom as frightened him. But yet what was more natural?
She had just lost her father; she had no one in the world to turn to,
except this new relation who belonged to her. She had been undergoing an
unnatural repression, concealing her feelings in that stupor which grief
so often brings. Frederick thought he understood it all, and it affected
him, though he was glad there was no one else in the room. He put his
arm round her, and even kissed the cheek which was partially visible,
and said all the kind things he could think of. It lasted so long that,
not being very strong himself, he began to totter a little under the
unexpected burden, and would gladly have freed himself and sat down by
her. But Innocent had been carried away by the tide, and could not stop
herself. This was the beginning of their acquaintance. There were no
preliminaries. She had never “given way” in her life before, except on
the occasion we have already referred to--and heaven knows what strange
processes were going on in the girl’s half-developed, much-suppressed
nature, as for the first time she gave her tears and emotion way.
When the hysterical sobbing came to an end, Innocent lifted her head
from his breast, and looked at him, still holding him by the arms. She
looked up suddenly, half beseeching him not to despise her, half daring
him to do so; but there was no scorn in Frederick’s eyes. He was very
sorry for her.
“My poor child!” he said, smoothing the ruffled hair upon her forehead.
Then a sudden flush came to her face, and light to her eyes. She
released him as suddenly as she had clutched him. She sank back gently
into her chair, with a shy, deprecating smile.
“I could not help it,” she said, putting out her hand. She wanted to
retain some hold of him, to be sure that he would not melt quite away
like one of the dreams.
As for Frederick, though his first feeling, I confess, was great
thankfulness at being permitted to sit down, he had no objection to have
his hand held by those soft, long fingers, or to bear the eager look of
eyes which shown upon him with a kind of worship. He told her how he had
been coming to her for a long time, but had been detained--how he had
come to take her home--how they must start next day, if possible, and
travel as quickly as possible; and how his mother and sister were
awaiting her anxiously, hoping to make her happy, and to comfort her in
her trouble. Innocent leant back in her chair, and smiled and listened.
She made no reply. It did not seem necessary to make any reply. She held
his hand fast and let him talk to her, not caring much what he said. I
don’t know if her intelligence was much developed at this period of her
life. She understood what he was saying, but it was as a song to her, or
a story that he was telling. She did not mind how long she listened,
but it required no personal response--took no personal hold of her. The
picture he made of The Elms, and his mother and sister, produced no sort
of effect upon her mind. She was satisfied. Everything was unreal and
vague except the one tangible fact, that he was sitting beside her and
that she was holding his hand. It was not love at first sight. The child
did not know, and never inquired what it was. She had got some one--some
one belonging to her like other people, some one who did not sneer or
ridicule, but smiled at her: who called her name softly: who found no
fault. She was altogether transported by this wonderful sensation. She
wanted no more; no mothers nor sisters, no change, no conditions such as
make life possible. She knew nothing about all that. Her understanding
had nothing to do with the question. It was barely developed, not equal
to any strain; and in this matter it seemed quite possible to do without
it; whether she understood or not did not matter. She was happy; she
wanted nothing more.
“Must you go away?” she cried with a start, holding his hand closer, as
he moved.
“Not to leave you,” he said; “but if we go away to-morrow--Can you go
to-morrow, Innocent?”
“I will go when you go,” she said.
“My dear cousin, you must be less vague. Can you be ready? Can you have
your packing done, and all your little affairs settled? Where is your
maid? She will know best.”
“I have no maid. I have nothing to pack. I am ready now, whenever you
please; only you must not leave me. You must never leave me,” she cried,
clasping her hands round his arm.
“I have no intention of leaving you,” he said, half flattered, half
embarrassed, “till I have taken you to my mother. It is my mother whom
you are going to--my mother--I told you--and Ellinor----”
“Will you leave me when we get there?” the girl asked eagerly, still
holding him. Yes, it was flattering; but possibly it might become a
bore.
“No, no,” he said, “I live there too. I am not going to leave you. But
my mother will be the chief person then--my mother and Nelly, not me.
They are ladies, they will be your chief friends and companions----”
“I would rather have you; I know you; and I don’t like women,” said the
girl. “Listen! Could not we live somewhere without letting them know? I
can cook some dishes--very good maccaroni; and I can cook birds. I could
do what you wanted, and make your _spese_. This would be far better than
going to live with your mother. I do not like women.”
She warmed as she spoke, turning to face him, with her hand still
clasping his arm.
“You must not say such things,” he said.
“Why? This is the first time you have said ‘you must not.’ My father
says women are all bad--not some here and there like men. I am one, but
I cannot help it. I always try to be different. I would not do the
things they do--nor look like them if I could help it. Are you rich?”
“No,” said Frederick, becoming bewildered. He had risen up, but she
detained him with her two hands holding his arm.
“That is a pity. We were never rich. If you had been rich we might have
taken Niccolo, who could have done everything--he is so clever. We might
have stayed here. Stop!” she said suddenly, “there is a little cloud
coming up over your face. Do not let it. Smile. You smiled when you came
in first, and I knew that it was you, and was so happy.”
“My poor child! Why were you happy?”
“Because I knew it was you,” she said vehemently. “And now you talk of
your mother. I do not want to go to your mother. Let me stay with you.”
“Listen, Innocent,” he said, with a shade of impatience stealing over
him. “There is no possibility of questioning where you are to go. You
must go to my mother. I live there too. I cannot afford to have a house
for myself. You must learn to be fond of my mother, and do whatever she
wishes. Now let me go, please. I am going out to see the place. If we
leave to-morrow, I may not have another opportunity. Come, come, you
must let me go.”
She was looking up into his face, studying it intently, as if it were a
book, a close, penetrating gaze, before which his eyes somewhat wavered,
hesitating to meet hers. An idea that she would find him out if she
gazed thus into the depths of his soul crossed his mind and made him
half angry, half afraid. Perhaps she divined this feeling; for she let
his arm go slowly, sliding her hands away from it, with a half
caressing, half apologetic motion. She smiled as she thus released him,
but said nothing. There was something pretty in the act by which she set
him free--a mingling of resignation and entreaty that at once amused and
touched him. Go if you will--it seemed to say--but yet stay with me! It
was hard to resist the moral restraint after the physical was withdrawn.
But Frederick reflected that to spend this his only day in a strange new
place--in Italy--shut up _tête-à-tête_ with a girl who was a stranger to
him, though she was his cousin, would be extremely ridiculous. Yet he
could not leave her abruptly. He stroked her soft hair once more
paternally as he stood by her.
“I will come back in time to take you out to this lady’s to dinner,” he
said. “I suppose they have been kind to you? And in the meantime you
must see after your packing. I have no doubt you will find a great many
things to do. I am sorry you have not a maid to help you. Have you wraps
for the journey? You will want something warm.”
She took up her old velvet mantle with a startled look, and turned it
round in her hands, looking at it. It was a garment to delight the very
soul of a painter; but, alas! it was not such a garment as Frederick
Eastwood, who was not a painter, could walk about by the side of, or
travel with.
“Is that all you have?” he asked, with a little dismay.
“I have a shawl,” said Innocent, looking at him with astonished eyes.
“Ah! I must speak to Mrs. Drainham about it,” he said, with some
impatience. “Good-bye for the moment. Will you dress and be quite ready
when I come back? and then we can have a talk about our start to-morrow
and all our arrangements. I am sure if you are to be ready in time there
is not a moment to lose.”
Ready in time! The words seemed to echo about poor Innocent’s ears when
he was gone. Ready for what? For going out with him in the evening to
the house of the lady who found fault with her; who had come to her and
talked and talked so much that the girl neither tried nor wished to
understand. Ready! She sat and tried to think what it meant. She had but
the black frock she wore--no other--with its little black frill of crape
about her neck; no edge of white, such as people wear in England. She
could smooth her hair, and put on a locket, or her mother’s brooch; but
that was all she could do. The packing she never thought of. Niccolo had
been nurse and valet combined. He had always arranged everything, and
told her what to do. She sat for a long time quite still, pondering over
the mourning with a strange happiness and a still stranger poignant pain
in her agitated breast. Then she rose, and putting her cloak round
her--the poor cloak which she was afraid _he_ had despised--she went
down the long stairs and across the road to the tiny little church upon
the edge of the Arno. Nobody who has been in Pisa will forget Santa
Maria della Spina. I do not know whether its tiny size took the girl’s
fancy, or if the richness of the elaborate architecture pleased her, for
she had no such clearly developed ideas about art as her relations in
England gave her credit for. Perhaps after all it was but a child’s
fancy for the dim, decorated religious place, which, notwithstanding its
mystery and silence, and the awe which hung about it, was not so big as
the great bare _salone_ in which she sat at home. She went in, crossing
herself according to the custom which she had seen all her life,
mechanically, without any thought of the meaning of that sign, and held
out her hand to give the holy water to a peasant woman who entered along
with her, mechanically too, as she might have offered any habitual
courtesy. This poor girl had scarcely been taught anything except what
her eyes taught her. She went in, according to her custom, and knelt for
a minute on a chair, and then, turning it round, sat down with her face
to the altar. I think what she said under her breath was simply the
Lord’s Prayer, nothing more. It was very brief and mechanical too, and
when she sat down I cannot pretend that her thoughts were of a religious
kind. They were possessed by the occurrences of the morning. Her heart
was in a tumult, rising and falling like the waves of the sea. The dead
stillness with which the day before she had sat in the same place, full
of a certain dumb, wistful quiet--almost stupor of mind, had passed away
from her. Life had come along with the new living figure which had
placed itself in the foreground of her picture. Her heart beat with the
vibration of her first strange childish happiness at the sight of her
cousin; but in the very midst of this there came a sting of sharp wonder
and pain, that acute surprised disappointment which women are apt to
feel when the man whose company they themselves prefer to everything
shows himself capable of going away from them, and preferring some kind
of pleasure separate from them to that which can be had in their
society. “If he was glad to find me, if he came so far for me, why could
not he have stayed with me?” Innocent was not sufficiently advanced
either in intellectual or emotional life to put such a question into
words, but it was vaguely in her mind, filling her in her childish
inexperience with a pain almost as great as the new pleasure which had
come with her new friend. The morning masses were all over; there was no
service going on, no candles lighted upon the altar, which glimmered
with all its tall white tapers through the gloom. Everything was silent;
now and then a half seen figure stealing in, dropping down to say a
prayer or two, and with mysterious genuflexion gliding away again. A few
people, like Innocent, sat in different corners quite still, with their
eyes towards the altar; they were chiefly old people, worn old women and
benumbed old men, doing nothing, perhaps thinking nothing, glad only,
like the forlorn child, of the peacefulness, the stillness, the
religiousness about. Here and there was one who, with clasped hands and
rapt face, gazed up at some dark picture on the wall, and “wrestled”
like Jacob; but the most part showed little emotion of any kind; they
found a shelter perhaps for their confused thoughts, perhaps only for
the torpor of their worn-out faculties. But anyhow, they were the better
for being there, and so was Innocent. She sat quite still for a long
time, rather the subject of her thoughts than exercising any control
over them, and then she turned her chair round again and knelt and said
the Lord’s Prayer, and went away.
She went to Mrs. Drainham’s with her cousin as mechanically as she had
said her prayers. Her appearance was strange enough on that strange
evening, which she passed as in a dream. With an idea that ornament was
necessary, and perhaps not without some pleasure in the novelty of
having the little morocco box full of trinkets, which her father had
always kept in his own hands, handed over to her keeping, she had put on
a trinket which took her fancy, and which was attached to a little
chain. It was a very brilliant ornament indeed, set with emeralds and
rubies, in a quaint design, the background of which was formed by small
diamonds. The effect of this upon her very simple black frock may be
conceived. Mrs. Drainham was scandalized, yet impressed. Impossible not
to look upon a girl possessed of such a jewel with some additional
respect--and yet the impropriety, the unappropriateness of wearing it at
such a time was almost “past speaking of,” Mrs. Drainham felt.
“You should wear nothing but jet ornaments with such deep mourning,” she
said. “A plain gold locket might have done if you have no jet; but this,
my dear, is quite out of character. You must try and recollect these
things when you go among your relations. They will wonder that you know
so little. They might perhaps think it heartless of you. Was it your
mother’s? It is very pretty. You must take great care of such an
ornament as this; but you must be sure never to wear it when you are in
mourning.” This was said when she was alone in the drawing-room with
Innocent after dinner. And then she, too, began to inquire into the
packing and the wraps for the journey. She gave Innocent a great deal of
advice, which I fear was quite lost upon her, and offered to go next day
to “see to” her preparations. The girl sat much as she had sat in the
Church of the Spina, with her hands crossed on her lap, listening
vaguely. She did not know what to say, and her attention wandered often
as the stream of counsel flowed on. She had done no packing still, and
had no idea what to do about the wraps; and Frederick scarcely seemed to
belong to her, in this strange room, where she sat in a kind of waking
dream, ashamed of her poor frock, ashamed of her rich jewel, not knowing
what to make of herself. Poor little Innocent! perhaps, on the whole, in
this new rush of emotions that filled her there was rather less pleasure
than pain.