THE HIGH LODGE.
Thus every one discussed and gave their opinion as to Innocent’s outset
in life--except Innocent herself. She acquiesced--it was all she ever
did. A slight paling of her very faint colour, a certain look of fright
in her eyes were the only indications that it affected her at all.
Somehow this change in her life associated itself in her ideas with
Amanda’s proposal to render her of use--a proposal which she had
received with more favour than any one else in the house; it had
offended them all on her account, but it had not offended Innocent. She
listened to all the descriptions which were given her of Miss Vane, her
unknown relation, and of the pretty country which she was about to
visit, and of the novelty and change which her aunt thought would do her
so much good, with passive incomprehension. Novelty alarmed, it did not
excite her; she wanted no change--but yet she was quite contented to be
sent where they pleased; to do whatever they thought proper. She looked
upon her visit as a very devout and enthusiastic believer looks--or is
supposed to look--upon death; as an unknown and terrible event of which
she could form no idea, but which would be soon over, and which it was
absolutely the will of those who were as gods to Innocent that she
should undergo “for her good.” Thus she allowed herself to be prepared
for it with a mixture of fright and docility; everybody talked of it
except herself, the heroine. Innocent’s visit was in every mouth except
Innocent’s. She did not even form to herself any picture of what it
would be like, as Nelly kept doing perpetually. She had no faculty for
making pictures. Indeed, the peculiarity of Innocent’s organization
began to centre chiefly in this point--that she had no imagination. It
did not seem a moral want in her as it does in some people, so much as a
wistful vacancy, a blank caused by some accident. No sort of cynic scorn
of the imagination of others, such, as the unimaginative often show,
was in her passive soul; but she followed the gaze of the eyes which
could thus see into the unseen with a wistful look which was full of
pathos.
“How do you know when things are going to happen?” she said to Nelly,
who had just been indulging in a long account of Miss Vane’s probable
appearance and manners to cheer them over their work, as they sat with
Alice in Mrs. Eastwood’s room, helping to make some new “things” for
Innocent’s outfit.
“I don’t know in the least--I only imagine,” said Nelly, laughing.
“Imagine!” repeated Innocent. She did not understand it. She was all a
dream, poor child, and Nelly was all real; but the dream-girl possessed
no imagination at all, while the other was running over with ready
youthful fancy. No matter-of-fact creature, no dull clodhopper, could be
more absolutely and rigidly bound within the lines of what she knew,
than Innocent. She knew the old wandering life in Italy, and she knew
The Elms. But all the rest of the world was a blank to her. She had
formed no idea either of what she was about to meet with, or how she was
to conduct herself under other circumstances. With such an absence of
the faculty which guides us through it, the future and every change can
be nothing but a terror to the ignorant soul.
“Look here, Innocent,” said Jenny, who had always taken a special charge
of her, on the evening before she left home. He had taken her into the
garden for the purpose of examining her, and satisfying himself that she
was what he called a free agent. “Are you sure you like going? That’s
what I want to know.”
“Like going?” said Innocent, opening her eyes. “Oh, no.”
“Why are you going, then? Is it because you are obliged?” asked Jenny,
knitting portentous brows.
“Obliged!” Innocent repeated once more, with a little wonder. “I am
going because my aunt thinks so--neither because I am obliged, nor
because I like. It is not me, it is her.”
“But it ought not to be like that,” cried Jenny. “Speak to my mother,
she is very reasonable. She never forces a fellow into anything; tell
her that you would rather not. That’s how I always did.”
“But you are a boy,” said Innocent, with a mixture of respect and gentle
contempt, which I fear she had learned from Nelly.
“What difference does that make? have a little courage, and tell me. The
thing you want to learn,” said Jenny, with much gravity, “is that
everybody here wishes you to be happy, wishes you to do what pleases
you. Don’t misunderstand my mother. You take up an idea of your own--you
don’t look at the real state of the case, and try to make out what she
means. Don’t you understand me, Innocent?”
“No,” said Innocent, looking at him with veiled and wondering eyes.
Poor Jenny! he thrust his hands deeper into his pockets, and muttered
something to himself, which was not adapted for publication; and then he
looked at her in his turn with that anxious but impotent gaze with which
so often one mortal attempts to fathom another--to fathom the
unfathomable--whether there be nothing or much in those veiled and
inscrutable depths of personal identity. She smiled at him softly, and
the dreamy light of this smile went over all her face, touching it into
visionary life and beauty. Jenny was baffled in his inquiry, in his
investigation, in his counsel; he could not make anything of Innocent.
With a mixture of kindness and impatience he hurried her back into the
house.
“It is growing cold, and you have no shawl,” said Jenny. Would poor
Innocent never be sensible to any higher solicitude than this?
Next day she went away under the care of John Vane. She did not cry or
show any emotion; but her eyes were full of fright, and the excitement
of terror. She had not even the same unreasoning instinctive confidence
to support her which she had felt in Frederick on her former journey.
John Vane was very kind to her, and very good, she knew; but he was not
Frederick. She sat still as a mouse in her corner of the carriage, and
said “Yes” and “No” when he asked her a question, and saw the world
whirl round her once again, and the long stretches of country, and
strange faces look in. To Innocent it seemed a kind of treadmill,
turning round and round. She was not conscious of making any progress;
but only of unknown faces that looked at her, of long green lines of
fields and hedgerows flying past. When they had got half way through
their journey, they discovered that Frederick was in the same train,
with his wife, whom he was taking to her father’s house. He came to the
carriage, when the train stopped, and leaned his arms upon the window
and talked to Innocent, who brightened at the sight of him, and
instinctively put out her hand to cling to the most real thing she knew,
the first human creature whom she had personally identified and
discovered, as it were, out of the unknown. John Vane could not be
supposed to understand this altogether inexplainable feeling, which poor
Innocent could no more have put into words than she could have written a
poem. He thought very differently of it. He thought like a man that the
other man, smiling and talking lightly to the poor girl, had meanly
accepted the worthless flower of this child’s love to laugh at, or tread
under foot. He was unjust, for perhaps the most really good feeling in
Frederick’s mind (when she did not cross or irritate him) was his
tenderness for his little cousin; but the other cousin, who felt himself
her protector, realized this as little as he understood the nature of
Innocent’s sentiments. He made the poor child change her seat to the
other end of the carriage, and when Frederick came back, entertained him
with remarks upon the weather, to which Frederick responded in the same
tone. There was, as people say, no love lost between them.
“Oh, is it Innocent?” said Amanda, when they reached Sterborne. “So your
mother has taken my advice, Fred. I suppose she is going to be trained
for a governess at Miss Vane’s school? Quite right, quite right! You may
come and see me, Innocent, if you like; it will be a little change for
you. After all the petting you have had at The Elms, you may not quite
like it at first; but it’s for your good. Fred, is there a carriage for
me? Is papa there? Come and take me out, then; don’t leave me here like
a piece of luggage. Come and see me soon, Innocent. You will always be
some one to talk to--Good-bye.”
“Innocent,” said John Vane, when he had placed her in the light open
carriage which had been sent for them from the High Lodge, “I do not
wish you to go and see that woman; neither does your aunt, I think. So
unless you wish it very much----”
“I don’t wish it at all,” said Innocent, more distinctly than usual; and
with a promptitude which surprised her companion.
“Then you don’t like her?” he said.
“She took Frederick away from us,” said Innocent; “he would have lived
at home always but for her. She makes my aunt, and every one, unhappy.
Him, too--sometimes he looks as if he were miserable. People who make
everybody miserable,” the girl continued, very gravely, “ought not to be
allowed to live.”
“My dear child,” he said, half laughing, “that is a terrible doctrine.
In that way none of us would be safe.”
“You don’t make any one miserable,” said Innocent. “Few that I have ever
seen do. But she does. And Frederick----”
“I don’t wish to say anything to you against your cousin,” said Vane,
very gravely; “but Innocent, you must not think too highly of Frederick
Eastwood. He is not so perfect as you suppose. Remember that it is
entirely his own fault that he has such a wife; you must not make a hero
of Frederick. The less you see of him, also, the better for your own
sake----”
Innocent looked at him wonderingly with vague consternation. Did she
understand what he said? Certainly not the inference conveyed in his
words--the more serious meaning. But she had no time to reply, for the
short drive was over, and the High Lodge in sight. It was a curious old
straggling house, with an old chapel standing detached, but connected by
a covered way with the house. The grounds were large and well kept, and
the quaint little lattice windows showed their several clusters of faces
peeping out. The door stood open, flooded with evening sunshine. Great
feathery branches of the clematis which had done flowering, and was now
all cottony with seed pods, hung about the porch. The wall was one mass
of creeping plants; late roses were flaunting out of reach high up about
the clustered chimneys and gables; and the flower borders about the
house were bright with asters and scarlet geraniums, and all kinds of
autumn flowers. The chapel bell began to tinkle as they drove in at the
gate, and from all the corners of the irregular old house appeared
groups of women and children. Even Innocent was roused into curiosity by
the strange sight. In the slanting afternoon light, with that background
of old wall, matted all over with interlacing wreaths of jessamine,
clematis, honeysuckle, and roses, and pierced with twinkling casements,
each looking out as with so many eyes through the little diamond
panes--the sight was a very pretty one. One or two women in the dress of
Sisters lent an additional quaintness to the picture; the children were
of various ages and of various dress, fluttering like flowers along the
trim and well-kept walk. John Vane laughed as men laugh who are
half-amused, half-affected by the scene before them.
“Now we shall see Letty in all her glory,” he said.
This sight, which was so unusual and so little expected, had actually
driven from Innocent’s mind for the moment all recollection of herself,
and all thoughts of the meeting with another stranger which was about to
follow. She woke up with a start to find herself lifted out of the
carriage, and taken suddenly with a rapid salute into some one’s arms.
The new figure was that of a little woman with very bright eyes, and a
very alert and lively aspect, who kissed Innocent in a business-like
manner, and then turning, raised her cheek to her brother, who was about
three times as tall as she was.
“So here you are,” said Miss Vane, “fifteen minutes late, as that train
always is. Quick, come in, Reginald, there is tea in the parlour. I have
only time to say a word to you before chapel. This way, my dear, follow
me; the passage is rather narrow, and there are two steps, just at the
most unlikely places--but you will get used to it in time.”
Thus talking she led them in to a large low room, with great beams
across the roof, and a multiplicity of small windows, deeply recessed in
the thick old wall. There was a great open fireplace, with a few logs of
wood burning on the hearth, and a little white-covered table with tea,
standing before it; this table, and the easy chair, and a number of
books, were the only modern things in the room. It was panelled with
dark oak, and had, consequently, nothing of the brightness of the modern
English rooms which Innocent knew; neither was it like the spare and
lofty magnificence of those Italian apartments which had once been
familiar to her. There were some small but rare pictures on the walls,
and some portraits. Vane looked round it with the familiar satisfaction
of one who returns to an old home.
“Thank heaven, whatever you have done to the rest of the house, Letty,”
he said, “you have spared my mother’s old room.”
“Yes,” said Miss Vane, “I am far from perfection yet, if I ever attain
to it. I don’t expect I shall. It is not the drawing-room now, it is
only the parlour; but beyond that sacrifice I can’t go any further,
which is contemptible. So this is Gilbert Vane’s daughter? Innocent, my
dear, you are very welcome. I like you for your name. Reginald and I had
a sister Innocent. You must try to like me and be happy here as long as
your aunt will let you stay. Sit down and pour out some tea for yourself
and him;--I must go off to chapel. You are excused to-day, as your train
is late. Take care of the child, Reginald, and see she has some tea. I
must be off or else I shall be late as well. Very glad to see you both.
_Au revoir_ in half an hour.”
She went on talking till she reached the door, when she disappeared,
still talking and waving her hand. Her brother followed her with his
kind eyes.
“Dear old Letty!” he said, “I told you we should see her in all her
glory. Sit down, Innocent, and warm your poor little hands, and take
your tea.”
With this brief advice he left her, and went round the room, looking at
all the pictures, the books, everything about. Innocent sat down as she
was bid in the great easy chair. She poured out the tea as she had been
bid, for herself and for him. A soft sensation of well-being stole over
her; the sweetness of the mignonette outside, the tinkling of the bell,
the sunshine which slanted in through the deep, small windows, and the
soft warmth of the fire, all soothed the girl; but what soothed her most
was the charmingly matter-of-fact way in which she had been received, in
which she had been bidden to do this and that. No response, no emotion
had been required from her; there was no cause for emotion; she was told
what to do, and left to do it in peace. Her fright went away in this
quiet moment; her whole nature was soothed; here was the place for her;
now she knew and saw, and the terrors of the change fled away. She did
not care for the tea, and probably would not have taken it, but that she
recollected suddenly that she had been told to do so, on which
recollection Innocent sipped and was glad. The afternoon was sweet, the
rest and quiet were sweet after so much confused motion and vision; and
it was sweet to be no longer frightened, to feel the excitement and the
terror over. She did not know how long it was till the children began to
stream again past the windows, and Miss Vane came back; but even then no
call was made upon her. She was allowed to sit in peace while the others
talked, pleasant family talk, playful discussions, inquiries after one
and another. Innocent paid very little attention to the subject of the
conversation, but it was a pleasant sound in her ears, and the very air
of the gentle house was pleasant. Then Miss Vane took her to one of the
little rooms, with the shining casements, up-stairs, where pale roses
were still looking in at the window, and showed her where to put her
things, and told her at what hour she must be ready in the morning, and
all that was done at the High Lodge. It was the beginning of a new life
to the wondering girl. No more indulgence, consultation of her
wishes--she who had no wishes! but gentle control, absolute rule,
matter-of-fact kindness--nothing but obedience required of her; and that
was the easiest thing to give.
Miss Vane, however, as it turned out, was as much pleased with Innocent
as Innocent was with Miss Vane. After one day with his sister, which,
perhaps, in the circumstances, was enough for both, John Vane set off to
pay various visits, promising to return again for Innocent, and warning
his sister only to keep her apart from “the Frederick Eastwoods” and Mr.
Batty’s house in Sterborne. This Miss Vane cheerfully agreed to do
without any question; for, certainly, it was very undesirable that a
relation of her own should have any intercourse or connexion with Mr.
Batty’s daughter. The religious vocation of the mistress of the High
Lodge did not make her indifferent to the claims of family. Religious
vocations seldom do; a well-born woman is well-born in a Carmelite
cloister as well as in a king’s court, and generally thinks quite as
much of it in the one region as the other. It seemed accordingly a
perfectly simple matter that Innocent should be permitted to accept no
invitation from Mrs. Frederick Eastwood; and indeed no such invitation
came. Otherwise things went on with the most perfect comfort between the
girl and her new relation. She did not talk much, it is true; she was
not interested, as Miss Vane expected her to be, in the upper school,
where half-a-dozen “daughters of gentlemen” were being educated in one
wing of the old house; or the lower school, where children who had no
gentility to boast of were being trained in another; or in the
orphanage, even though she herself was an orphan, and might have been
supposed likely to “take an interest” in the young creatures--girls like
herself, who found refuge there. Innocent went through the whole
establishment, making no remark. When asked if she liked it, she said
Yes: when asked if she was tired, she said No: when asked if she would
like to see something more, she said Yes again. She smiled upon the
little children, and said _ma sœur_ to the sisters when they spoke to
her, which pleased them. She was everything that was docile, gentle, and
obedient, and she grew in a few weeks to look stronger and better than
she had ever done in her life; but she did not become more
communicative. One thing, however, Innocent did which found high favour
in everybody’s eyes. She would go and sit for hours together in the
little chapel, with her eyes fixed upon the pictured Christ (an old
Italian picture, full of true early Italian sentiment for the divine and
holy) which was hung over the altar. The chapel was low, like the
house, an old Early English building in good repair, but homely as
became its date, with low windows, filled with grisaille glass, dim and
silvery. Here Innocent would sit, taking no note of time; it felt to her
like the little church of the Spina over again; and here, as there, she
said “Our Father,” vaguely reverential, and sat in a soft quiescence,
scarcely thinking--happy, she knew not why. The habit she thus showed
commended her to the community beyond expression. She was so Catholic,
so pious, so saintlike, they said; and indeed Innocent in those gentle
days made the first great success of her life. It was the pause before
the storm.