FLIGHT.
The inhabitants of the Villa were well used to the sudden sounds and
sudden stillnesses which marked the changes of Amanda’s moods, and on
ordinary occasions no one thought of interfering or taking any notice.
So long as aunty was there these were recognized as her share of the
advantages of this life, and the rest of the household left her in
undisturbed enjoyment of her privileges. But somehow on this evening
other sentiments had been called into being. Aunty herself loved, in her
way, the wilful creature whom she had nursed all her life,
notwithstanding the ill recompense she received, and could not take
advantage of the unusual holiday she was having. Instead of going to
bed, she hung about the passages, sometimes listening at Amanda’s door,
more vigilant, more wakeful than ever. The maids who slept above were
wakeful too. They were interested in the visitor, the curious pale girl
who was one of Mr. Eastwood’s great relations, “a real lady,” and so
much unlike the usual visitors to the house. Besides, though both the
patient and her poor little unaccustomed attendant had slept, it was
still comparatively early, about the hour of midnight. I do not know
what there was peculiar in the stillness that crept through the house.
Often enough before Amanda had fainted after one of her paroxysms of
passion, and everything had gone on as usual, no one except her special
nurse being much the wiser. But on this night a still horror seemed to
creep through the place. The women up-stairs rose from their beds with a
sensation of alarm, and poor aunty stood trembling at the door, not
knowing whether to venture in, at the risk of disturbing the quiet, or
stay outside at the risk perhaps of neglecting the patient. The moments
are long in such an emergency. It seemed to her, I think wrongly, that
this stillness had lasted full half an hour, when at last, emboldened by
terror, and stimulated by the appearance on the stairs of the frightened
housemaid in her nightgown, whispering “Was anything the matter?” she
opened softly the door of the room. All that aunty could see was
Innocent, standing, gazing at the bed on which, to all appearance, the
patient lay calm, with the softened reflection of the rose-coloured
curtain over her. Innocent stood like a statue, white, immovable,
gazing. Aunty stole in, frightened, with noiseless steps, afraid lest
some creak of the floor should betray her presence. She laid her hand
softly on Innocent’s shoulder.
“Is she asleep?” she asked.
Innocent awoke as from a trance.
“What is it?” she said shivering, and in low tones of terror. “Look,
look! what does it mean----”
Next moment a great cry rang through the silent house--the windows were
thrown open, the bells rung, the maids rushed in, half frantic with
excitement; what was it? A dreadful interval followed while they crowded
about the bed, and while aunty, moaning, weeping, calling upon Amanda,
tried to raise the senseless figure, to bring back animation by all the
means which she had so often used before. The wild yet subdued bustle of
such a terrible domestic incident, the hurried sending for the doctor,
the running hither and thither for remedies, the strange dream-like
horror of that one unresponsive, unmoving figure in the midst of all
this tumult of anxious but bootless effort--how can I describe it? The
cold night air poured into the room, ineffectually summoned to give
breath to the lips that could draw breath no longer, and waved the
lights about like things distracted, and chilled the living to the bone,
as they ran to and fro, seeking this and that, making one vain effort
after another. Innocent stood behind, leaning against the wall, like a
marble image. She had been pushed aside by the anxious women. She stood
with her eyes fixed on the bed, with a vague horror on her face. It was
a dream to her, which had begun in her sleep; was she sleeping still? or
was this a horrible reality? or what had she to do with it? she, a
little while ago the chief actor, now the spectator, helpless, knowing
nothing, yet with a chill of dread gnawing at her, like the fox in the
fable, gnawing her heart. Innocent’s head seemed to turn round and
round, as the strange group which had swept in, made all those wild
circles round the bed, doing one strange thing after another, incoherent
to her--moving and rustling, and talking low under the disturbed waving
of the lights, and in the shadow of the curtains. When, after a long
terrible interval, these figures dispersed, and one alone remained,
throwing itself upon the bed in wild weeping, the girl roused herself.
“What is it?” she asked, drawing a step nearer. “What is it?” It seemed
to Innocent that something held her, that she could not look at the
figure in the bed.
“Oh, my darling! my darling! I have nursed her from a baby--she never
was but good to me. Oh, my child, my ’Manda! Will you never speak to me
again! Oh, ’Manda, my darling! Oh, my lovely angel!” Thus poor aunty
moaned and wept.
“What is it?” cried Innocent, with a voice which took authority from
absolute despair.
“Oh, can’t you see for yourself? It’s you as has done it, driving that
angel wild. She’s dead! Oh, merciful Heaven, she’s dead----”
Then a sudden flood of light seemed to pour through Innocent’s darkened
mind. The horror which she had felt vaguely took shape and form. Heaven
help the child! She had done it! She gave a low wild cry, and looked
round her with a despairing appeal to heaven and earth. Was there no one
to protect her--no one to help her? One moment she paused, miserable,
bewildered, then turned and fled out of the awful room, where so much
had befallen her. What could she do? where could she go? She fled as an
animal flies to its cover--to its home, unreasoning, unthinking.
Frederick would have represented that home to her in any other
circumstances; but she had killed Frederick’s wife. This horror seemed
to take form and pursue her. The maids were all gone: one to call the
unhappy father, one to the husband, another to watch for the doctor;
this last had left the door open, through which another blast of
night-air swept through the house. Down the narrow staircase poor
Innocent fled noiseless, like a thief. Upon a table in the passage lay
her hat as she had thrown it off when she came in that afternoon with
Frederick, and the warm wrap in which Miss Vane had enveloped her when
they started, so peacefully, so happily, for their drive. Was it only
that morning? The High Lodge, and its orderly life and its calm
inhabitants, seemed to Innocent like things she had known ages ago;
older even than Pisa and Niccolo--almost beyond the range of memory. She
stole out at the open door, drawing Miss Vane’s great shawl round her,
and for a moment feeling comforted in the chill of her misery by its
warmth. For one second she stood on the step, with the moonlight on her
face, wondering where she was to go. The maid who was watching for the
doctor saw her, and cried out with terror, thinking her a ghost. Then a
sudden cloud came over the moon, and in that shelter, like a guilty
thing, Innocent stole away. She did not know where to go. She wandered
on through the dark and still village streets to the great Minster, with
some vain childish imagination of taking refuge there. But here chance
befriended the unhappy girl, or some kind angel guided her. The railway
was close by, with some lights yet unextinguished. Vaguely feeling that
by that was the only way home, she stole into the station, with some
notion of hiding herself till she could get away. The express train to
town, which stopped at Sterborne, though poor Innocent knew nothing of
it, was late that night. It had just arrived when she got in. The little
station was badly lighted, the officials sleepy and careless. By
instinct Innocent crept into an empty carriage, not knowing even that it
was going on, and in five minutes more was carried, unconscious, wrapt
in a tragic stupor of woe and terror, away from the scene of this
terrible crisis of her life.
Gradually, slowly, the sense of motion roused her, brought her to
herself. In her hand, firmly clasped, was the little phial which had
been so deadly. She unclosed her fingers with an effort, and looked at
it with miserable curiosity. _That_ had done it--a thing so small that
it was hidden altogether in her small and delicate hand. What had
Innocent done? How could she have helped herself? What could she have
done different? For the first time in all her life she turned her hot
confused eyes upon herself. She tried to go back over the events of the
night;--not as in a mental survey with all their varieties of feeling
disclosed, but like an external picture did they rise before her. First
that moment when she (Innocent could think of her now by no name) was
not angry or scolding, when Frederick sat and talked, and she herself
stood and fanned _her_, the central figure to which henceforward all her
terrified thoughts must cling. Then came the moonlight in the garden,
the smell of the dewy earth, and her hand on Frederick’s arm; then the
reading, which seemed like some strange incantation, some spell of
slumbrous power; then the horrible sudden waking, the clutch of that hot
hand, the incoherent half-conscious effort she made to do what was told
her, the black drops of liquid falling, the interrupted counting which
she seemed to try to take up again and complete--“ten, eleven, fifteen;”
and then the terror of the renewed clutch and grasp, the sudden
stillness, the black drops standing out on the white coverlid, the great
open eyes dilated, fixed upon her, holding her fast so that she could
not stir. God help the child! She cried aloud, but the noise drowned her
cry; she struggled under the intolerable sense of anguish, the burden of
the pang which she could not get free from, could not shake off. So many
pangs come in youth which are imaginary, which can be thrown off, as the
first impression fades; but when for the first time there comes
something which fixes like the vulture, which will not be got rid
of!--Innocent writhed under it, holding up her feeble hands in an appeal
beyond words--an appeal which was hopeless and which was vain.
It was still only the middle of the night when she arrived in London,
and by some fortunate chance or other crept out again without being
perceived. Poor child! Far from her distraught soul was any intention of
deceiving; she thought nothing at all about it, and in her innocence,
without consciousness of harm, escaped all penalties and questioning.
She did not know her way about London, but by mere chance took the right
direction, and by dint of wandering on and on, came at last by a hundred
detours, as morning began to break into a region with which she was
familiar. The movement did her good. She felt her misery less when she
was walking on and on through interminable streets, wrapping her shawl
about her, feeling her limbs ready to sink under her, and her power of
feeling dulled by fatigue. Probably this exercise saved her from going
mad altogether. Life and more than life hung on the balance. She was not
clever; she had no grasp of mind, no power of reason, nothing which
could be called intellectual development at all, and yet the difference
between sanity and insanity was as much to her as to others. She kept
her reason through the subduing force of this exercise, the blessed
movement and the weariness of body which counteracted the unaccustomed
struggles of her mind.
It was gray dawn, that chill twilight of the morning which is so much
colder and less genial than the twilight of night, when Innocent came
at last in sight of her home. Her strength and courage were almost at an
end, but her feeble heart leapt up within her at sight of the familiar
place in which she knew shelter and comfort were to be found. She had
never said anything which showed her appreciation of her aunt’s
tenderness, and had offered but little response to all the affection
that had been lavished on her; but yet a slow-growing trust had arisen
in her mind. She had no doubt how she was to be received; she knew that
kind arms would take her in, kind eyes pity her, kind voices soothe her
trouble--and never in all her life had Innocent stood in such need of
succour. The house was like some one asleep, with its eyes closed, so to
speak, the shutters shut, the curtains drawn, and no one stirring.
Innocent sat down upon the step to wait. She did not ring or knock for
admittance. She sat down and leant upon the pillar of the porch with a
patience which had some hope in it. She could wait now, for her
difficulties were over, and her goal within reach. She had fallen half
asleep when the housemaid undid the door, and with a scream perceived
the unexpected watcher.
“Miss Innocent!” cried the woman, half in terror, half in disapproval;
for indeed Innocent’s odd ways were the wonder of the house, and the
servants professed openly that they would not be surprised whatever she
might choose to do. Innocent opened her eyes and roused herself with an
effort.
“Yes, it is me,” she said softly. “I had to come home--by the night
train.”
“Oh, how could any one let you wander about like this!” cried the maid,
“and where is your luggage? Come to the kitchen, miss, there’s no other
fire lighted. You are as cold as ice, and all of a tremble. Come in,
come in for goodness’ sake, and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
Innocent smiled her habitual smile of vague and dreamy sweetness in
acknowledgment of this kindness--but she shook her head and went
straight up-stairs to the door of Mrs. Eastwood’s room. Her first
arrival there came up before her as she paused at the door--her
dissatisfaction, her indifference--oh, if she had stayed in the little
room, within Nelly’s, within the mother’s, could this thing have
happened to her, could any such harm have reached her? This question
floated wistfully before her mind, increasing the strange confusion of
feelings of which she was vaguely conscious; but she did not pause for
more than an instant. Mrs. Eastwood was still asleep, or so at least
Innocent thought; but the very aspect of the familiar room was
consolatory. It seemed to protect her, to make her safe. She stole
softly to the alcove where the grey morning light struggled in through
the closed curtains. As Innocent approached Mrs. Eastwood opened her
eyes, with the instinctive promptitude of a mother, used to be appealed
to at all times and seasons. She started at the sight of the strange
figure in hat and shawl, and sat up in her bed, with all her faculties
suddenly collecting to her, to prepare her for the something, she knew
not what, which she instinctively felt to have befallen.
“Innocent! Good heavens, how have you come? What is the matter?” she
cried. Innocent fell down on her knees by the bed; the fatigue, the
cold, the personal suffering of which up to this moment she had been
scarcely conscious, seemed suddenly to overflow, and become too much for
her to bear. She clasped Mrs. Eastwood’s arm between her own, and looked
up to her with a ghastly face, and piteous looks of appeal; her lips
moved, but no words came. Now she had got to the end of her journey, the
end of her troubles; but now all capacity seemed to fail her. She could
not do more.
“My child--my poor child!” said Mrs. Eastwood. “Oh, Innocent, why did I
let you go from me? Speak, dear, tell me what it is? Innocent, speak!”
“Do not be angry,” said poor Innocent, raising her piteous face, with a
child’s utter abandonment and dependence upon the one standard of good
and evil which alone it understands. And yet the face was more woeful,
more distraught, than child’s face could be. Mrs. Eastwood, anxious yet
reassured, concluded that the poor girl, weary and frightened of
strangers, had run away from the High Lodge to come home, an offence
which might well seem terrible to Innocent. What could it be else? She
bent over her and kissed her, and tried to draw her into her arms.
“My poor child, how you are trembling. I am not angry, Innocent; why are
you so frightened? Sit down and rest, and let me get up, and then you
can tell me. Come, dear, come; it cannot be anything so very bad,” said
Mrs. Eastwood with a smile, endeavouring to disengage her arm from
Innocent’s hold.
But the girl’s fixed gaze, and her desperate clasp did not relax. Her
white face was set and rigid. “Do not be angry!” she said again, with a
voice of woe strangely at variance with the simple entreaty; and while
Mrs. Eastwood waited expecting to hear some simple confession, such as
that Innocent had been frightened by the strange faces, or weary of the
monotonous life, and had run away--there suddenly fell upon her
horrified ears words which stunned her, and seemed to make life itself
stand still. They came slow, with little pauses between, accompanied by
a piteous gaze which watched every movement of the listener’s face, and
with a convulsive pressure of the arm which Innocent held to her bosom.
“I have killed Frederick’s wife,” she said.
“What does she say? She must be mad!” cried Mrs. Eastwood. The housemaid
had followed Innocent into the room with officious anxiety, carrying the
cup of tea, which was a means of satisfying her curiosity as to this
strange and sudden arrival. Just as these terrible words were said she
appeared at the foot of the bed, holding the tray in her hand.
“No,” said Innocent, seeing nothing but her aunt’s face; “no, I am not
mad. It was last night. I came home somehow, I scarcely know how--it was
last night.”
“And, Innocent, Innocent--you----?”
“Oh, do not be angry!” cried Innocent, hiding her piteous face upon her
aunt’s breast. The woe, the horror, the distracting sense of sudden
misery seemed to pass from the one to the other in that rapid moment.
But the mother thus suddenly roused had to think of everything. “Put
down the tray,” she said quickly to the staring intruder at the foot of
the bed, “call Alice to me, get Miss Innocent’s room ready, and send
some one for the doctor. She is ill--quick, go and call Alice, there is
not a moment to lose. Innocent,” she whispered in her ear as the woman
went away, “Innocent, for God’s sake look at me! Do you know what you
are saying? Innocent! Frederick’s wife?”
Innocent raised herself up with a long-drawn sigh. Her face relaxed; she
had put off her burden. “It was last night,” she repeated, “we were
alone; I did not want to go, but they made me. She was angry--very
angry--and then--oh! She opened her eyes and looked at me, and was
still--still.--Till they came I did not know what it was.”
“And it was----? For God’s sake, Innocent, try to understand what you
are saying. Did she die--when you were with her? You are not dreaming?
But, Innocent, _you_ had nothing to do with it, my poor, poor child?”
Once more Innocent unfolded the fingers which she had clenched fast upon
something. She held out a small phial, with some drops of dark liquid
still in it. “It was this,” she said, looking at it with a strange,
vacant gaze.
And then a horrible conviction came to poor Mrs. Eastwood’s mind. Out of
the depths of her heart there came a low but terrible cry. Many things
she had been called upon to bear in her cheerful life, as all stout
hearts are--now was it to be swallowed up in tragic disgrace and horror
at the end?
The cry brought Nelly, wondering and horror-stricken, from her innocent
sleep, and old Alice, forecasting new trouble to the family, but nothing
so horrible, nothing so miserable as this.