“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.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE MINSTER AND THE VILLA.
“I must take you to see the Minster, Innocent,” said Miss Vane. “You cannot be in this part of the world without seeing the Minster. You will be quite happy in it, you who are so fond of church. Put on your hat and your cloak, and be ready when the carriage comes round. I have got a number of visits to make and things to do; but as I know you can make yourself happy in the Minster while I am busy, I will take you with me. Have you ever seen any of our great Gothic cathedrals? Then you will be perfectly happy, child; you will feel this day an era in your life.”
Little thought Lætitia Vane what she was saying. The unconscious prophecy came lightly from her lips, and was received by Innocent with a smile. She was not excited by the prospect of seeing the Minster, but she was pleased to go, to do what she was told, to be with the kind but arbitrary mistress, who had brought harmony into her life. She put on her hat, smiling, looking at herself in the glass, which was not very usual with her. She had gained some colour on her pale cheeks, her eyes were brighter, her whole aspect more life-like. It was a fresh October morning, warm in the sunshine, though a sharp little chill of autumn wind met them occasionally at a corner, promising a cold evening.
“We must take care not to be late coming back,” said Miss Vane, throwing an additional shawl upon Innocent’s lap before she got into the little carriage, and took the reins. Miss Vane herself wore no conventional costume; she had not abandoned the pleasant things of this life. She wore rich silks, moaning over her own imperfection, which never could attain to the virtue of serge, and was fond of her pretty ponies and her pleasant little carriage. They had a cheerful drive into Sterborne, Miss Vane pointing out everything on the way, and naming every house they passed, Innocent paying little attention, yet listening to all that was said to her, and enjoying in her passive way the air, the sunshine, the rapid movement. Things no longer seemed to rush past her, moved by some dreadful whirl of their own, but it was she who was in motion, lightly, cheerfully—the centre, not a passive object in the scene. This, which she could not have explained for her life, but which she felt vaguely yet strongly, made the greatest difference to Innocent. She was more alive than she had ever been before in her life.
Miss Vane took her over the Minster, rapidly pointing out all the chief wonders; and then left her, seated within sight of the high altar, to enjoy what everybody at the High Lodge supposed to be meditation of the devoutest kind.
“You will be quite happy here,” Miss Vane said, kissing her softly, and feeling, with warm compunctions for her own worldliness, how superior was her young relation. She stopped at the door, ere she went about her many businesses, to point out Innocent to the chief verger, and commend her to his care. “I will come back in about an hour and a half,” she said. Thus Innocent was left alone.
I do not think she had ever been left entirely alone before, save on the one occasion of her visit to the Methodist chapel, since she had been under her aunt’s care, and the sensation was sweet to her,—quite alone, silent, no one interfering with her, free to do as she would, to be still, without speaking, without feeling, without thinking. The solemn nave of the Minster, the lovely, lessening arches of the apse, the silvery glow of the painted glass in the windows, made no special impression upon her for themselves. As she sat silent they mingled in a confused but grateful calm with the little church of the Spina—the lingering memories of her past life. Subdued steps came and went about her as in the other little sanctuary by the Arno; the light was subdued as by the influence of the place; no sound above a whisper was audible; gliding figures appeared in the distance, into which she gazed, not, indeed, coming there to pray, as in Santa Maria, but yet moving softly, with a certain reverence. No gleaming tapers on the altar, no chanting priest interposed to furnish a background for her dreams; but Innocent scarcely felt the want. She said her prayers, kneeling down, all unconscious of observation, on the stone pavement. She sat down again in a hush of soft and peaceful feeling—to dream? No, nor even to think. The mind of this poor little Innocent had no need for any exercise; she rested, before the fiery coming of her fate.