She laughed and laid her head back upon the pillow, with her blue ribbons and blue gown thrown sharply out by the rose-coloured bed. She was amused by her own threat. But passion and self-indulgence had made great havoc in the undisciplined creature, and to a serious looker-on that menace would have seemed not so unlikely as Amanda thought, to come to reality. Her breath came quick and with difficulty, heaving her breast at every respiration. A high hectic colour was on her cheek, and the cheekbones themselves which bore these dangerous roses were sharpened by the wasting processes of continual excitement. Innocent stood all this time by the bed, fanning her slowly and steadily. She was getting tired, but did not think of stopping till she was told. Her visionary looks, and the mechanical occupation which was so much more natural to her than anything of a visionary character, contrasted strangely, as she stood thus docile, always passive, by that bed. I suppose she would literally have gone on for ever, like an Eastern slave, had no one interposed.
This steady service pleased Amanda hugely. She took full advantage of it, keeping the girl employed until her very arm was drooping with the fatigue of the monotonous motion; and she was so generous as to allow Frederick to sit down and tell her “the news.” Frederick had brought down, as in duty bound, a few scandalous anecdotes from the fountain-head of gossip—anecdotes circumstantialized by date and name, but probably as false as was the taste that desired them. He made, indeed, a few demurs at repeating these wonderful pieces of history before Innocent, which were speedily silenced by his wife.
“Innocent is paying no attention. She never listens to what any one says,” cried Amanda, “and, besides, no one thinks of that sort of old-fashioned nonsense nowadays. Go on——”
In this edifying way the time was spent till dinner. Amanda declared that she never felt better, that she would certainly get up next day. “And I’ll go to church at the Minster if there is a good anthem,” she said, “and you shall give me your arm, Fred, and everybody will think us a model couple.” This last outburst of amiability was called forth by a delightful piece of scandal about what the newspapers called a very elevated personage, and which Frederick vouched for as authentic. Mrs. Frederick, whose “set” were of those who called the heir to the throne by the name of his principality tout court, was altogether conciliated by this delightful communication. Innocent, as Amanda said, paid very little attention. She listened yet did not listen, half pleased that Frederick seemed pleased, half wondering, by an instinct which was more penetrating than reason, that he should be satisfied, and should take so much trouble to keep Amanda in good temper. Innocent was not observant, she was not conscious of any faculty of criticism in her own undeveloped mind; she made no voluntary contrast between Frederick in this fretful sick chamber trying to please, and Frederick at home, contemptuously indifferent to what any one did or said. Only a little vague wonder at him rose in her mind; her sense of Mrs. Frederick’s imperfections was not more distinct than the mere feeling of personal dislike—dislike which was not softened by this sight of her, or by the exacting and selfish demands she made upon everybody. Innocent was born to obey. She did what Miss Vane had told her with the most docile unquestioning readiness, and with the consent of her whole being; and she did also whatever Mrs. Frederick told, but with how different a feeling. That she could have explained the difference to herself, or that she even fully defined and recognized it, I am far from asserting; but the fact that she was conscious of this difference was at least a proof of the expanding of her mental powers.
Mrs. Frederick consented that her husband and Innocent should leave her to go to dinner, with reluctance, but she did consent. Before the meal was over, however, they heard loud and repeated knockings on the floor above, signals of her impatience. Frederick was in a state of unusual exhilaration, perhaps excited by finding the weary evening pass less disagreeably than he thought—for Innocent, passive as she was, was yet a shield between him and his coarse father-in-law; and even Amanda’s knocking, as he was out of her reach, did not disturb him.
“Come round the garden with me while I smoke my cigar,” he said, “and then you can go to her.”
The evening was soft and warm and mellow, with a large full October moon less white than usual, throwing broad beams of the palest gold over the dark garden. Batty watched them go out with doubtful eyes, unable quite to keep himself from vulgar interpretations of Innocent’s submission to her cousin, yet confident in the power of “my girl” to retain her husband’s devotion, and caring very little about the other. Besides he was flattered in spite of himself that Innocent should be there under his roof. Two great families, the one more “stuck up” than the other, seemed thus to be holding out an olive branch to him, and already Batty felt himself mounting the steps of social grandeur. He sat over his port, meditating on the moment when he could change that drink for more natural brandy and water—when another vehement assault upon the floor overhead roused him.
“She’ll make herself worse than ever,” Batty said to himself; and going to the stairs he shouted in his great voice, “Steady there, steady, ’Manda. She’s a coming; she’s a coming.” Then he went out into the garden to seek the other two. The grass was wet with dew, the leaves, which had begun to change colour, showed like flowers in the moonlight. He followed the soft sound of sauntering steps along two or three windings of the path. Then he came in sight of the pair he sought; Frederick was walking along indifferently enough, smoking his cigar, with one hand thrust into his pocket! Innocent by his side held his arm so cavalierly and carelessly bent with her hand. She went along by him like his shadow; she looked up at him with a half smile upon her face, to which the moonlight lent an aspect of deeper and more impassioned self-devotion than Innocent knew. Frederick, in low tones, and with now and then a demonstrative gesture of the disengaged hand with which he sometimes took his cigar from his lips, was laying down the law about something. Probably he was inculcating that first duty of woman, to “consider me, not yourself,” or some other equally plain and fundamental principle. The sight struck Batty with a certain jealousy by reflection. So intimate a conversation could scarcely be without somehow infringing upon the rights of “his girl.” Had it been Frederick’s sister, probably he would have had the same feeling; but in that case he would have been less at liberty to interfere.
“Hollo!” he said, “don’t you know Mrs. Frederick is all alone, while you two are gallivanting and philandering here? Come along, Miss; you’re safer with my ’Manda than with that young spark. I know him better than you do. Come along, come along, or she’ll bring down the house; and not much wonder either if she saw as much as I see—but I’ll tell no tales,” he said, with a coarse laugh.
Innocent stood bewildered with the sudden shock—for at the moment that Batty’s voice became audible, Frederick, with an instinctive movement, cast her off from his arm. To her who knew no wrong, who thought no evil, this movement was simply incomprehensible. He was angry, that could be the only reason; but why, or with whom? She stood turning her wandering looks towards Batty, towards the house, with its lighted windows, the moonbeams pouring over her, lighting up her raised face, with its wistful gaze. Frederick, as an expression of his feeling, tossed away the end of his cigar.