“We were coming in,” he said. “Innocent, perhaps you had better go first, and let me know if I’m wanted. I am tired. Tell Amanda I have got some letters to write, office work which I was obliged to bring with me. Batty, suppose you order some coffee, and let me get to work,” he added, carelessly leading the way into the house. He left Innocent to follow as she might, and to deal with Batty as she might. He had put up with him long enough; he saw no reason for exerting himself further now.
“Confound his impudence!” said Batty. “Now, Miss, come along. You’d best stay with ’Manda, if you’ll take my advice, while you are here.”
“If you please,” said Innocent, with a sigh.
“Oh, if I please—you’d rather be with him, eh? Pleasanter ain’t it?” said Batty, with a grin of airy raillery.
“Yes,” said simple Innocent. “I know Frederick, and I don’t know you.” A courteous instinct which she could not have explained kept her from adding that she did not like Mrs. Frederick, which was her usually unconcealed sentiment. She added quite gravely, altogether unaware that his laugh had anything to do with her, “if I am to go to Frederick’s wife, will you show me the way?”
Batty led the way without another word—he was curiously impressed by her gravity, by a certain solemn simplicity about the pale creature, who stood there facing him in the moonlight impervious to his gibes. He took her to his daughter’s room, and looked in, giving Amanda a word of warning. “Keep your temper, ’Manda,” he said; I do not know that he could have explained why.
This was what Amanda was little inclined to do. She assailed Innocent with a storm of questions; what had she been doing? where had she been?
“I have been in the garden with Frederick,” said the girl, with that serious and quiet calm, which already had so much impressed Mrs. Frederick’s father.
“In the garden with Frederick! and you tell me so with that bold face! What was he doing? what was he saying? oh, I know him, and his false ways,” said the excited wife; “making you think all sorts of things, you little fool—and then sending you to me with your innocent face. Innocent, indeed! Oh, no; I didn’t call—I don’t want you. Innocent, to be sure! You are a pretty Innocent for the nunnery; just the sort of creature to go there if all tales be true—to learn to deceive—as if you wanted teaching! You never thought of me lying up here, while you went wandering about the garden with Frederick—nor he didn’t, neither. Who cares for me? I was everything that was sweet before I married, but now much he cares. Oh, if I just had him here to tell him what I think of him! Call him to tell him what I think of him—both him and you!”
Innocent had never been thrown upon her own resources before. She was not prepared for the emergency, and had those who loved her best foreseen the possibility of such a trial for her she never would have been allowed to risk it; but in the meantime it did her good. A certain curious practical faculty had been developed in her by the life of rule and order at the High Lodge. She went forward to the bedside with her visionary look, but the most serious matter-of-fact meaning, ignoring the passion as completely as if it did not exist; which, indeed, to her it did not, being a thing beyond her range of perception.