“Has anyone ever supposed you did?” he cried, with some impatience.
His mother put her handkerchief to her eyes. “God knows I am sorry—sorry to the bottom of my heart,” she said, “for her, and for the poor man who has lost his child. Whatever she was to us, she was his child to him. But, Frederick, I am not quite disinterested in my motives, God forgive me; it is for Innocent’s sake.”
“Are you out of your senses, mother? For Innocent’s sake?”
“Oh, hush, my dear! that I may ascertain the circumstances exactly, and how much is known. Oh, hush! Frederick, here they are. Don’t say a word more.”
He had to conceal his bewilderment, which was beyond describing, as aunty, in a black gown and with her handkerchief rolled up tight into a ball in her hand, came into the room. When he heard his mother speak to this woman in soft caressing tones, and beg to hear an account of everything, every incident and detail—it seemed to Frederick that his understanding of the meaning of words must be deserting him. “Tell me everything; it is all of the deepest interest to me, and there is a mournful satisfaction in knowing the details,” said poor Mrs. Eastwood, putting forth the conventional words with an uncomfortable sense of her son’s criticism, and his doubt of her sincerity. But Batty had no doubt. He was flattered by Mrs. Eastwood’s anxiety, by her desire to know all. “I ain’t equal to it myself,” he said, “but she will tell you,” and withdrew to a corner, to listen and sob, and moan over his child’s name. Mrs. Eastwood could not see his grief without becoming sympathetic. As for Frederick, he had heard the particulars often enough, and had no wish to hear them again. He was surprised and half offended by his mother’s strange mission. For Innocent’s sake! Were the women all mad together, one madder than the other? or what did she, what could she mean? He went out into the garden, his only refuge during these days when decorum forbade him to be seen; there he lighted a cigar, and with his hands in his pockets strolled about the paths. His mind turned to Innocent, and he thought to himself how pleasant it would have been to have had her there now, holding his arm with her delicate hand, hanging upon him, looking up in his face. He took almost a fit of longing for Innocent. But what folly about her could his mother have got into her head? what did she mean?
Mrs. Eastwood had a long interview with aunty. She heard everything about Amanda’s illness; how aunty had thought badly of her from the first, seeing her strength give way; how her excitableness, poor dear, grew greater and greater, so that not a day passed without one or two outbreaks; how she took a fancy to “the young lady,” saying she’d have her to sit with her, and not her ordinary nurse; how there had been a long silence when Innocent went to the room, while she was reading; how, after this, aunty had heard Amanda’s voice in high excitement, talking loud and fast; how there had come a sudden stillness, a stillness so great that it waked poor aunty from her doze; how she had rushed to the rooms and found her patient in a faint, as she at first thought, with “the poor young lady” standing over her. “The poor child ran off from us in the midst of our bustle,” said aunty, “and I don’t wonder; she was frightened, and I hope no harm happened to her, poor thing. She was young to see death, and a nice young lady. I hope she came to no harm?”
“Oh no—except the shock to her nerves,” said Mrs. Eastwood. “She came straight home. It was the best thing she could do.”
“The very best thing,” assented aunty. “And if you’ll believe me, ma’am, what with the bustle, and grieving so, and my mind being full of one thing, I never even thought of the poor young lady till to-day. I’m thankful to hear she’s all safe, and not another house plunged into trouble like we are. I was saying an hour since, my heart was sore for her, poor young thing, her first being from home, as far as I understood, and to come into a house of such sore trouble, and to see death without notice or warning. It was hard upon such a child.”
“Yes, it was very hard,” said Mrs. Eastwood. “I left her ill in bed, her nerves shattered to pieces. And what a shock, what a night for you——”
“Oh, ma’am, you may say that,” cried aunty, with tears. “I’ve nursed her from a baby, and nobody could care for her like me, except her poor father, as worshipped the ground she trod on. She’s as beautiful as an angel,” said the faithful woman; “never all her life, when she was at her best, did I see her like what she is now. Oh, ma’am, you’ve a feeling heart, besides being Mrs. Frederick’s mother, and a relation like the rest of us. You’ll come up-stairs and look at her, poor dear.”