“Ah, but you do not know!” cried Innocent; and then her voice fell into a low strain of narrative—gentle yet penetrating and clear as a bell. “I was sent down to the High Lodge——”
“Has it something to do with that?” said the new bridegroom, gradually glowing into elevation of feeling more fitted to the occasion. “Then let us put off talking of it. You have been ill, my poor child. Your pretty cheek is pale. You are looking worn and thin. You shall go to Italy, to Pisa, Innocent——”
“Ah!” she said, with a deep sigh, long drawn out, and tremulous; “but first you must hear.”
“Not first, my darling—after, when we have spoken of things more important. We will go to Longueville first, and then to Italy. You shall take me to your old house, and we will find your old Niccolo——”
“Ah!” she said again, this time with a slight nervous shiver; “but you must hear—first you must hear. When I tell you, perhaps it will change everything. I was sent to the High Lodge; but it is not about that—Frederick saw me in the church, and took me to see his wife.”
“Is it about Frederick and his wife? I am tired of Frederick. You are trembling, Innocent. Leave this story for another time. It cannot make any difference to me.”
“To see his wife,” said Innocent, going on in a low, steady tone, as if, once started, she had no longer power to stop. “She was ill. She used to have fits of being angry. She would raise her voice and scold every one, it did not matter whom, even Frederick. He was very kind to me—he always was very kind.”
“Enough about Frederick,” said Sir Alexis, with some impatience. “Innocent, you cannot think that your cousin is particularly interesting to me.”
“Do not be angry,” she said, with an appealing look. “He took me to his wife. I stayed with her a long time. She made me read. Sometimes she was angry, sometimes she was kind. I read and read; and then I fell asleep——”
“Selfish cur!” cried Sir Alexis, “to put the nursing of that terrible wife of his upon you.”