“I came home,” she said, shivering. “When they told me she was dead, I could not stay any longer. It was dark night—very late. I never was out so late before. I came home——”
“And you never told them? you did not say what you had done?”
“Do not be angry!” said poor Innocent, bursting into sobs that were piteous to hear.
He took her into his arms, and did what he could to comfort her. Poor child! poor man, who had bound himself unawares to her foolish fate! He never doubted her story for a moment, nor supposed that she had told him anything less or more than the simple facts; and while he soothed her, and tried to subdue her sobs, his mind set to work seriously, thinking how a way was to be made for her out of this coil which she had woven about her own feet. He was not less sorry for her than the others had been, but his mind was cooler and more ready to act in this emergency. To suppose that she had killed Frederick’s wife, as she thought, was absolute folly, of course, he said to himself; but her flight, her silence as to what she had done, her hurried return home, howsoever effected, would be terribly against her. He set his whole faculties to work to find a way out of it. “I am not angry,” he said to her, “my poor child! how could I be angry? Innocent, Innocent, you must compose yourself. You must stop crying, and let me think what it is best to do.”
Just then the door opened hastily, and Mrs. Barclay bustled in smiling and rustling, and gay, with her ample silken skirts and cheerful countenance.
“What is all this, Alexis?” she said; “what do you want me for in such a hurry? What do you mean by having young ladies here? Ah, Innocent, my sweet! I had it borne in upon me that it must be you.”
Sir Alexis stumbled up to his feet, and Innocent checked her sobs as by magic, and turned wondering to the new comer. “My dear sister, you have judged rightly,” he said. “Innocent has come to me about a difficulty she is in. I will go now to your aunt and see about it, my darling, and my sister will take care of you. Lucilla, this is Lady Longueville that is to be. You are the first to know it; you will take care of my poor little darling? She is ill and nervous! give her some wine, or tea, or something, and make her lie down and rest.”
“That I will,” said kind Mrs. Barclay, “I’ll take care of her—the little puss! I knew this was coming. I said it all along from the very first day you saw her, Alexis; and I hope she’ll be a sweet little wife to you, as good as she’s pretty. I could not say more than that. My dear brother, how I wish you joy!”
And she kissed him heartily, and kissed Innocent, and laughed and cried in honest pleasure, the strangest contrast to the grave emotion, the piteous self-abandonment upon which she came like the very angel of commonplace life, good-humour, and kindly feeling. She went with her brother to the door, shaking hands with him in her satisfaction. “Do you mean to say there has been some quarrel with the Eastwoods?” she said in an undertone.
“No quarrel, but something, I don’t quite know what. Make her rest, Lucilla, and don’t allow her to talk. Let me find her well when I return—for then we must decide what to do.”