But when Mrs. Eastwood was otherwise engaged, or forgot, or got tired, as people will do, of constant interference, Innocent would stay with him as long as he pleased, saying scarcely anything—content only to be with him—making no demands on his attention. Sometimes she would lean her cheek softly against his arm, or clasp her hands upon it, with a touching, silent demonstration of her dependence.
“I am afraid they are not very kind to you,” he would say, bending over her, in intervals when he had roused himself from more serious thought.
But Innocent made no accusation; she said, “I like you best,” leaning upon him. Her mind was absolutely as her name. She thought of nothing better or higher in life than thus to be allowed to wander about with Frederick, doing whatever he might want of her, accepting his guidance with implicit faith. He had been the first to take possession of her forlorn and half-stupefied mind, and no one else had room as yet to enter in.
This, as may be supposed, made Mrs. Eastwood very seriously uneasy, and produced remonstrances to which Frederick in his pre-occupied condition paid not the slightest attention.
One evening, however, when he had come to the very verge of the crisis, she went out in the twilight, and took her son’s arm.
“If you must have a companion, Frederick,” she said, attempting a laugh, “I am the safest. You cannot turn my head, or have your own turned. I wish you would pay a little attention to what I say to you.”
“Mother,” he said breathlessly, finding himself forced at last into the resolution he had so long kept at arm’s length; “for the moment it is you who must listen to me.”
She was startled by the vehemence of his tone; but kept her composure. “Surely,” she said, “I am always ready—when you have any thing to say to me, my dear.”
“I have something to say—and yet nothing—nothing particular,” he cried. “The fact is that circumstances—have made me think lately—of the possibility—of marrying——”
He brought out the last words with something of a jerk.