Chapter XXVI: A Proposal

Innocent walked in unsuspectingly through the great open window in the drawing-room, which looked dusky and dim after the sunshine. The flowers peeped through the glass doors of the conservatory, and her own image in the great glass over the mantelpiece seemed to confront her as she came in. Mrs. Eastwood rose from the sofa, close to the window, where she had been sitting beside Sir Alexis. She took Innocent’s hand. The other hand still embraced the history book, which she was holding close to her breast. Mrs. Eastwood looked into the girl’s face tenderly, with an anxious gaze, to which Innocent gave no response. “I wonder if she will understand?” she said, turning to Longueville, who had risen from the sofa. “I think I can make her understand,” he said. And then Mrs. Eastwood put her arm round the girl and kissed her. Innocent had ceased to be surprised and impatient of the kindness by which she was surrounded. Though she still took little part in the life of the family, it began to seem natural to her that people should feel, and that they should talk, and laugh, and cry, and conduct themselves as it once seemed so strange for them to do. She was not surprised now at any “fuss” that was made. She accepted it quietly, taking little part in it. But for the moment this scene did indeed appear like a dream; the unexpected kiss, the words to which she attached no definite meaning, the something evidently connected with herself, which they settled before her eyes; even the air of the room seemed full of a certain whispering curiosity, interest, and suspense. Innocent felt that something was about to happen, without knowing how. Was she to be sent away? Had something occurred that involved her fate? She looked, no longer quite passive, with a little tremulous wonder and doubt from one to the other. Then Mrs. Eastwood, who had been holding her hand, kissed her again, and there were tears in her eyes.

“Sir Alexis has something to say to you, Innocent. Give him your attention,” said Mrs. Eastwood, “and when you want me, you will find me in the dining-room. My poor dear child--God bless you!” cried the kind woman, and hurried away as if afraid to commit herself. Then it was the turn of Sir Alexis to advance, which he did, looking, as Innocent thought, strangely at her, as if he had something terrible to communicate. He, too, took her hand, and led her to the sofa, to the place from which Mrs. Eastwood had risen. “Innocent,” he said softly.

She looked at him with scared and anxious eyes. She was not as she had been. Had she been asked whether she loved her relations, she would probably have stared at the questioner, and made no reply; but the thought of leaving them--of going out into the strange world--struck her with a sharp pang. “Am I to be sent away?” she cried; “is that what you have to tell me?” and a dull dread, which she could not struggle against, took possession of Innocent’s soul.

“To be sent away! No, that is the last thing I could have to tell you,” he said, looking at her with something in his eyes which surprised her, which confused her; which, in her simplicity, she could not understand, yet felt moved by strangely. Her foolish terror died away. The faint vague smile, with which she had looked round at the falling leaves, came upon her face again. This smile was quite peculiar to Innocent. It moved some people almost to tears; and it frightened others. It was like the look of some one smiling in a dream. The smile altogether overpowered the old veteran and man of the world beside her. There was something in it half-imbecile, half-divine; and, indeed, Innocent stood at the very climax of these two extremes--almost a fool, almost the purest visionary development of womankind. In her present stage of being it seemed impossible to predict on which side the balance would drop.

“Innocent,” he said very softly, and then made a pause; “I am as old as your father,” he added after a moment, in which he seemed to take breath.

“Yes.”

“As old as your father; and you are but a child--not a grown woman. Young in years, younger in mind----”

“You say that because I am not clever,” said Innocent, with a look of pain.

“No, indeed. I do not want you to be clever--not anything but what you are----”

The girl looked up at him again with that soft, vague smile. She made a movement as if to place her hand in his--then checked herself, having learned that such ways of testifying her pleasure were not generally approved of. Sir Alexis had been very kind to her. He had petted her as a man of mature age is permitted to pet a child, bringing her flowers and fruit and pretty things, and asking no comprehension, no reply, except the smile. She felt at her ease with him. It did not even occur to her to inquire what he could want now. And it is impossible to describe the bewildering effect which this had upon the mind of the man who wanted to present himself to Innocent as her lover. He was struck dumb. He looked at her with a wondering gaze--baffled, silenced, in all his superior sense and knowledge. But he had brought her here for the purpose of making this disclosure of his wishes; he had been left with her under this special understanding, and he felt that only ridicule could be his fate if his courage failed him. To be daunted by Innocent! The thought was too absurd. And yet when he looked at her he felt daunted still.

“Innocent,” he said, “I have a great deal to say to you; but you are so--young, that it is difficult to say it. You were afraid just now of being sent away. Did it ever occur to you that you might some time go away of your own will?”

“I go away? Where should I go?” said Innocent. “I should have liked to have stayed at Pisa; but now I know better--I have nothing, no money, no home. I could not go away. And, besides, I do not wish it. It is best here.”

“You are fond of them, then, now?”

Innocent made a little pause, looking at him as if to fathom his meaning before she said simply, “Yes;” and Sir Alexis, with all his experience, grew red under the girl’s look; but in reality she had no thought of fathoming what he meant. She never asked herself whether he meant anything; she paused only to collect her wandering intelligence. Was she fond of them? She had scarcely asked herself the question--her feelings towards them had been passive more than active--“Yes,”--no more than that; no girlish enthusiasm or effusiveness was possible to her.

“And Ellinor is fond of her mother--fonder than you can be; but yet some day soon she will go away----”

“Nelly?--ah, that will be when she is married,” said Innocent, with a livelier tone.

“And you, too, will be married some time.”

“Shall I?” she said with a smile. “No, I do not think so--Why? Some people are never married; and some----” here she stopped short, and a sombre look came over her face. Sir Alexis, following her eyes, imagined that they rested on a portrait of Frederick, and the thought gave him a pang.

“Some would have been better if they had not married,” he said. “Innocent, what should you think of marrying me----?”

“You!” She looked somewhat amused, undisturbed, at him, making him feel more disconcerted, more baffled than ever.

“I am serious,” he said, almost with impatience, taking her hand and pressing it somewhat tightly to keep her attention alive--“I want you to think of what I say. You are dependent here, dependent upon your aunt, who some time or other may feel you a burden; and I could make you rich, and put everything at your feet. You, who are a poor girl, would become a great lady if you married me, Innocent. You would find it pleasant in many ways. You should do what you like, and have what you like, without asking any one’s leave. Yes, and go anywhere--to Pisa if you pleased. I would do whatever you wished, and spend my life in trying to please you--for I am very fond of you, Innocent,” said the man of the world in a tone of appeal which was almost a whimper.

What a curious scene it was: she so passive, so unexcited, not understanding nor caring to understand; and he, the wise man, agitated, perplexed, anxious. He had meant that this should be a very different scene. He had meant to put forth his hand and take her to himself, as he might have taken a flower; but this no longer seemed so easy as he looked upon the blankness of her beautiful, wistful, unresponsive face.

“Have you no answer to give me?” he said, almost humbly, holding her slender hand between his.

“I don’t think I understand,” said Innocent slowly. “I am--stupid, as the servants say. Nelly would go, perhaps, if you were to ask her.”

“But it is you I want--you, Innocent! Try to understand--I want you to marry me--to be my wife.”

“Like Frederick and--his wife?” asked Innocent, with a shudder.

“Pshaw--like any man and his wife,” he said. “Innocent, you are not so foolish as you try to make people think. You must be able to understand this. Do you like me? Tell me that first.”

“Yes,” she said calmly, looking at him, grave, and curious, and unabashed.

“Then will you marry me? Tell me yes or no.”

“Please, no!” said Innocent, with a troubled look. “Please, no----”

Sir Alexis dropped the hand he had been holding, and got up and walked about the room. To tell the truth, he was impatient, half angry, annoyed rather than wounded, as men generally are who are refused. Even in the midst of his annoyance he was half inclined to laugh. He had made up his mind to marry her whether she chose or not; but to be refused point-blank by this child was a thing which had scarcely appeared to him possible. It irritated, and vexed, and half-amused him, without in the least altering his purpose and determination. A comical half-wish to have her whipped mingled in his mind with vexation at having made so little impression upon her. After a few moments, during which he calmed himself down by his promenade, he came back and took his seat again, and her hand, which she gave to him smiling. She was glad he was not angry. It was a relief to her mind to find that he did not “scold” her, as so many people felt themselves at liberty to do.

“Innocent, my dear,” he said, “I want you to think over this carefully. Should not you like to go into the world with me, to see everything that is to be seen; to go everywhere, and buy what you liked, and live where you pleased? I would do anything to please you. I would go with you everywhere to take care of you. Before you say no, think what it is you are refusing; and speak to your aunt, and let her advise you. She knows better than you do. I know better than you do,” he said, with a smile which indeed was a smile at himself, so odd and strange was his position. “I advise you to accept me, Innocent. Longueville is a beautiful place, much finer than anything you have seen in England; and we could go to Pisa if you liked.”

“Ah, I should have liked it once--a year ago,” said Innocent; “but now it is best here. I don’t want to go away----”

“Not to make me happy? Suppose you take that into consideration? to make a man who is fond of you happy.”

She gazed at him with wondering eyes. She did not understand the language even which he was speaking. Had it been warm, youthful love, probably Innocent would have known what he meant. But this middle-aged fondness for the beautiful strange young creature, so strangely young, so unusual in her type of beauty, conveyed no idea to the mind which was but half alive. I don’t think she believed this last speech; it seemed to her, though she had a very limited perception of humour, that it must be a joke.

“Innocent,” he cried, growing excited, and raising his voice, as if she had been deaf; “is it possible you do not understand me? I love you--is not that plain? I want to have you always with me, to have you for my wife. I want you to marry me. All girls marry; it is natural--it is necessary; and you say you like me. Shall I call your aunt, and tell her you have consented, and will be my wife?”

“Oh, please no! please no!” cried Innocent, putting her hand on his arm in sudden fright. “If she said so, I would have to do it. Do not make me go away. I am not--clever. Don’t be angry or scold me. I am beginning to know a little better.” She put her hands together instinctively like a child. “It would be as dark again as when I came here; do not make me go away!”

“Nobody will make you do anything; but I love you, Innocent. Come with me of your own will. Nobody will make you go away.”

“Ah, thanks!” she cried, with a long-drawn sigh of relief. She did not seem to notice his other words--only the last, which relieved her. She put her clasped hands to her side, and looked at him with her dreamy smile. “I was frightened for a moment,” she said, “but I knew you were too kind. Feel how it made my heart beat. You are not angry? It was wrong not to care when I came here; but it cannot be wrong to wish to stay now? I could not bear to go away.”

“You will think differently after a while,” he said, “and then----” The man was piqued by her perfect insensibility to the honour he had done her. But before he uttered the threat which came to his lips, better feelings came over him. “Yes, Innocent,” he said, “I made a mistake; I have been premature. But now listen to me. If ever you change your mind--if ever you wish to go away--if the time should come when you may be glad to think you have another home ready for you, and some one who loves you--then will you think of me? I will not be angry if you will promise this.”

“Oh, yes,” she cried gladly. “Yes, I will promise. I will think of you; I will run to you. It is not likely,” she added, half to herself, “that they will send me away, or that I shall wish to go; but if----”

“In that case you will come to me?”

“Yes, directly. I will remember. I promise--faithfully, faithfully!” The vague look brightened up into warmer intelligence as she held out her hand to him. I am not sure that the intelligence suited the face so well as its usual passive visionariness. This gleam of light made her more like a child than she had ever been before. Sir Alexis rose gravely, and, stooping over her, kissed her forehead. She shrank a hair’s breadth; but yet received the salute gravely too, without a blush, looking at him with a wondering endeavour to investigate his countenance. He could not be angry since he gave her this sign of amity. As for the discomfited lover himself, he took his hat, and went away very gravely, disappointed it is true, but touched and rendered serious, he could not quite tell how. He did not feel like a man who had been refused, but rather like one who had rashly thrust the vulgar questions of life into some mysterious intermediate region between earth and heaven. He had spoken earthly language to a creature, half idiot, half angel, whose spotless mind had no thoughts or impulses in it which could make it possible for her to understand him. He was half ashamed of himself, half solemnized as by a vision. As this impression wore off, however, which it did in time, Sir Alexis was not discouraged. He could not have her now; but one day he would have her, and his love was not of the hotly passionate kind which cannot wait. Perhaps, indeed, he wanted Innocent only as he would have wanted a lovely picture, a rare flower. He had never seen any one the least like her, and he did not require a helpmate or a companion; it was a supreme luxury, the rarest he could think of, that he wanted. And with such sentiments a man, especially when he is fifty, may be content to wait.

When Mrs. Eastwood heard the door close she came back anxiously to the drawing-room. Things had gone badly for Sir Alexis, she felt sure, from the mere fact that he had gone away. Innocent was about to step out again through the open window when her aunt came up to her. She laid her hand upon the girl’s shoulder, detaining her. Innocent had still her history-book clasped in one hand against her breast.

“Where is Sir Alexis?” said Mrs. Eastwood. “Have you sent him away?”

“Oh, no,” said Innocent, the gleam of intelligence which I have already described still brightening about her face, and changing for the moment into a kind of clever imbecility the usual pensive dreaminess of its expression. “He went away himself quite of his own will. And he was not angry. We are friends as much as ever.”

“Then you refused him, Innocent?”

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘refused.’ I asked him not to ask you to make me go away. I don’t want to go away. Did you wish me to go?” the girl asked, with the old wistful look coming back into her face. It was the first time this thought had struck her, and a chill stole into her heart.

“No,” said Mrs. Eastwood, drawing her close. “I am glad you are not going, Innocent. Only it might have been better for you, my poor child. He is rich, and he is fond of you. He would have been very kind; he would have given you every advantage, more than I can give you. And if anything was to happen to me---- But you don’t understand such calculations. It would have been a comfort to have you settled,” said Mrs. Eastwood with a sigh.

“Is Nelly settled?” asked Innocent.

“God knows!” cried Mrs. Eastwood, in sudden trouble; and then she turned to the girl whom she had adopted with an instinctive appeal for sympathy. “If I was to die who would think of you who would care for you--Nelly and you? There would be no one but Frederick--and Frederick’s wife.”

Innocent did not make any reply--a faint colour flickered over her cheek. She turned away from her aunt, twisting her fingers together with a helpless gesture. Then she said, very low, “Frederick--would always take care--of me.”

“Oh, my dear,” cried Mrs. Eastwood, “you must not think of Frederick. I am afraid when he is kind to you he is thinking more of himself than you. That is one reason why I should have been glad, very glad. Frederick belongs to his wife.”

“May I go now, and read my history?” said Innocent, after a pause. She went back to the path overshadowed with trees, and opened her book; and whispered to herself again, half aloud, how Mary plotted and wove her spells, how Elizabeth lay in wait for her like a spider. She resumed at the same sentence as if nothing had happened. How much of it went into her mind? How much of the other had gone into her mind? Sir Alexis, Frederick, all the surrounding figures, were they ghostly and dim to her as Mary of Scotland and the great Elizabeth? But no one could answer this question. Amid the strange light-gleams and weird darkness of her own little world she dwelt alone.