Chapter XXX: The High Lodge

Thus every one discussed and gave their opinion as to Innocent’s outset in life--except Innocent herself. She acquiesced--it was all she ever did. A slight paling of her very faint colour, a certain look of fright in her eyes were the only indications that it affected her at all. Somehow this change in her life associated itself in her ideas with Amanda’s proposal to render her of use--a proposal which she had received with more favour than any one else in the house; it had offended them all on her account, but it had not offended Innocent. She listened to all the descriptions which were given her of Miss Vane, her unknown relation, and of the pretty country which she was about to visit, and of the novelty and change which her aunt thought would do her so much good, with passive incomprehension. Novelty alarmed, it did not excite her; she wanted no change--but yet she was quite contented to be sent where they pleased; to do whatever they thought proper. She looked upon her visit as a very devout and enthusiastic believer looks--or is supposed to look--upon death; as an unknown and terrible event of which she could form no idea, but which would be soon over, and which it was absolutely the will of those who were as gods to Innocent that she should undergo “for her good.” Thus she allowed herself to be prepared for it with a mixture of fright and docility; everybody talked of it except herself, the heroine. Innocent’s visit was in every mouth except Innocent’s. She did not even form to herself any picture of what it would be like, as Nelly kept doing perpetually. She had no faculty for making pictures. Indeed, the peculiarity of Innocent’s organization began to centre chiefly in this point--that she had no imagination. It did not seem a moral want in her as it does in some people, so much as a wistful vacancy, a blank caused by some accident. No sort of cynic scorn of the imagination of others, such, as the unimaginative often show, was in her passive soul; but she followed the gaze of the eyes which could thus see into the unseen with a wistful look which was full of pathos.

“How do you know when things are going to happen?” she said to Nelly, who had just been indulging in a long account of Miss Vane’s probable appearance and manners to cheer them over their work, as they sat with Alice in Mrs. Eastwood’s room, helping to make some new “things” for Innocent’s outfit.

“I don’t know in the least--I only imagine,” said Nelly, laughing.

“Imagine!” repeated Innocent. She did not understand it. She was all a dream, poor child, and Nelly was all real; but the dream-girl possessed no imagination at all, while the other was running over with ready youthful fancy. No matter-of-fact creature, no dull clodhopper, could be more absolutely and rigidly bound within the lines of what she knew, than Innocent. She knew the old wandering life in Italy, and she knew The Elms. But all the rest of the world was a blank to her. She had formed no idea either of what she was about to meet with, or how she was to conduct herself under other circumstances. With such an absence of the faculty which guides us through it, the future and every change can be nothing but a terror to the ignorant soul.

“Look here, Innocent,” said Jenny, who had always taken a special charge of her, on the evening before she left home. He had taken her into the garden for the purpose of examining her, and satisfying himself that she was what he called a free agent. “Are you sure you like going? That’s what I want to know.”

“Like going?” said Innocent, opening her eyes. “Oh, no.”

“Why are you going, then? Is it because you are obliged?” asked Jenny, knitting portentous brows.

“Obliged!” Innocent repeated once more, with a little wonder. “I am going because my aunt thinks so--neither because I am obliged, nor because I like. It is not me, it is her.”

“But it ought not to be like that,” cried Jenny. “Speak to my mother, she is very reasonable. She never forces a fellow into anything; tell her that you would rather not. That’s how I always did.”

“But you are a boy,” said Innocent, with a mixture of respect and gentle contempt, which I fear she had learned from Nelly.

“What difference does that make? have a little courage, and tell me. The thing you want to learn,” said Jenny, with much gravity, “is that everybody here wishes you to be happy, wishes you to do what pleases you. Don’t misunderstand my mother. You take up an idea of your own--you don’t look at the real state of the case, and try to make out what she means. Don’t you understand me, Innocent?”

“No,” said Innocent, looking at him with veiled and wondering eyes.

Poor Jenny! he thrust his hands deeper into his pockets, and muttered something to himself, which was not adapted for publication; and then he looked at her in his turn with that anxious but impotent gaze with which so often one mortal attempts to fathom another--to fathom the unfathomable--whether there be nothing or much in those veiled and inscrutable depths of personal identity. She smiled at him softly, and the dreamy light of this smile went over all her face, touching it into visionary life and beauty. Jenny was baffled in his inquiry, in his investigation, in his counsel; he could not make anything of Innocent. With a mixture of kindness and impatience he hurried her back into the house.

“It is growing cold, and you have no shawl,” said Jenny. Would poor Innocent never be sensible to any higher solicitude than this?

Next day she went away under the care of John Vane. She did not cry or show any emotion; but her eyes were full of fright, and the excitement of terror. She had not even the same unreasoning instinctive confidence to support her which she had felt in Frederick on her former journey. John Vane was very kind to her, and very good, she knew; but he was not Frederick. She sat still as a mouse in her corner of the carriage, and said “Yes” and “No” when he asked her a question, and saw the world whirl round her once again, and the long stretches of country, and strange faces look in. To Innocent it seemed a kind of treadmill, turning round and round. She was not conscious of making any progress; but only of unknown faces that looked at her, of long green lines of fields and hedgerows flying past. When they had got half way through their journey, they discovered that Frederick was in the same train, with his wife, whom he was taking to her father’s house. He came to the carriage, when the train stopped, and leaned his arms upon the window and talked to Innocent, who brightened at the sight of him, and instinctively put out her hand to cling to the most real thing she knew, the first human creature whom she had personally identified and discovered, as it were, out of the unknown. John Vane could not be supposed to understand this altogether inexplainable feeling, which poor Innocent could no more have put into words than she could have written a poem. He thought very differently of it. He thought like a man that the other man, smiling and talking lightly to the poor girl, had meanly accepted the worthless flower of this child’s love to laugh at, or tread under foot. He was unjust, for perhaps the most really good feeling in Frederick’s mind (when she did not cross or irritate him) was his tenderness for his little cousin; but the other cousin, who felt himself her protector, realized this as little as he understood the nature of Innocent’s sentiments. He made the poor child change her seat to the other end of the carriage, and when Frederick came back, entertained him with remarks upon the weather, to which Frederick responded in the same tone. There was, as people say, no love lost between them.

“Oh, is it Innocent?” said Amanda, when they reached Sterborne. “So your mother has taken my advice, Fred. I suppose she is going to be trained for a governess at Miss Vane’s school? Quite right, quite right! You may come and see me, Innocent, if you like; it will be a little change for you. After all the petting you have had at The Elms, you may not quite like it at first; but it’s for your good. Fred, is there a carriage for me? Is papa there? Come and take me out, then; don’t leave me here like a piece of luggage. Come and see me soon, Innocent. You will always be some one to talk to--Good-bye.”

“Innocent,” said John Vane, when he had placed her in the light open carriage which had been sent for them from the High Lodge, “I do not wish you to go and see that woman; neither does your aunt, I think. So unless you wish it very much----”

“I don’t wish it at all,” said Innocent, more distinctly than usual; and with a promptitude which surprised her companion.

“Then you don’t like her?” he said.

“She took Frederick away from us,” said Innocent; “he would have lived at home always but for her. She makes my aunt, and every one, unhappy. Him, too--sometimes he looks as if he were miserable. People who make everybody miserable,” the girl continued, very gravely, “ought not to be allowed to live.”

“My dear child,” he said, half laughing, “that is a terrible doctrine. In that way none of us would be safe.”

“You don’t make any one miserable,” said Innocent. “Few that I have ever seen do. But she does. And Frederick----”

“I don’t wish to say anything to you against your cousin,” said Vane, very gravely; “but Innocent, you must not think too highly of Frederick Eastwood. He is not so perfect as you suppose. Remember that it is entirely his own fault that he has such a wife; you must not make a hero of Frederick. The less you see of him, also, the better for your own sake----”

Innocent looked at him wonderingly with vague consternation. Did she understand what he said? Certainly not the inference conveyed in his words--the more serious meaning. But she had no time to reply, for the short drive was over, and the High Lodge in sight. It was a curious old straggling house, with an old chapel standing detached, but connected by a covered way with the house. The grounds were large and well kept, and the quaint little lattice windows showed their several clusters of faces peeping out. The door stood open, flooded with evening sunshine. Great feathery branches of the clematis which had done flowering, and was now all cottony with seed pods, hung about the porch. The wall was one mass of creeping plants; late roses were flaunting out of reach high up about the clustered chimneys and gables; and the flower borders about the house were bright with asters and scarlet geraniums, and all kinds of autumn flowers. The chapel bell began to tinkle as they drove in at the gate, and from all the corners of the irregular old house appeared groups of women and children. Even Innocent was roused into curiosity by the strange sight. In the slanting afternoon light, with that background of old wall, matted all over with interlacing wreaths of jessamine, clematis, honeysuckle, and roses, and pierced with twinkling casements, each looking out as with so many eyes through the little diamond panes--the sight was a very pretty one. One or two women in the dress of Sisters lent an additional quaintness to the picture; the children were of various ages and of various dress, fluttering like flowers along the trim and well-kept walk. John Vane laughed as men laugh who are half-amused, half-affected by the scene before them.

“Now we shall see Letty in all her glory,” he said.

This sight, which was so unusual and so little expected, had actually driven from Innocent’s mind for the moment all recollection of herself, and all thoughts of the meeting with another stranger which was about to follow. She woke up with a start to find herself lifted out of the carriage, and taken suddenly with a rapid salute into some one’s arms. The new figure was that of a little woman with very bright eyes, and a very alert and lively aspect, who kissed Innocent in a business-like manner, and then turning, raised her cheek to her brother, who was about three times as tall as she was.

“So here you are,” said Miss Vane, “fifteen minutes late, as that train always is. Quick, come in, Reginald, there is tea in the parlour. I have only time to say a word to you before chapel. This way, my dear, follow me; the passage is rather narrow, and there are two steps, just at the most unlikely places--but you will get used to it in time.”

Thus talking she led them in to a large low room, with great beams across the roof, and a multiplicity of small windows, deeply recessed in the thick old wall. There was a great open fireplace, with a few logs of wood burning on the hearth, and a little white-covered table with tea, standing before it; this table, and the easy chair, and a number of books, were the only modern things in the room. It was panelled with dark oak, and had, consequently, nothing of the brightness of the modern English rooms which Innocent knew; neither was it like the spare and lofty magnificence of those Italian apartments which had once been familiar to her. There were some small but rare pictures on the walls, and some portraits. Vane looked round it with the familiar satisfaction of one who returns to an old home.

“Thank heaven, whatever you have done to the rest of the house, Letty,” he said, “you have spared my mother’s old room.”

“Yes,” said Miss Vane, “I am far from perfection yet, if I ever attain to it. I don’t expect I shall. It is not the drawing-room now, it is only the parlour; but beyond that sacrifice I can’t go any further, which is contemptible. So this is Gilbert Vane’s daughter? Innocent, my dear, you are very welcome. I like you for your name. Reginald and I had a sister Innocent. You must try to like me and be happy here as long as your aunt will let you stay. Sit down and pour out some tea for yourself and him;--I must go off to chapel. You are excused to-day, as your train is late. Take care of the child, Reginald, and see she has some tea. I must be off or else I shall be late as well. Very glad to see you both. _Au revoir_ in half an hour.”

She went on talking till she reached the door, when she disappeared, still talking and waving her hand. Her brother followed her with his kind eyes.

“Dear old Letty!” he said, “I told you we should see her in all her glory. Sit down, Innocent, and warm your poor little hands, and take your tea.”

With this brief advice he left her, and went round the room, looking at all the pictures, the books, everything about. Innocent sat down as she was bid in the great easy chair. She poured out the tea as she had been bid, for herself and for him. A soft sensation of well-being stole over her; the sweetness of the mignonette outside, the tinkling of the bell, the sunshine which slanted in through the deep, small windows, and the soft warmth of the fire, all soothed the girl; but what soothed her most was the charmingly matter-of-fact way in which she had been received, in which she had been bidden to do this and that. No response, no emotion had been required from her; there was no cause for emotion; she was told what to do, and left to do it in peace. Her fright went away in this quiet moment; her whole nature was soothed; here was the place for her; now she knew and saw, and the terrors of the change fled away. She did not care for the tea, and probably would not have taken it, but that she recollected suddenly that she had been told to do so, on which recollection Innocent sipped and was glad. The afternoon was sweet, the rest and quiet were sweet after so much confused motion and vision; and it was sweet to be no longer frightened, to feel the excitement and the terror over. She did not know how long it was till the children began to stream again past the windows, and Miss Vane came back; but even then no call was made upon her. She was allowed to sit in peace while the others talked, pleasant family talk, playful discussions, inquiries after one and another. Innocent paid very little attention to the subject of the conversation, but it was a pleasant sound in her ears, and the very air of the gentle house was pleasant. Then Miss Vane took her to one of the little rooms, with the shining casements, up-stairs, where pale roses were still looking in at the window, and showed her where to put her things, and told her at what hour she must be ready in the morning, and all that was done at the High Lodge. It was the beginning of a new life to the wondering girl. No more indulgence, consultation of her wishes--she who had no wishes! but gentle control, absolute rule, matter-of-fact kindness--nothing but obedience required of her; and that was the easiest thing to give.

Miss Vane, however, as it turned out, was as much pleased with Innocent as Innocent was with Miss Vane. After one day with his sister, which, perhaps, in the circumstances, was enough for both, John Vane set off to pay various visits, promising to return again for Innocent, and warning his sister only to keep her apart from “the Frederick Eastwoods” and Mr. Batty’s house in Sterborne. This Miss Vane cheerfully agreed to do without any question; for, certainly, it was very undesirable that a relation of her own should have any intercourse or connexion with Mr. Batty’s daughter. The religious vocation of the mistress of the High Lodge did not make her indifferent to the claims of family. Religious vocations seldom do; a well-born woman is well-born in a Carmelite cloister as well as in a king’s court, and generally thinks quite as much of it in the one region as the other. It seemed accordingly a perfectly simple matter that Innocent should be permitted to accept no invitation from Mrs. Frederick Eastwood; and indeed no such invitation came. Otherwise things went on with the most perfect comfort between the girl and her new relation. She did not talk much, it is true; she was not interested, as Miss Vane expected her to be, in the upper school, where half-a-dozen “daughters of gentlemen” were being educated in one wing of the old house; or the lower school, where children who had no gentility to boast of were being trained in another; or in the orphanage, even though she herself was an orphan, and might have been supposed likely to “take an interest” in the young creatures--girls like herself, who found refuge there. Innocent went through the whole establishment, making no remark. When asked if she liked it, she said Yes: when asked if she was tired, she said No: when asked if she would like to see something more, she said Yes again. She smiled upon the little children, and said _ma sœur_ to the sisters when they spoke to her, which pleased them. She was everything that was docile, gentle, and obedient, and she grew in a few weeks to look stronger and better than she had ever done in her life; but she did not become more communicative. One thing, however, Innocent did which found high favour in everybody’s eyes. She would go and sit for hours together in the little chapel, with her eyes fixed upon the pictured Christ (an old Italian picture, full of true early Italian sentiment for the divine and holy) which was hung over the altar. The chapel was low, like the house, an old Early English building in good repair, but homely as became its date, with low windows, filled with grisaille glass, dim and silvery. Here Innocent would sit, taking no note of time; it felt to her like the little church of the Spina over again; and here, as there, she said “Our Father,” vaguely reverential, and sat in a soft quiescence, scarcely thinking--happy, she knew not why. The habit she thus showed commended her to the community beyond expression. She was so Catholic, so pious, so saintlike, they said; and indeed Innocent in those gentle days made the first great success of her life. It was the pause before the storm.