more fully. I hope to do this on a future I took the reins. Miss Vane herself wore occasion, after I have had time to exam- no conventual costume; she had not ine carefully the objections which these abandoned the pleasant things of this Lectures have elicted, and may still elicit. life. She wore rich silks, moaning over But I trust I have said enough to show her own imperfection, which never could you the Science of Language in a new attain to the virtue of serge, and was fond light; and to make you see its para- of her pretty ponies and her pleasant litmount importance for a truly scientific tle carriage. They had a cheerful drive study of Psychology, and for the solution into Sterborne, Miss Vane pointing out of problems which hang like storm- everything on the way, and naming every clouds over our heads, and make our house they passed, Innocent paying little very soul to quiver. attention, yet listening to all that was said to her, and enjoying in her passive way the air, the sunshine, the rapid movement. Things no longer seemed to rush past her, moved by some dreadful whirl of their own, but it was she who was in motion, lightly, cheerfully-the centre, not a passive object in the scene. which she could not have explained for her life, but which she felt vaguely yet strongly, made the greatest difference to Innocent. She was more alive than she had ever been before in her life. BY MRS. From The Graphic. INNOCENT: A TALE OF MODERN LIFE. OLIPHANT, AUTHOR OF "SALEM CHAPEL," "THE MINISTER'S WIFE," 99 66 SQUIRE ARDEN," ETC. CHAPTER XXXI. THE MINSTER AND THE VILLA. This, Miss Vane took her over the Minster, rapidly pointing out all the chief wonders; and then left her, seated within sight of the high altar, to enjoy what everybody at the High Lodge supposed to be meditation of the devoutest kind. "I MUST take you to see the Minster, Innocent," said Miss Vane. "You cannot be in this part of the world without seeing the Minster. You will be quite happy in it, you who are so fond of church. Put on your hat and your cloak, and be ready when the carriage comes round. I have got a number of visits to make and things to do; but as I know you can make yourself happy in the Min-relation. ster while I am busy, I will take you with me. Have you ever seen any of our great Gothic cathedrals? Then you will be perfectly happy, child; you will feel this day an era in your life." Little thought Lætitia Vane what she was saying. The unconscious prophecy came lightly from her lips, and was received by Innocent with a smile. She was not excited by the prospect of seeing the Minster, but she was pleased to go, to do what she was told, to be with the kind but arbitrary mistress, who had brought harmony into her life. She put on her hat, smiling, looking at herself in the glass, which was not very usual with her. She had gained some colour on her pale cheeks, her eyes were brighter, her whole aspect more life-like. It was a fresh October morning, warm in the sunshine, though a sharp little chill of autumn wind met them occasionally at a corner, promising a cold evening. "We must take care not to be late coming back," said Miss Vane, throwing an additional shawl upon Innocent's lap before she got into the little carriage, and "You will be quite happy here," Miss Vane said, kissing her softly, and feeling, with warm compunctions for her own worldliness, how superior was her young She stopped at the door, ere she went about her many businesses, to point out Innocent to the chief verger, and commend her to his care. "I will come back in about an hour and a half," she said. Thus Innocent was left alone. I do not think she had ever been left entirely alone before, save on the one occasion of her visit to the Methodist chapel, since she had been under her aunt's care, and the sensation was sweet to her, -quite alone, silent, no one interfering with her, free to do as she would, to be still, without speaking, without feeling, without thinking. The solemn nave of the Minster, the lovely, lessening arches of the apse, the silvery glow of the painted glass in the windows, made no special impression upon her for themselves. As she sat silent they mingled in a confused but grateful calm with the little church of the Spina-the lingering memories of her past life. Subdued steps came and went about her as in the other little sanctuary by the Arno; the light was subdued as by the influence of the place; no sound above a whisper was audible; gliding figures appeared in the distance, into which she gazed, not, indeed, coming there to fling gait; and the two, whom he thought pray, as in Santa Maria, but yet moving lovers, were left alone. softly, with a certain reverence. No They were not lovers, far from that; gleaming tapers on the altar, no chanting but Innocent clung to the arm of the first priest interposed to furnish a background man whom she had ever identified and for her dreams; but Innocent scarcely felt any warm personal regard for, and felt the want. She said her prayers, Frederick looked down upon her with a kneeling down, all unconscious of obser-complacency which half arose from a vain vation, on the stone pavement. She sat down again in a hush of soft and peaceful feeling — to dream? No, nor even to think. The mind of this poor little Innocent had no need for any exercise; she rested, before the fiery coming of her fate. It was not till the verger, much bewildered by a stillness of attitude to which he was quite unused, came to ask whether the young lady would like to see the chapter-house, or the crypt, or any of the special sights of the Minster, that the girl was roused. She rose then, always acquiescent, smiling upon the old man. But as she turned round, Innocent's eye caught a figure much more interesting to her than the verger's. It was Frederick, who turned round at the same moment, and came forward to her, holding out both his hands. "Ah, Innocent, at last!" he cried. There was real pleasure in his face. "Miss Vane has left me here to wait for her," said Innocent, "but, oh, I am so glad to see you!" It seemed to her that she had found him again—that all the intermediate time had glided away, that she was in the church of the Spina, and he, her new-discovered only guardian, and protector again. "I am glad that you are glad," said Frederick. "I thought you might have forgotten all about us among the Vanes. How is it that they neglect you like this? I suppose you are the poor relation there, Innocent, eh? You never were so at the Elms." "I do not know what you mean,” said Innocent; but she put her hand within his arm, with her old use and wont, looking up at him brightly with her soft smile. The verger looking on, felt that, perhaps, it was his duty to interfere, but had not the heart to do it. "You'll find me in the porch, Miss, if you want me," he said. If the young lady had met with some one as she liked better than them Papistical nunnery-folks at the High Lodge, was it his business? He went away heavily, dragging his feet upon the pavement, as ecclesiastical attendants for ages and ages have dragged them, with stooped shoulders and shuf belief that she loved him, and partly from a real kindness for his little cousin, and partly from a sensation of thankfulness to have some one belonging to him to look at and speak to some one not of the terrible Batty tribe, to which he was bound until Monday morning. This was Saturday, and he had been imperatively summoned to visit his wife, who was still ill. He could not get back until Monday morning, and the thought that this terrible moment of duty might be softened by the presence of Innocent, who adored him, was sweet. He told her that Amanda was ill in bed, not able to come out with him, or to be his companion. “I cannot spend my whole time with her," said Frederick, "and her father is more odious than I can tell you. You must come to see her; you must stay with me, Innocent, till go back." "If Miss Vane will let me," said Innocent, brightly. "You would like it? You were always a dear girl. When I take you home with me, Innocent," said Frederick, solemnly, "you will learn a lesson, which I have learnt too late, that it is a fatal thing to connect one's self with people of a different class from one's own, who cannot understand one, whose life is a contradiction to all one feels and wishes. I don't speak, of course, of my wife, that is my own affair; whatever I may have to put up with I say nothing on that score to any one. But, Innocent, a man of honour has many things to bear which women never know." These fine sentiments were wasted upon Innocent, who looked up at him wondering, and received what he said docilely, but made no attempt to understand. I don't know why Frederick, knowing her well enough to be aware of this, should have thought it necessary to make so solemn a statement. He did it, perhaps, from the habit he had acquired of posing as a victim to honour. He led her about the Minster, and showed her many things which Innocent looked at with her usual docility, pleased to be with him, if not much excited by anything else. She had been happy at the High Lodge, but after all Frederick was her first friend, her discovery, and to be Innocent's enjoyment was a little thus alone with him, cared for by him, damped by this long speech, but as she no one else interfering, carried her back was still walking with Frederick, and had, to the first startled awakening of her as yet, no drawback to the pleasant sentorpid youth. He was always kind to sation of being with him, the shadow her when she was thus thrown upon his flitted rapidly from her face. He took care, and Innocent was happy, with her her all over the village, showing her hand clinging to his arm. When Miss everything that was to be seen, before he Vane came to recall her to the present, turned his step towards the villa, where she looked with perhaps a warmer per- Amanda, fretful and peevish, awaited sonal wish than had ever been seen in him, longing for news, for change, for her eyes before at her temporary guar- something to amuse her. Frederick dian, pleading for the granting of the re- cared very little for the fact that his once quest which Frederick made, with his worshipped beauty was now waiting for very finest Charles I. look, and melan- him. His little cousin, with her dreamy choly gentlemanlike grace. Miss Vane, delight in his society, her refined and a busy woman, had partially forgotten her gradually developing beauty, and the brother's warning about Mrs. Frederick. strange attraction of her visionary ab She knew the young man before her had stractiveness from the common world, made a foolish marriage, but still he was was very amusing and pleasant to him. an Eastwood, of prepossessing appear- The mere fact of not seeing her every ance, and a compunction crossed her day, as he had been in the habit of doing, mind as to her want of civility in not had made him perceive Innocent's beauty, "calling on" the daughter-in-law of In- and a mingled feeling, half wholly good, nocent's good aunt. A woman takes rank half dubious in character, inclined him from her husband, not from her father, towards the girl who clung to him. She Miss Vane reflected, and if this poor fel- was very pretty, and "very fond of him," low had found out, as might be guessed which pleased his vanity highly, and from his resigned manner, that he had made him feel vaguely self-complacent made a terrible mistake, it was only right and on good terms with himself in her that a connection should stand by him as company; and by the side of this doubtfar as was practicable. After a few diffi- ful and not very improving sensation, the culties, therefore, as to Innocent's dress, man, who was not wholly bad, had ac&c., she consented, promising to send tually a little wholesome brotherly, prothe gardener with her bag, and to drive tecting affection for the child who had in for her on Monday morning, "when I clung to him from the first moment of will take the opportunity of leaving a seeing him. Thus they wandered through card for Mrs. Eastwood. I am sorry to the village, round and round the Minster, hear she is so poorly," said Miss Vane, looking at everything and at nothing till in her most gracious manner. Innocent the October afternoon began to cloud could scarcely believe it when she saw over. "Now you must come and see her energetic relation drive away, and Amanda," said Frederick, with a sigh. found herself left in Frederick's charge. Innocent sighed too. It seemed to her "I am to stay, then?" she said, with a very hard that there was this inevitable smile which lighted up her whole face; "Frederick's wife" to be always the then added, with a faint shadow stealing shadow to the picture, to take him away over it, "but with you, Frederick? I do from his family, to separate him from not like your wife herself, to worry and vex him whatever he was doing. Innocent hesitated at the corner of the street. "You shall be with me," said Frederick, "but, Innocent, you must not say such things. It is imprudent - you might be misunderstood. I know very well what you mean, and that, of course, it is impossible you should feel towards poor Amanda as you do to me; but you must not forget what I have told you so often, that a woman's best policy is always to make friends with her own sex. You are coming now, you understand, to visit my wife, who is far from well; but I shall take care to have you a great deal with me." "Are you sure I should go?" she said. "She will scold me. She will not be kind like Cousin Lætitia or you. She does not like me, and I do not like her. Shall I go back now? I have had all I wanted, Frederick; I have seen you.” "That would never do," said Frederick. "If it were known that you had met me in the Minster and walked abou so long with me, and then returned without seeing my wife, people would talk 'pleasant things would be said.” -un "What could be said?" asked cent. Inno- | considering how kind the Eastwoods have been to you, that you might have come a little sooner to show Mrs. Frederick some respect." "Upon my life, one doesn't know whether to laugh at you or be angry," cried Frederick, impatient. "Will you never understand? But come along, it is no use wasting words. Don't you see you must come now?" "I do not want to come. She will scold me," said Innocent, standing firm, with a cloud upon her face. It was the first time she had openly resisted him or any one. Poor child, was it some angel who stayed her feet? She felt ready to cry, which was an unusual thing with her, and with a frightened instinctive recoil, stood still, refusing to go on. Poor Innocent! Safety and shelter, and the life of order and peace which suited her half-developed faculties lay calm and sunshiny on one side. On the other was conflict, confused darkness and misery, pain and shame, gathering in heavy clouds to swallow her up. For one moment it hung on the balance which her fate was to be; terrible moment which we, none of us, divine, during which we have to exercise that great and awful choice which is the privilege of humanity, in blindness and unconsciousness, ignorant of the issues, stupid to the importance of the decision. This was decided, however, not by Innocent. Impatient Frederick seized her hand, and drew it through his arm. "This is folly," he cried. "What you, Innocent! you be such a little traitor and resist me and get me into trouble? No, no, come along. This is out of the question now.” Next moment he had knocked at his father-in-law's door. The villa looked very much as it had done the day that Frederick first made his appearance there. The sun was still shining by intervals, but glimmers of firelight came from the window, and the garden behind was spare of flowers. Mr. Batty met them as they came in, and stared hard at the girl whom Frederick led by the hand into the narrow light passage which traversed the house from the street to the garden door. "This is my cousin, sir, Miss Innocent Vane," said Frederick. "I have brought her to see Amanda. She is on a visit at the High Lodge, as you may have heard." "Oh, yes, I've heard," said Batty, "and I think it's time she should turn up, the only one of your family as has ever come near my girl. You're welcome, my dear, better late than never; though I think, Innocent listened, wondering, to this address, gazing at the man whom she had a confused recollection of having seen before. All that she comprehended now was, more or less, that he was scolding her, though about what she could not tell. He was a kind of man totally unknown to Innocent-his thick figure, his coarse air, his loud voice, and red hands, surprised, without so much revolting her, as they might have done had her organization been more perfect. She was frightened, but made an effort of politeness to conceal it." "Is she better?" she asked, not knowing what to say. "You'll see what she'll say to you when she sees you," said Batty to Frederick with a chuckle, “and I don't blame her, poor girl. If this is what you call visiting your wife when she's poorly, things have changed since my day. It's close on five, and nearly time for dinner, and you've been out since the moment you swallowed your lunch." "I have been with my little cousin here, and Miss Vane, of the High Lodge, who is coming to call on Amanda on Monday," said Frederick. "In the meantime I took the liberty of inviting my cousin to stay with my wife for a couple of nights. I hope it is practicable "Oh, practicable enough," said Batty, with a laugh. "I'm not one of those as leaves themselves without a room to give to a friend. Plenty of accommodation here for as many as you like to bring and the more the merrier, if they're the right sort. Glad to see you, Miss Innocent. Training up for your trade, eh? at that old nunnery out there. Lord, to see that old Lady Abbess in my house will be a sight! Manda will tackle her, I'll be bound. Walk up, walk upstairs, Eastwood will show you the way; and he's sure of a warm welcome, he is. Ha, ha, ha, ha!” Batty stood in the passage holding his sides, while Frederick, with disgust on every line of his fine features, strode upstairs. Innocent followed her cousin wondering. What the man meant, whether he was merry, or angry, or simply the most disagreeable strange man she had ever seen, she could not make out. She remembered vaguely what Frederick had told her so lately-what she had heard repeated on all sides at the Elms that Frederick's wife was of CHAPTER XXXII. 66 "I should like to throw something at you," she cried. You cold, wicked, careless, unprincipled wretch! Was it for this you married me, and pretended to be fond of me? Was it for this you took me from my father, who was always so kind? Was it for this —— ?" "Of course it was for all that," said Frederick, advancing to the bedside. ris-"We have gone through the list before. Amanda, try to keep your temper; it will be the best thing for you. Here is Innocent, whom I found in the Minster, and who has come to pay you a visit. Miss Vane is coming on Monday to fetch her; and if you play your cards wellAmanda interrupted him by a shrill laugh. THE MOMENT OF FATE. FREDERICK led Innocent to the door of a bedroom which opened from a little gallery upstairs. He paused there before he opened it. "If we find Amanda in an excitable state, you must not mind it," he said; 'you must not be frightened. Forgive her because she is ill. It is her way 66 "Oh, so here is Innocent! and the old nun is coming?-a great deal I care! This is how you try to hoodwink me. Innocent, come here! How long has he been walking about with you, talking, and holding your hand, and turning your head, you little fool? You think he cares? He cares as much for you as he does for me: he cares for no one but himself. Oh, go away, or I shall throw something at you! Go away, or She had put out her hand to clutch at a glass which stood by her on a little table. "Go! Go!" cried some one from be Frederick made a rapid step to the door; but before he had reached it, his wife's mood changed. With these words of warning he opened the door. It was a pretty room enough meant to be luxurious - in a somewhat tawdry style of decoration, yet tolerable, in so far that its rose-coloured hangings and heavy fringes were fresh at least, and in good order. Amanda was in bed, with a blue dressing-gown over her shoulders, and her elaborately-hind the curtain. dressed hair adorned with a small lace cap. Nothing could be gayer than the composition of colour, her own rosecheeks and golden hair, the bright blue garment in which she was clothed, and the blue ribbon in her little cap, all relieved against the rose-coloured hangings. A perfect Watteau, some one had told her, this composition made, and though she did not know what a Watteau was, she felt it must be something fine, and kept up the successful combination. Her cheeks were not pale, but flushed with anger, impatience, and excitement. She burst forth almost before Frederick had come into the room. "Oh, you tell him to go, do you?" she cried. "Then I tell him to stay. Come here, Innocent; you shall stay and nurse me; I know you'll like it; and Fred, turn that woman out turn her off, turn her out of doors. She has been my plague ever since I can recollect. Oh, you thought you would keep me all to yourselí, did you, and get the better of me? but I haven't got a husband for nothing. Fred, turn her out of doors." Frederick opened the door with servile haste. He dragged the poor Aunty, the souffre-douleur of the household, out by the sleeve, escaping himself along with her. Amanda leant back upon her pillow laying her hand upon her breast. "This is how you visit your wife, is it, Mr. Frederick Eastwood?- Three mortal hours have I been left alone without a creature to speak to but Aunty. How dare you face me after that? how dare you? I have a hundred minds" Open the window take this fan and never to speak to you again "That would be to punish yourself more than me, my dear," said Frederick, with the conventional speech of the injured husband. She looked at his careless smile, and her fury increased. "How hot it is," she said, panting. fan me; can't you make yourself useful? Oh, you are well named; you are a true Innocent! If you will tell me all that he was saying to you, I will forgive you. Tell me what he said." "He told me that I was to come and see you; that I was not to be frightened," |