CHAPTER XI
It was a gusty September afternoon in London, and autumn had given someunpleasing signs of its early presence in the yellow leaves that flewwhirling over the grass in Kensington Gardens and other open spaceswhere trees spread their kind boughs to the rough and chilly wind. Apretty little elm in Miss Leigh's tiny garden was clothed in goldinstead of green, and shook its glittering foliage down with everybreath of air like fairy coins minted from the sky. Innocent, leaningfrom her study window, watched the falling brightness with an unwillingsense of pain and foreboding.
"Summer is over, I'm afraid!" she sighed--"Such a wonderful summer ithas been for me!--the summer of my life--the summer of my love! Oh,dear summer, stay just a little longer!"
And the verse of a song, sung so often as to have become hackneyed,rang in her ears--
"Falling leaf and fading tree, Lines of white in a sullen sea, Shadowsrising on you and me--The swallows are making them ready to fly,Wheeling out on a windy sky: Good-bye, Summer! Good-bye, good-bye!"
She shivered, and closed the window. She was dressed for going out, andher little motor-brougham waited for her below. Miss Leigh had gone tolunch and to spend the afternoon with some old friends residing out oftown,--an unusual and wonderful thing for her to do, as she seldomaccepted invitations now where Innocent was not concerned,--but thepeople who had asked her were venerable folk who could not by the lawsof nature be expected to live very much longer, and as they had knownLavinia Leigh from girlhood she considered it somewhat of a duty to goand see them when, as in this instance, they earnestly desired it.Moreover she knew Innocent had her own numerous engagements and wasnever concerned at being left alone--especially on this particularafternoon when she had an appointment with her publishers,--and anotherappointment afterwards, of which she said nothing, even to herself. Shehad taken more than usual pains with her attire, and looked hersweetest in a soft dove-coloured silk gown gathered about her slightfigure in cunning folds of exquisite line and drapery, while the tendergold of her hair shone like ripening corn from under the curved brim ofa graceful "picture" hat of black velvet, adorned with one droopingpale grey plume. A small knot of roses nestled among the delicate laceon her bodice, and the diamond dove-pendant Lord Blythe had given hersparkled like a frozen sunbeam against the ivory whiteness of herthroat. She glanced at herself in the mirror with a smile,--wonderingif "he" would be pleased with her appearance,--"he" had been what iscalled "difficult" of late, finding fault with some of the very pointsof her special way of dress which he had once eagerly admired. But sheattributed his capricious humour to fatigue and irritability from"over-strain"--that convenient ailment which is now-a-days brought inas a disguise for mere want of control and bad temper. "He has beenworking so hard to finish his portrait of me!" she thought,tenderly--"Poor fellow!--he must have got quite tired of looking at myface!"
She glanced round her study to see that everything was in order--andthen took up a neatly tied parcel of manuscript--her thirdbook--completed. She had a fancy--one of many, equally harmless,--thatshe would like to deliver it herself to the publishers rather than sendit by post, on this day of all days, when plans for the future were tobe discussed with her lover and everything settled for their mutualhappiness. Her heart grew light with joyous anticipation as she randownstairs and nodded smilingly at the maid Rachel, who stood ready atthe door to open it for her passing.
"If Miss Leigh comes home before I do, tell her I will not be long,"she said, as she stepped into her brougham and was whirled away. At theoffice of her publishers she was expected and received with eagerhomage. The head of the firm took the precious packet of manuscriptfrom her hand with a smile of entire satisfaction.
"You are up to your promised time, Miss Armitage!" he said,kindly--"And you must have worked very hard. I hope you'll giveyourself a good long rest now?"
She laughed, lightly.
"Oh, well!--perhaps!" she answered--"If I feel I can afford it! I wantto work while I'm young--not to rest. But I think Miss Leigh would likea change--and if she does I'll take her wherever she wishes to go. Sheis so kind to me!--I can never do enough for her!"
The publisher looked at her sweet, thoughtful face curiously.
"Do you never think of yourself?" he asked--"Must you always plan somepleasure for others?"
She glanced at him in quick surprise.
"Why, of course!" she replied--"Pleasure for others is the onlypleasure possible to me. I assure you I'm quite selfish!--I'm greedyfor the happiness of those I love--and if they can't or won't be happyI'm perfectly miserable!"
He smiled,--and when she left, escorted her himself out of his officeto her brougham with a kind friendliness that touched her.
"You won't let me call you a brilliant author," he said, as he shookhands with her--"Perhaps it will please you better if I say you are atrue woman!"
Her eyes flashed up a bright gratitude,--she waved her hand inparting--as the brougham glided off. And never to his dying day didthat publisher and man of hard business detail forget the radiance ofthe face that smiled at him that afternoon,--a face of light and youthand loveliness, as full of hope and faith as the face of a picturedangel kneeling at the feet of the Madonna with heaven's own gloryencircling it in gold.
The quick little motor-brougham seemed unusually slow-going thatafternoon. Innocent, with her full happy heart and young pulsing blood,grew impatient with its tardy progress, yet, as a matter of fact, ittravelled along at its most rapid speed. The well-known by-street nearHolland Park was reached at last, and while the brougham went off to anaccustomed retired corner chosen by the chauffeur to await herpleasure, she pushed open the gate of the small garden leading to theback entrance of Jocelyn's studio--a garden now looking rather damp anddreary, strewn as it was with wet masses of fallen leaves. It wasbeginning to rain--and she ran swiftly along the path to the familiardoor which she opened with her private key. Jocelyn was working at hiseasel--he heard the turn of the lock and looked round. She entered,smiling--but he did not at once go and meet her. He was finishing offsome special touch of colour over which he bent with assiduouscare,--and she was far too unselfishly interested in his work todisturb him at what seemed to be an anxious moment. So she waited.
Presently he spoke, with a certain irritability in his tone.
"Are you there? I wish you would come forward where I can see you!"
She laughed--a pretty rippling laugh of kindly amusement.
"Amadis! If you are a true Knight, it is you who should turn round andlook at me for yourself!"
"But I am busy," he said, with the same sharpness of voice--"Surely yousee that?"
She made no answer, but moved quietly to a position where she stoodfacing him at about an arm's length. Never had she made a prettierpicture than in that attitude of charming hesitation, with a tenderlittle smile on her pretty mouth and a wistful light in her eyes. Helaid down his palette and brushes.
"I must give up work for to-day," he said--and going to her he took herin his arms--"You are too great an attraction for me to resist!" Hekissed her lightly, as he would have kissed a child. "You are veryfascinating this afternoon! Are you bent on some new conquest?"
She gave him a sweet look.
"Why will you talk nonsense, my Amadis!" she said--"You know I neverwish for 'conquests' as you call them,--I only want you! Nothing butyou!"
With his arm about her he drew her to a corner of the studio, halfcurtained, where there was a double settee or couch, comfortablycushioned, and here he sat down still holding her in his embrace.
"You only want me!--Nothing but me!" he repeated, softly--"Dear littleInnocent!--Ah!--But I fear I am just what you cannot have!"
She smiled, not understanding.
"What do you mean?" she asked--"You always play with me! Are you notall mine as I am all yours?"
He was silent. Then he slowly withdrew his arm from her waist.
"Now, child," he said--"listen to me and be good and sensible! You knowthis cannot go on."
She lifted her eyes trustfully to his face.
"What cannot go on?" she queried, as softly as though the question werea caress.
He moved restlessly.
"Why--this--this love-making, of ours! We mustn't give ourselves overto sentiment--we must be normal and practical. We must look the thingsquarely in the face and settle on some course that will be best andwisest for us both--"
She trembled a little. Something cold and terrifying began to creepthrough her blood.
"Yes--I know," she faltered, nervously--"You said--you said we wouldarrange everything together to-day."
"True! So I did! Well, I will!" He drew closer to her and took herlittle hand in his own. "You see, dear, we can't live on the heights ofecstasy for ever" and he smiled,--a forced, ugly smile--"We've had avery happy time together, haven't we?"--and he was conscious of acertain nervousness as he felt her soft little body press against himin answer--"But the time has come for us to think of otherthings--other interests--your career,--my future--"
She looked up at him in sudden alarm.
"Amadis!" she said--"What is it? You frighten me!--you speak sostrangely! What do you mean?"
"Now if you are unreasonable I shall go away!" he said, with suddenharshness, dropping her hand--"I shall leave you here by yourselfwithout another word!"
She turned deathly pale--then flushed a faint crimson--a sense of giddyfaintness overcame her,--she put up her hands to her head tremblingly,and loosening her hat took it off as though its weight oppressed her.
"I--I am not unreasonable, Amadis," she faltered--"only--I don'tunderstand--"
"Well, you ought to understand," he answered, heatedly--"A cleverlittle woman like you who writes books should not want any explanation.You ought to be able to grasp the whole position at a glance!"
Her breath came and went quickly--she tried to smile.
"I'm afraid I'm very stupid then," she answered, gently--"For I canonly see that you seem angry with me for nothing."
He took her hand again.
"Dear little goose, I am not angry," he said--"If you were to make me a'scene' I SHOULD be angry--very angry! But you won't do that, will you?It would upset my nerves. And you are such a wise, independent littleperson that I feel quite safe with you. Well, now let us talksensibly,--I've a great deal to tell you. In the first place, I'm goingto Algiers."
Her lips were dry and stiff, but she managed to ask--
"When?"
"Oh, any time!--to-morrow... next day--before the week is over,certainly. There are some fine subjects out there that I want topaint--and I feel I could do good work--"
Her hand in his contracted a little,--she instinctively withdrew it...then she heard herself speaking as though it were someone else a longway off.
"When are you coming back?"
"Ah!--That's my own affair!" he answered carelessly--"In the springperhaps,--perhaps not for a year or two--"
"Amadis!"
The name sprang from her lips like the cry of an animal wounded todeath. She rose suddenly from his side and stood facing him, swayingslightly like a reed in a cruel wind.
"Well!" he rejoined--"You say 'Amadis' as though it hurt you! What now?"
"Do you mean," she said, faintly--"by--what--you--say,--do youmean--that we are--to part?"
The strained agony in her eyes compelled him to turn his own away. Hegot up from the settee and left her where she stood.
"We must part sooner or later," he answered, lightly--"surely you knowthat?"
"Surely I know that!" she repeated, with a bewildered look,--thenrunning to him, she caught his arm--"Amadis! Amadis! You don't meanit!--say you don't mean it!--You can't mean it, if you love me! ... Oh,my dearest!--if you love me! ..."
She stopped, half choked by a throbbing ache in her throat,--andtottered against him as though about to fall. Alarmed at this he caughther round the waist to support her.
"Of course I love you!" he said, hurriedly--"When you are good andreasonable!--not when you behave like this! If I DON'T love you, itwill be quite your own fault--"
"My own fault?" she murmured, sobbingly--"My own fault? Amadis! Whathave I done?"
"What have you done? It's what you are doing that matters! Giving wayto temper and making me uncomfortable! Do you call that 'love'?"
She dropped her hand from his arm and drew herself away from him. Shewas trembling from head to foot.
"Please--please don't misunderstand me!" she stammered, like afrightened child--"I--I have no temper! I--I--feel nothing--I only wantto please you--to know what you wish--"
She broke off--her eyes, lifted to his, had a strange, wild stare, buthe was too absorbed in his own particular and personal difficulty tonotice this. He went on, speaking rapidly--
"If you want to please me you will first of all be perfectly normal,"he said--"Make up your mind to be calm and good-natured. I cannot standan emotional woman all tantrums and tears. I like good sense and goodmanners. You ought to have both, with all the books you have read--"
She gave a sudden low laugh, empty of mirth.
"Books!" she echoed--and raising her arms above her head she let themdrop again at her sides with a gesture of utter abandonment. "Ah yes!Books! Books by the Sieur Amadis de Jocelin!"
Her hair was ruffled and fell about her face,--her cheeks had flamedinto a feverish red. The tragic beauty of her expression annoyed him.
"Your hair is coming down," he said, with a coldly criticalsmile--"You look like a Bacchante!"
She paid no attention to this remark. She was apparently talking toherself.
"Books!" she said again--"Such sweet love-letters and poems by theSieur Amadis de Jocelin!"
He grew impatient.
"You're a silly child!" he said--"Are you going to listen to me or not?"
She gazed at him with an almost awful directness.
"I am listening!" she answered.
"Well, don't be melodramatic while you listen!" he retorted--"Benormal!"
She was silent, still gazing fixedly at him.
He turned his eyes away, and taking up one of his brushes, dipped it incolour and made a great pretence of working in a bit of sky on hiscanvas.
"You see, dear child," he resumed, with an unctuous air of patientkindness--"your ideas of love and mine are totally different. You wantto live in a paradise of romance and tenderness--I want nothing of thesort. Of course, with a sweet caressable creature like you it's verypleasant to indulge in a little folly for a time,--and we've had quitefour months of the 'divine rapture' as the poets call it,--four monthsis a long time for any rapture to last! You have--yes!--you have amusedme!--and I've made you happy--given you something to think aboutbesides scribbling and publishing--yes--I'm sure I have made youhappy--and,--what is much more to my credit--I have taken care of youand left you unharmed. Think of that! Day after day I have had you hereentirely in my power!--and yet--and yet"--here he turned his cold blueeyes upon her with an under-gleam of mockery in their steelylight--"you are still--Innocent!"
She did not move--she scarcely seemed to breathe.
"That is why I told you it would be a good thing for you if youaccepted Lord Blythe's offer,--in his great position he would be ableto marry you well to some rich fellow with a title"--he went on,easily. "Now I am not a marrying man. Domestic bliss would not suit me.I have sometimes thought it would hardly suit YOU!"
She stirred slightly, as though some invisible creature had touchedher, and held up one little trembling hand.
"Stop!" she said, and her voice though faint was clear and steady--"Doyou think--can you imagine that I am of so low and common a nature asto marry any man, after--" She paused, struggling with herself.
"After what?" he queried, smilingly.
She shuddered, as with keenest cold.
"After your kisses!" she answered--"After your embraces which have heldme away from everything save you!--After your caresses--oh God!--afterall this,--do you think I would shame my body and perjure my soul bygi
ving myself to another man?"
He almost laughed at her saintly idea of a lover's chastity.
"Every woman would!" he declared--"And I'm sure every woman does!"
She looked straight before her into vacancy.
"I am not 'every woman,'" she said, slowly--"I am only one unhappygirl!"
He was still dabbing colour on his canvas, but now threw down his brushand came to her.
"Dear child, why be tragic?" he said--"Life is such a pleasant thingand holds so much for both of us! I shall always love you--if you'regood!" and he laughed, pleasantly--"and you can always love ME--if youlike! But I cannot marry you--I have never thought of such a thing!Marriage would not suit me at all. I know, of course, what YOU wouldlike. You would like a grand wedding with lots of millinery andpresents, and then a honeymoon at your old Briar Farm--in fact, Idaresay you'd like to buy Briar Farm and imprison me there for life,along with the dust and ashes of my ancestor's long-lost brother--but Ishouldn't like it! No, child!--not even you, attractive as you are,could turn me into a Farmer Jocelyn!"
He tried to take her in his arms, but she drew herself back from him.
"You speak truly," she said, in a measured, lifeless tone--"Nothingcould turn you into a Farmer Jocelyn. For he was an honest man!"
He winced as though a whip had struck him, and an ugly frown darkenedhis features.
"He would not have hurt a dog that trusted him," she went on in thesame monotonous way--"He would not have betrayed a soul that loved him!"
All at once the unnatural rigidity of her face broke up into piteous,terrible weeping, and she flung herself at his feet.
"Amadis, Amadis!" she cried. "It is not--it cannot be you who are socruel!--no, no!--it is some devil that speaks to me--not you, not you,my love, my heart! Oh, say it isn't true!--say it isn't true! Havemercy--mercy! I love you, I love you! You are all my life!--I cannotlive without you! Amadis!"
Vexed and frightened for himself at her sudden wild abandonment ofgrief, he stooped, and gripping her by the arm tried to draw her upfrom the floor.
"Be quiet!" he said, roughly--"I will not have a scandal here in mystudio! You'll bring my man-servant up in a moment with your stupidnoise! I'm ashamed of you!--screaming and crying like a virago! If youmake this row I shall go away!"
"Oh, no, no, no!--do not go away!" she moaned, sobbingly--"Have somelittle pity! Do not leave me, Amadis! Is everything forgotten so soon?Think for a moment what you have said to me!--what you have been to me!I thought you loved me, dear!--yes, I thought you loved me!--you toldme so!" And she held up her little hands to him folded as in prayer,the tears raining down her cheeks--"But if for some fault of mine youdo not love me any more, kill me now--here--just where I am!--kill me,Amadis!--or tell me to go away and kill myself--I will obey you!--butdon't--don't send me into the empty darkness of life again all alone!Oh, no, no! Let me die rather than that!--you would not think unkindlyof me if I were dead!"
He took her uplifted hands in his own--he began to be "artistically"interested,--with the same sort of interest Nero might have felt whilewatching the effects of some new poison on a tortured slave,--and aslight, very slight sense of regret and remorse tugged at his toughheart-strings.
"I should think of you exactly as I do now," he said, resolutely--"Ifyou were to kill yourself I should not pity you in the least! I shouldsay that though you were a bit of a clever woman, you were much more ofa fool! So you would gain nothing that way! You see, I'm sane andsensible--you are not. You are excited and hysterical--and don't knowwhat you are talking about. Yes, child!--that's the fact!" He pattedthe hands he held consolingly, and then let them go. "I wish you'd getup from the floor and be reasonable! The position is quite simple andclear. We've had an ideal time of it together--but isn't it Shakespearewho says 'These violent delights have violent ends'? My work calls meto Algiers--yours keeps you in London--therefore we must part--but weshall meet again--some day--I hope..."
She slowly rose to her feet,--her sobbing ceased.
"Then--you never loved me?" she said--"It was all a lie?"
"I never lie," he answered, coldly--"I loved you--for the time being.You amused me."
"And for your 'amusement' you have ruined me?"
"Ruined you?" He turned upon her in indignant protest--"You must bemad! You have been as safe with me as in the arms of your mother--"
At this she laughed,--a shrill little laugh with tears submerging it.
"You may laugh, but it is true!" he went on, in a righteously aggrievedtone--"I have done you no harm,--on the contrary, you have to thank mefor a great deal of happiness--"
She gave a tragic gesture of eloquent despair.
"Oh, yes, I have to thank you!" she said, and her voice now vibratedwith intense and passionate sorrow--"I have to thank you for somuch--for so very much indeed! You have been so kind and good! Yes! Andyou have never thought of yourself or your own pleasure at all--butonly of me! And I have been as safe with you as in my mother's arms,... yes!--you have been quite as careful of me as she was!" And a wansmile flitted over her agonised face--"All this I have to thank youfor!--but you have ruined me just the same--not my body, but my soul!"
He looked at her,--she returned his gaze unflinchingly with eyes thatglowed like burning stars--and he thought she was, as he put it tohimself, "calming down." He laughed, a little uneasily.
"Soul is an unknown quantity," he said--"It doesn't count."
She seemed not to hear him.
"You have ruined my soul!" she repeated steadily--"You have stolen itfrom God--you have made it all your own--for your 'amusement'! Whatremainder of life have you left to me? Nothing! I have no hope, nofaith, no power to work--no ambition to fulfil--no dreams to realise!You gave me love--as I thought!--and I lived; you take love from me,and I die!"
He bent his eyes upon her with a kind, almost condescendinggentleness,--his personal vanity was immense, and the utter humiliationof her love for him flattered the deep sense he had of his own value.
"Dear little goose, you will not die!" he said--"For heaven's sake havedone with all this sentimental talk!--I am not a man who can tolerateit. You are such a pleasant creature when you are cheerful andself-possessed,--so bright and clever and companionable--and there isno reason why we shouldn't make love to each other again as often as welike,--but change and novelty are good for both of us. Come!--kissme!--be a good child--and let us part friends!"
He approached her,--there was a smile on his lips--a smile in whichlurked a suspicion of mockery as well as victorious self-satisfaction.She saw it--and swiftly there came swooping over her brain the horriblerealisation of the truth--that it was all over!--that never, neveragain would she be able to dwell on the amorous looks and words andlove-phrases of HER "Amadis de Jocelyn!"--that no happy future was instore for her with him--that he had no interest whatever in hercherished memories of Briar Farm, and that he would never care toaccept the right of dwelling there even if she secured it forhim,--moreover, that he viewed her very work with indifference, and hadno concern as to her name or fame--so that everything--every prettyfancy, every radiant hope, every happy possibility was at an end. Lifestretched before her dreary as the dreariest desert--for her, whosenature was to love but once, there was no gleam of light in all theworld's cruel darkness! A red mist swam before her eyes--black cloudsseemed descending upon her and whirling round about her--she lookedwildly from right to left, as though seeking to escape from someinvisible pursuer. Startled at her expression Jocelyn tried to holdher--but she shook him off. She made a few unsteady steps along thefloor.
"What is it?" he said--"Innocent--don't stare like that!"
She smiled strangely and nodded at him--she was fingering the plant ofmarguerite daisies that stood in its accustomed place between the easeland the wall. She plucked a flower and began hurriedly stripping offits petals.
"'Il m'aime--un peu!--beaucoup--passionement--pas du tout!' Pas dutout!" she cried--"Amadis! Amadis de Jocelyn! You hear what it says?Pas du tout! You
promised it should never come to that!--but it hascome!"
She threw away the stripped flower, ... there was a quick hot throbbingbehind her temples--she put up her hands--then all suddenly a sharpinvoluntary scream broke from her lips. He sprang towards her to seizeand silence her--she stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth.
"I'm sorry!" she panted--"Forgive!--I couldn't helpit!--Amadis--Amadis!--"
And she flung herself against his breast. Her eyes, large andfeverishly brilliant, searched his face for any sign of tenderness, andsearched in vain.
"Say it isn't true!" she whispered--"Amadis--oh my love, say it isn'ttrue!" Her little hands caressed him--she drew his head down towardsher and her pleading kiss touched his lips. "Say that you didn't reallymean it!--that you love me still--Amadis!--you could not be cruel!--youwill not break my heart!--"
But he was too angry to be pitiful. Her scream had infuriated him--hethought it would alarm the street, bring up the servant, and give riseto all sorts of scandal in which he might be implicated, and he roughlyloosened her clinging arms from his neck and pushed her from him.
"Break your heart!" he exclaimed, bitterly--"I wish I could break yourtemper! You behave like a madwoman; I shall go away to my room! When Icome back I expect to find you calm, and reasonable--or else, gone!Remember!"
She stood gazing at him as though petrified. He swung past her rapidly,and opening the principal door of the studio passed through it anddisappeared. She ran to it--tried to open it--it was locked on theother side. She was alone.
She looked about her bewildered, like a child that has lost its way.She saw her pretty little velvet hat on the settee where she had leftit, and in a trembling hurry she put it on--then paused. Going ontip-toe to the easel, she looked vaguely at her own portrait and smiled.
"You must be good and reasonable!" she said, waving her hand toit--"When you have lost every thing in the world, you must be calm! Youmustn't think of love any more!--that's only a fancy!--you mustn't--no,you mustn't have any fancies or your dove will fly away! You areholding it to your heart just now--and it seems quite safe--but it willfly away presently--yes!--it will fly away!"
She lifted the painter's palette and looked curiously at it,--then tookup the brush, moist with colour, which Jocelyn had lately used. Softlyshe kissed its handle and laid it down again. Then she waited, with apuzzled air, and listened. There was no sound. Another moment, and shemoved noiselessly, almost creepingly to the little private door bywhich she had always entered the studio, and unlocking it, slipped outleaving the key in the lock. It was raining heavily, but she was notconscious of this,--she had no very clear idea what she was doing.There was a curious calm upon her,--a kind of cold assertiveness, likethat of a dying person who has strength enough to ask for some dearfriend's presence before departing from life. She walked steadily tothe place where her motor-brougham waited for her, and entered it. Thechauffeur looked at her for orders.
"To Paddington Station," she said--"I am going out of town. Stop at thefirst telegraph office on your way."
The man touched his hat. He thought she seemed very ill, but it was hisplace to obey instructions, not to proffer sympathy. At the telegraphoffice she got out, moving like one in a dream and sent a wire to MissLeigh.
"Am staying with friends out of town. Don't wait up for me."
Back to the brougham she went, still in a dream-like apathy, and atPaddington dismissed the chauffeur.
"If I want you in the morning, I will let you know," she said, withmatter-of-fact composure, and turning, was lost at once in the crowd ofpassengers pouring into the station.
The man was for a moment puzzled by the paleness of her face and thewildness of her eyes, but like most of his class, made little effort tothink beyond the likelihood of everything being "all right to-morrow,"and went his way.
Meanwhile Miss Leigh had returned to her house to find it bereft of itsliving sunshine. There were two telegrams awaiting her,--one from LordBlythe, urging her to start at once with Innocent for Italy--the otherfrom Innocent herself, which alarmed her by its unusual purport. In allthe time she had lived with her "god-mother" the girl had never stayedaway a night, and that she was doing so now worried and perplexed theold lady to an acute degree of nervous anxiety. John Harringtonhappened to call that evening, and on hearing what had occurred, becameequally anxious with herself, and, moved by some curious instinct,went, on his way home, to Jocelyn's studio to ascertain if Innocent hadbeen there that afternoon. But he knocked and rang at the door invain,--all was dark and silent. Amadis de Jocelyn was a wise man in hisgeneration. When he had returned to confront Innocent again and findher, as he had suggested, either recovered from her "temper" and "calmand reasonable"--or else "gone"--he had rejoiced to see that she hadaccepted the latter alternative. There was no trace of her save theunlocked private door of the studio, which he now locked, putting thekey in his pocket. He gave a long breath of relief--a sort of "ThankGod that's over!"--and arranged his affairs of both art and businesswith such dispatch as to leave for Paris in peace and comfort by thenight boat-train.
CHAPTER XII
That evening the fitful and gusty wind increased to a gale which sweptthe land with devastating force, breaking down or uprooting great treesthat had withstood the storms of centuries, and torrential rain fell,laying whole tracts of country under water. All round the coast the seawas lashed into a tossing tumult, the waves rolling in like great greenwalls of water streaked with angry white as though flashed withlightning, and the weather reports made the usual matter-of-factstatement that "Cross-Channel steamers made rough passages." Winds andwaves, however, had no disturbing effect on the mental or physicalbalance of Amadis de Jocelyn, who, wrapped in a comfortable fur-linedovercoat, sat in a sheltered corner on the deck of the Calais boat,smoking a good cigar and congratulating himself on the ease with whichhe had slipped out of what threatened to have been a very unpleasantand embarrassing entanglement.
"If she were an ordinary sort of girl it wouldn't matter so much," hethought--"She would be practical, with sufficient vanity not tocare,--she would see more comedy than tragedy in the whole thing. Butwith her romantic ideas about love, and her name in everybody's mouth,I might have got into the devil's own mess! I wonder where she went towhen she left the studio? Straight home, I suppose, to MissLeigh,--will she tell Miss Leigh? No--I think not!--she's not likely totell anybody. She'll keep it all to herself. She's a silly littlefool!--but she's--she's loyal!"
Yes, she was loyal! Of that there could be no manner of doubt. Callousand easy-going man of the world as he had ever been and ever would be,the steadfast truth and tender devotion of the poor child moved him toa faint sense of shamed admiration. On the inky blackness of the nighthe saw her face, floating like a vision,--her little uplifted, prayinghands,--he heard her voice, piteously sweet, crying "Amadis! Amadis!Say you didn't mean it!--say it isn't true!--I thought you loved me,dear!--you told me so!"
The waves hissed round the rolling steamer, and every now and againwhite tongues of foam darted at him from the crests of the heavingwaters, yet amid all the shattering roar and turbulence of the storm,he could not get the sound of that pleading voice out of his ears.
"Silly little fool!" he repeated over and over again with inwardvexation--"Nothing could be more absurd than her way of looking at lifeas though it was only made for love! Yet--she suited her name!--she wasreally the most 'innocent' creature I have ever known! And--and--sheloved me!"
The sea and the wind shrieked at him as the vessel plunged heavily onher difficult way--his nerves, cool as they were, seemed to himself onedge: and at certain moments during that Channel passage he felt a pangof remorse and pity for the young life on which he had cast anineffaceable shadow,--a life instinct with truth, beauty, andbrightness, just opening out as it were into the bloom of fulfilledpromise. He had not "betrayed" her in the world's vulgar sense ofbetrayal,--he had not wronged her body--but he had done far worse,--hehad robbed her of her peace of mind. Little by little he
had stolenfrom the flower of her life its honey of sweet content,--he had checkedthe active impulses of her ambition, and as they soared upwards likebright birds to the sun, had brought them down, to the ground, slainwith a mere word of light mockery,--he had led her to judge all thingsof no value save himself,--and when he had attained to this end he haddestroyed her last dream of happiness by voluntarily proving his owninsincerity and worthlessness.
"It has all been her own fault," he mused, trying to excuse and toconsole himself--"She fell into my arms as easily as a ripe peach fallsat a touch--that childish fancy about 'Amadis de Jocelin' did thetrick! Curious!--very curious that a sixteenth-century member of my ownfamily tree should be mixed up in my affair with this girl! Of courseshe'll say nothing,--there's nothing to say! We've kept our secret verywell, and except for a few playful suggestions and hints dropped hereand there, nobody knows we were in love with each other. Then--she'sgot her work to do,--it isn't as if she were an idle woman without anoccupation,--and she'll think it down and live it down. Of course shewill! I'm worrying myself quite needlessly! It will be all right. Andas she doesn't go to her Briar Farm now, I daresay she'll even forgether fetish of a knight, the 'Sieur Amadis de Jocelin'!"
He laughed idly, amused as he always had been at the romantic ideal shehad made of the old French knight who had so strangely turned out to bethe brother of his own far-away ancestor,--and then, on landing atCalais, was soon absorbed in numerous other thoughts and interests, andgradually dismissed the whole subject from his mind. After all, for himit was only one "little affair" out of at least a dozen or more, whichfrom time to time had served to entertain him and provide a certainstimulus for his artistic emotions.
The storm had it all its own way in the fair English country,--sweepingin from the sea it tore over hill and dale with haste and fury, workingterrible havoc among the luxuriant autumnal foliage and bringing downwhirling wet showers of gold and crimson leaves. Round Briar Farm itraged all day long, tearing away from the walls one giant branch of theold "Glory" rose and snapping it off at its stem. Robin Clifford,coming home from the fields in the late afternoon, saw the fallen boughcovered with a scented splendour of late roses, and lifting it tenderlycarried it into the house, thinking somewhat sadly that in the old daysInnocent would have been grieved had she seen such havoc made. Settingit in a big brown jar full of water, he put it in the entrance hallwhere its shoots reached nearly to the ceiling, and Priscilla Pridayexclaimed at the sight of it--
"Eh, eh, is the old rose-tree broken, Mister Robin! That's neverhappened before in all the time I've been 'ere! I don't like the looksof it!--no, Mister Robin, I don't!"
"It's only one of the bigger branches," answered Robin soothingly. "Therose-tree itself is all right--I don't think any storm can hurtthat--it's too deeply rooted. This was certainly a very fine branch,but it must have got loosened by the wind."
Even as he spoke a fierce gust swept over the old house with a soundlike a scream of wrath and agony, and a furious torrent of rain emptieditself as though from a cloud-burst, half drowning the flower-beds andfor the moment making a pool of the court-yard. Priscilla hurried tosee that all the windows were shut and the doors well barred, and whenevening closed in the picturesque gables of the roof were but a blackblur in the almost incessant whirl of rain.
As the night deepened the storm grew worse, and the howling of the windthrough the cracks and crannies of the ancient building was like thenoise of wild animals clamouring for food. Priscilla and Robin Cliffordsat together in the kitchen,--the most comfortable apartment to be inon such an unkind night of elemental uproar. It had become more or lesstheir living-room since Innocent's departure, for Robin could not bearto sit in the "best parlour," as it was called, now that there was noone to share its old-world charm and comfort with him,--and whenPriscilla's work was done, and everything was cleared and the otherservants gone to their beds, he preferred to bring his book and pipeinto the kitchen, and sit in an old cushioned arm-chair on one side ofthe fire-place, while Priscilla sat on the other, mending thehouse-linen, both of them talking at intervals of the past, and of thehappy and unthinking days when Farmer Jocelyn had been alive and well,and when Innocent was like a fairy child flitting over the meadows withher light and joyous movements, her brown-gold hair flying loose like atrail of sunbeams on the wind, her face blossoming into rose-and-whiteloveliness as a flower blossoms on its slender stem,--her voicecarrying sweet cadences through the air and making music wherever itrang. Latterly, however, they had not spoken so much of her,--the fameof her genius and the sudden leap she had made into a position ofpublic note and brilliancy had somewhat scared the simple soul ofPriscilla, who felt that the child she had reared from infancy had beentaken by some strange and not to be contested fate away, far out of herreach,--while Robin--whose experiences at Oxford had taught him thatpersons of his own sex attaining to even a mild literary celebrity wereapt to become somewhat "touch-me-not" characters--almost persuadedhimself that perhaps Innocent, sweet and ideally simple of nature as hehad ever known her to be, might, under the influence of her rapidsuccess and prosperity, change a little (and such change, he thought,would be surely natural!)--if only just as much as would lessen by everso slight a degree her former romantic passion for the home of herchildhood. And,--lurking sometimes at the back of all his thoughtsthere crept the suggestive shadow of "Amadis de Jocelyn,"--not theFrench Knight of old, but the French painter, of whom she had told himand of whose very existence he had a strange and secret distrust.
On this turbulent night the old kitchen looked very peaceful andhome-like,--the open fire burned brightly, flashing its flame-lightagainst the ceiling's huge oak beams--everything was swept clean andpolished to the utmost point of perfection,--and the table on whichRobin rested the book he was reading was covered with a tapestriedcloth, embroidered in many colours, dark and bright contrastedcunningly, with an effect that was soothing and restful to the eyes. Inthe centre there was placed a quaintly shaped jar of old brown lustrewhich held a full tall bunch of golden-rod and deep wine-coloureddahlias,--a posy expressing autumn with a greater sense of gain thanloss. Robin was reading with exemplary patience and considerabledifficulty one of the old French poetry books belonging to the "SieurAmadis de Jocelin," and Priscilla's small glittering needle flew in andout the open-work stitchery of a linen pillow-slip she was mending asdeftly as any embroideress of Tudor times. Over the old, crabbed yetdelicately fine writing of the "Sieur" whose influence on Innocent'syoung mind had been so pronounced and absolute, and in Robin's opinionso malign, he pored studiously, slowly mastering the meaning of theverses, though written in a language he had never cared to study. Hewas conscious of a certain suave sweetness and melancholy in the swingof the lines, though they did not appeal to him very forcibly.
"En un cruel orage On me laisse perir; En courant au naufrage Je vois chacun me plaindre et mil me secourir, Felicite passee Qui ne peux revenir Tourment de ma pensee Que n'ai-je en te perdant perdu le souvenir! Le sort, plein d'injustice M'ayant enfin rendu Ce reste un pur supplice, Je serais plus heureux si j'avais tout perdu!"
A sudden swoop of the wind shook the very rafters of the house asthough some great bird had grasped it with beak and talons, andPriscilla stopped her swift needle, drawing it out to its full lengthof linen thread and holding it there. A strange puzzled look was on herface--she seemed to be listening intently. Presently, taking off herspectacles, she laid them down, and spoke in a half whisper:
"Mister Robin! Robin, my dear!"
He looked up, surprised at the grave wistfulness and wonder of her oldeyes.
"Yes, Priscilla?"
"I'm thinkin' my time is drawin' short, dear lad!" she said,slowly--"I've got a call, an' I'll not be much longer here! That's awarnin' for me--"
"A warning? Priscilla, what do you mean?"
Drawing in her needle and thread, she pricked it through the linen sheheld and looked full at him.
"Didn't ye hear it?" she asked.
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p; A sudden chill crept through the young man's blood,--there wassomething so wan and mournful in her expression.
"Dear Priscilla, you are dreaming! Hear what?"
She lifted one brown wrinkled hand with a gesture of attention.
"The crying of the child!" she answered--"Crying, crying, crying!Crying for me!"
Robin held his breath and listened. The wind had for the momentlessened in violence, and its booming roar had dropped to a moaningsigh. Now and again there was a pause that was almost silence, andduring one of these intervals he fancied--but surely it was onlyfancy!--that he actually did hear a faint human cry. He looked atPriscilla questioningly and in doubt,--she met his eyes with a fixedand solemn resignation in her own.
"It's as I tell you," she said--"My time has come! It's for me thechild is calling--just as she used to call whenever she wantedanything."
Robin rose slowly and moved a step or two towards the door. The stormwas gathering fresh force, and heavy rain pattered against the windowsmaking a continuous steely sound like the clashing of swords. Straininghis ears to close attention, he waited,--and all at once as he stood insuspense and something of fear, a plaintive sobbing wail crept thinlyabove the noise of the wind.
"Priscilla! ... Priscilla!" There was no mistaking the human voice thistime--and Priscilla got up from where she sat, though trembling so muchthat she had to lean one hand on the table to steady herself.
"Ye heard THAT, surely!" she said.
Robin answered her by a look. His heart beat thickly,--an awful fearbeset him, paralysing his energies. Was Innocent dead? Was that pitifulwail the voice of her departed spirit crying at the door of herchildhood's home?
"Priscilla! ... Oh, Priscilla!"
The old woman straightened her bent figure and lifted her head.
"Mister Robin, I must answer that call!" she said--"Storm or rain,we've no right to sit here with the child's voice crying and the oldhouse shut and barred against her! We must open the door!"
He could not speak--but he obeyed her gesture, and went quickly out ofthe kitchen into the adjacent hall,--there he unbarred and unlocked themassive old entrance door and threw it open. A sheet of rain flungitself in his face, and the wind was so furious that for a moment hecould scarcely stand. Then, recovering himself, he peered into thedarkness and could see nothing,--till all at once he became vaguelyaware of a small dark object crouching in one corner of the deep porchlike a frightened animal or a lost child. He stooped and touched it--itwas wet and clammy--he grasped it more firmly, and it moved under hishand shudderingly and lifted itself, turning a white face up to thelight that streamed out from the hall--a face wan and death-like, butstill the face he had ever thought the sweetest in the world--the faceof Innocent! With a loud cry of mingled terror and rapture, he caughther up and held her to his heart.
"Innocent!--My little love!--Innocent!"
She made no answer--no sort of resistance. Her little body hung heavilyin his arms--her head drooped helplessly against his shoulder.
"Priscilla!" he called--"Priscilla!"
Priscilla was already beside him--she had hurried into the halldirectly she heard his exclamation of fear and amazement, and now asshe saw him carrying the forlorn little burden tenderly along she threwup her hands with a piteous, almost despairing gesture.
"God save us all!--It's the child herself!" she exclaimed--"Mercy onthe poor lamb!--what can have happened to her?--she's half drowned withrain!"
As quickly as Robin's strong arms could bear her, she was carriedgently into the kitchen and laid in Robin's own deep arm-chair by thefire. Roused to immediate practical service and with all hersuperstitious terrors at an end, old Priscilla took off a soaked littlevelvet hat and began to unfasten a wet mass of soft silk that clunground the fragile little figure.
"Go and bar the door fast, Mister Robin, my dear!" she said, looking upat the young man's pale, agonised face,--"We don't want any one comin'in here to see the child in trouble!--besides, the wind's enough toscare a body to death! Poor lamb, poor lamb!--where she can have comefrom the good Lord only knows! It's for all the world like the nightwhen she was left here, long ago! Lock and bar the door, dearie, andget me some of that precious old wine out of the cupboard in the bestparlour." Here her active fingers came upon the glittering diamondpendant in the shape of a dove that hung by its slender gold chainround Innocent's neck. She unclasped it, looking at itwonderingly--then she handed it to Robin who regarded it with sombre,grudging eyes. Was it a love-gift?--and from whom?
"And while you're about helping me," went on Priscilla--"you might goto the child's room and fetch me that old white woolly gown she used towear--it's warm and soft, and we'll put it on her and wrap her in ablanket when she comes to herself. She'll be all right presently."
Like a man in a moving dream he obeyed, and while he went on hiserrands Priscilla managed to get off some of the dripping garmentswhich clung to the girl's slight form as closely as the wrappings of ashroud. Chafing the small icy hands, she smoothed the drenched fairhair, loosening its pins and combs, and spreading it out to dry,murmuring fond words of motherly pity and tenderness while the tearstrickled slowly down her furrowed cheeks.
"My poor baby!--my pretty child!" she murmured--"What has broken herlike this?--The world's been too rough for her--I misdoubt me if herfancies about love an' the like o' that nonsense aren't in themischief,--but praise the Lord that's brought her home again, an' if sobe it pleases Him we'll keep her home!"
As she thought this, Innocent suddenly opened her eyes. Beautiful, wildeyes that stared at her wonderingly without recognition.
"Amadis!" The voice was thin and faint, but exquisitely tender."Amadis! How kind you are! Ah, yes!--at last!--I was sure you did notmean to be cruel--I knew you would come back and be good to me again!My Amadis!--You ARE good!--you could not be anything else but good andtrue!" She laughed weakly and went on more rapidly--"It israining--yes! Oh, yes--raining very much!--such a cold, sharp rain!I've walked quite a long way--but I felt I must come back to you,Amadis!--just to ask you once more to say a kind word-to kiss me..."
She closed her eyes again and her head fell back on the pillow of thechair in which she lay. Priscilla's heart sank.
"She doesn't know what she's talking about, poor lamb!" shethought,--"Just wandering and off her head!--and fancying things aboutthat old French knight again!"
Here Robin entered, and stood a moment, lost in a maze of enchantedmisery at the sight of the pitiful little half-disrobed figure in thechair, till Priscilla took the white garment he had been sent to fetchout of his passive hand.
"There, dear lad, don't look like that!" she said. "Go, and come backin a few minutes with the wine--we'll be ready for you then. Cheerup!--she's opened her pretty eyes once--she'll open them again directlyand smile at you!"
He moved away slowly with an aching heart, and a tightness in histhroat that impelled him to cry like a woman. Innocent!--littleInnocent!--she who had once been all brightness and gaiety,--was thisdesolate, half-dying, stricken creature the same girl? Ah, no! Not thesame! Never the same any more! Some numbing blow had smitten her,--somewithering fire had swept over her, and she was no longer what she oncehad been. This he felt by a lover's intuition,--intuition keener andsurer than all positive knowledge; and not the faintest hope stirredwithin him that she would ever shake off the trance of thatdeath-in-life into which she had been plunged by some as yet unknowndisaster--unknown to him, yet dimly guessed. Meanwhile Priscilla'sloving task was soon done, and Innocent was clothed, warm and dry, inone of the old hand-woven woollen gowns she had been accustomed to wearin former days, and a thick blanket was wrapped cosily round her. Shewas still more or less unconscious, but the reviving heat graduallypenetrated her body, and she began to sigh and move restlessly. Sheopened her eyes again and fixed them on the bright fire. Robin came inwith the glass of wine, and Priscilla held it to her lips, forcing herto swallow a few drops.
The strong cordial started a little pulse of warmth in he
r failingblood, and she made an effort to sit up. She looked vaguely roundher,--then her wandering gaze fixed itself on Priscilla's anxious oldface, and a faint smile, more pitiful than tears, trembled on her lips.
"Priscilla!" she said--"I believe it is Priscilla I Oh, dear Priscilla!I called you but you would not hear or answer me!"
"Oh, my lamb, I heard ye right enough!"--and Priscilla fondled andwarmed the girl's passive hands--"But I couldn't think it wasyourself--I thought I was dreaming--"
"So did I!" she answered feebly--"I thought I was dreaming...yes!--Ihave been dreaming such a long, long time! All dreams! I have walkedthrough the rain--it was very dark and the wind was cold and cruel--butI walked on and on--I don't know how I came--but I wanted to get hometo Briar Farm--do you know Briar Farm?"
Stricken to the soul by the look of the wistful eyes expressing a mindin chaos, Priscilla answered gently--"You're in Briar Farm now,dearie!--Surely you know you are! This is your own old home--don't youknow it?--don't you remember the old kitchen?--of course you do! There,there!--look up and see!"
She lifted her head and gazed about her in a lost way.
"No!" she murmured--"I wish I could believe it, but I cannot. I believenothing now. It is all strange to me--I have lost the way home, and Ishall never find it--never--never!" Here she suddenly pointed to Robinstanding aloof in utter misery.
"Who is that?" she asked.
Irresistibly impelled by love, fear, and pity, he came and knelt besideher.
"It's Robin!" he said--"Dear Innocent, don't you know me?"
She touched his hair with one little hand, smiling like a pleased child.
"Robin?" she queried--"Oh, no!--you cannot be Robin--he is ever so manymiles away!" She looked at him curiously,--then laughed, a cold,mirthless little laugh. "I thought for a moment you might beAmadis--his hair is like yours, thick and soft--you know him, ofcourse--he is the great painter, Amadis de Jocelyn--all the world hasheard of him! He went out just now and shut the door and locked it--buthe will come back--yes!--he will come back!"
Robin heard and understood--the whole explanation of her miserysuddenly flashed on his mind, and inwardly he cursed the man who hadwreaked such havoc on her trusting soul. All at once she sprang up witha wild cry.
"He will come back--he must come back! Amadis!--Amadis!--you will notleave me all alone?--No, no, you cannot be so cruel!" She stretched outher arms as though to embrace some invisible treasure in theair--"Priscilla! ... Priscilla!" Then as Priscilla took her gentlyround the waist and tried to calm her she began to laugh again. "Theold motto!--you remember it?--the motto of the Sieur Amadis deJocelin!--'Mon coeur me soutien!' You know what it means--'My heartsustains me.' Yes--and you know why his heart is so strong? Because itis made of stone! A stone heart can sustain anything!--it is hard andfirm and cold--no rain, no tears can soften it!--no flowers ever growon it--it does not beat--it feels nothing--nothing!"--and her handsdropped wearily at her sides. "It is not like MY heart! my heart burnsand aches--it is a foolish heart, and my brain is a foolish brain--Icannot think with it--it is all dark and confused! And I have no one tohelp me--I am all alone in the world!"
"Innocent!" cried Robin passionately--"Oh, my love, my darling!--try torecall your dear wandering mind! You are here in the old home you usedto love so well--you are not alone--you never shall be alone any more.I am with you to love you and take care of you--I have loved youalways--I shall love you till I die!"
She looked at him with a sudden smile.
"Robin!--It is Robin!--you poor boy! You always talked like that!--butyou must not love me,--I have no love to give you--I would make youhappy if I could, but I cannot!"
A violent shudder as of icy cold shook her limbs--she stretched out herhands pitifully.
"Would you take me somewhere to sleep?" she murmured--"I am very tired!And when he comes you will wake me--I will not keep him a momentwaiting! Tell him I am quite well--and that I knew he did not mean tobe unkind--"
Her voice broke--she tottered and nearly fell. Robin caught her in hisarms and laid her gently back in the chair, where she seemed to lapseinto unconsciousness. He turned a white, desperate face on Priscilla.
"What is to be done?" he asked,--"Shall I go for the doctor?"
Priscilla shook her head.
"The doctor would be no use," she answered--"She's just fairly worn outand wants rest. Her little room is ready,--I've kept it aired, and thebed made warm and cosy ever since she went away--lest she should evercome back sudden like... could you carry her up, d'ye think? She'll bebetter in her bed--and she would come to herself quicker."
Gently and with infinite tenderness he lifted the girl as though shewere a baby and carried her lightly up the broad oak staircase,Priscilla leading the way--and soon they brought her into her own room,unchanged since she had occupied it, and kept by Priscilla's loving andhalf superstitious care ready for her return at any moment. Laying herdown on her little bed, Robin left her, though hardly able to tearhimself away, and going downstairs again he flung himself into a chairand wept like a child for the ruin and wreck of the fair young lifewhich might have been the joy and sunshine of his days!
"Amadis de Jocelyn!" he muttered--"A curse on him! Why should thefounder of this house bring evil on us?--Rising up like a ghost toovershadow us and spoil our happiness?--Let the house perish and allits traditions if it must be so, rather than that she shouldsuffer!--for she is innocent!"
Yes--she was quite innocent,--the little "base-born" intruder on theunbroken line and history of the Jocelyns!--and yet--it was with a kindof horror that the memory of that unbroken line and history recurred tohim. Was there--could there be anything real in the long prevalent ideathat if the direct line of the Jocelyns were broken, the peace andprosperity so long attendant on the old farm would be at an end? He putthe thought away with a sense of anger.
"No, no! She could only bring joy wherever she went--no matter who herparents were, or how she was born, my poor little one!--she hassuffered for no fault at all of her own!"
He listened to the dying clamour of the storm--the wind still careeredround the house, making a noise like the beating wings of a great bird,but the rain was ceasing and there was a deeper sense of quiet. Anapproaching step startled him--he looked up and saw Priscilla. Shesmiled encouragingly.
"Cheer up, Mister Robin!" she said. ... "She is much better--she knowswhere she is now, bless her heart!--and she's glad to be at home. Lether alone--and if she 'as a good sleep she'll be a'most herself againin the morning. I'll leave my bedroom door open all night--an' I'll belookin' in at 'er when she doesn't know it, watchin' her lovin' likefor all I'm worth! ... so don't ye worry, my lad!--there's a good Godin Heaven an' it'll all come right!"
Robin took her rough work-worn hands and clasped them in his own.
"Bless you, you dear woman!" he said, huskily. "Do you really think so?Will she be herself again?--our own dear little Innocent?"
"Of course she will!" and Priscilla blinked away the tears in hereyes--"An' you'll mebbe win 'er yet!--The Lord's ways are everwonderful an' past findin' out--"
A clear voice calling from the staircase interrupted them.
"Priscilla! Robin!"
Running to answer the summons, they saw Innocent at the top of thestairs, a little vision of pale, smiling sweetness, in her white woolwrapper--her hair falling loose over her shoulders. She kissed herhands to them.
"Only to say good-night!" she said,--"I know just where I am now!--itwas so foolish of me to forget! I am at home--and this is BriarFarm--and I feel almost well and--happy! Robin!"
He sprang up the stairs and, kneeling, took one of her hands and kissedit.
"That's my true knight!" she said. "Dear Robin! You deserve everythinggood--and if it will give you joy I will marry you!"
"Marry me!" he cried, scarcely believing his ears--"Innocent! Youwill?--Dearest little love, you will?"
She looked down upon him where he knelt, like some small compassionateangel.
"Yes--I will!--To please you and Dad!--Tomorrow if you like! But youmust say good-night now and let me sleep!"
He kissed her hand again.
"Good-night, sweet!"
She started--and drew her hand away.
"He said that once,--and once--in a letter--he wrote it. It seemed tome beautiful!--'Good-night, sweet!'" She waited as if to think amoment, then--
"Good-night!" again she said--"Do not be anxious about me--I shallsleep well! Good-night!"
She waved her hand once more, and disappeared like a little whitephantom in the dark corridor.
"Does she mean it, do you think?" asked Robin, turning eagerly toPriscilla--"Will she marry me, after all?"
"I shouldn't wonder!" and the old woman nodded sagaciously--"Let hersleep on it, lad!--an' you sleep on it, too!--The storm's nighover--an' mebbe our dark cloud 'as a silver lining!"
Half-an-hour later on she went to her own bed--and on the way thoughtshe would peep into Innocent's room and see how she fared--but thedoor was locked. Vexed at her own lack of foresight in not possessingherself of the key before the girl had been carried to her room, sheleft her own door open that she might be ready in case of any call--andfor a long time she lay awake watchfully, thinking and wondering whatthe next day would bring forth--till at last anxiety and bewildermentof mind were overcome by sheer fatigue and she slept. Not so RobinClifford. Excited and full of new hope which he hardly dared breathe tohimself, he made no attempt to rest--but paced his room up and down, upand down, like a restless animal in a cage, waiting with hardlyendurable impatience for the dawn. Thoughts chased each other in hisbrain too quickly to evolve any practical order out of them,--he triedto plan out what he would do with the coming day--how he would let thefarm people know that Innocent had returned--how he would send atelegram to her friend Miss Leigh in London to say she was safe in herold home--and then the recollection of her literary success swept overhis mind like a sort of cloud--her fame!--the celebrity she had won inthat wider world outside Briar Farm--was it fair or honest to her thathe should take advantage of her weak and half-distraught condition andallow her to become his wife?--she, whose genius was alreadyacknowledged by a wide and discerning public, and who might beconsidered as only at the beginning of a brilliant and prosperouscareer?
"For, after all, I am only a farmer," he said--"And with the friendsshe has made for herself she might marry any one! The best way for mewill be to give her time--time to recover from this--this terribletrouble she seems to have on her mind--this curse of that fancy forAmadis de Jocelyn!--by Heaven, I'd kill him without a minute's grace ifI had him in my power!"
Still pacing to and fro and thinking, he wore the slow hours away, andat last the grey peep of a misty, silvery dawn peered through hiswindow. He threw the lattice open and leaned out--the scent of the wetfields and trees after the night's storm was sweet and refreshing, andcopied his heated blood. He reviewed the whole situation with greatercalmness,--and decided that he must not be selfish enough to grasp atthe proffered joy of marriage with the only woman he had ever lovedunless he could be made sure that it would be for her own happiness.
"Just now she hardly knows what she is saying or doing," he mused,sadly--"Some great disappointment has broken her spirit and she iswounded and in pain,--but when she is quite herself and has masteredher grief, she will see things in a different light--she will realisethe fame she has won,--the brilliant name she has made--yes!--she mustthink of all this--she must not wrong herself or injure her position bymarrying me!"
The silver-grey dawn brightened steadily, and in the eastern sky longfolds of silky mist began to shred away in thin strips of delicatevapour showing peeps of pale amber between,--fitful touches of faintrose-colour flitted here and there against the gold,--and with a senseof relief that the day was at last breaking and that the sky showedpromise of the sun, he left his room, and stepping noiselessly into theoutside corridor, listened. Priscilla's door was wide open--and as hepassed he looked in,--she was fast asleep. He could not hear asound,--and though he walked on cautious tip-toe along the littlepassage which led to the room where Innocent slept and waited there aminute or two, straining his ears for any little sigh, or sob, orwhisper, none came;--all was silent. Quietly he went downstairs, and,opening the hall door, stepped out into the garden. Every shrub andplant was dripping with wet--many were beaten down and broken by thefury of the night's storm, and there was more desolation than beauty inthe usually well-ordered and carefully-tended garden. The confusion offallen flowers and trailing stems made a melancholy impression on hismind,--at another time he would scarcely have heeded what was, afterall, only the natural havoc wrought by high winds and heavy rains,--butthis morning there seemed to be more than the usual ruin. He walkedslowly round to the front of the house--and there looked up at theprojecting lattice window of Innocent's room. It was wide open.Surprised, he stopped underneath it and looked up, half expecting tosee her,--but only a filmy white curtain moved gently with the firststirrings of the morning air. He stood a moment or two irresolute,recalling the night when he had climbed up by the natural ladder of theold wistaria and had heard her tell the plaintive little story of her"base-born" condition, with tears in her eyes, and the pale moonshinelighting up her face like the face of an angel in a dream.
"And she had written her first book already then!" he thought--"She hadall that genius in her and I never knew!"
A deeper brightness in the sky began to glow, and a light spread itselfover the land--the sun was rising. He looked towards the low hills inthe east, and saw the golden rim lifting itself like the edge of a cupabove the horizon,--and as it ascended higher and higher, some fleecywhite clouds rolled softly away from its glittering splendour, showingglimpses of tenderest ethereal blue. A still and solemn beauty investedall the visible scene,--a sacred peace--the peace of an obedient andlaw-abiding nature wherein man alone creates strange discord. Robinlooked long and lovingly at the fair prospect,-the wide meadows, thestately trees warmly tinted with autumnal glory, and thought--
"Could she be happier than here?--safe in the arms of love?--safe andsheltered from all trouble in the home she once idolised?"
He would not answer his own inward query--and suddenly the fancy seizedhim to call her by name, as he had called her on that moonlit nightlong ago, and persuade her to look out on the familiar fields shiningin the sunlight of the morning.
"Innocent!"
There was no answer.
He called a little louder--
"Innocent!"
Still silence. A robin hopped out from the cover of wet leaves andpeered at him questioningly with its bold bright eye. Acting on anirresistible impulse he set his foot on the gnarled root of the oldwistaria and started to climb to the window-sill. Three minutessufficed him to reach it--he looked into the little room,--the roomwhich had formerly been the study of the "Sieur Amadis de Jocelin"--andthere seated at the old oak table with her head bowed down upon herhands and her hair covering her as with a veil, was Innocent. Thesunlight flashed brightly in upon her--and immediately above her thegolden beams traced out as with a pencil of light the arms of the oldFrench knight with the faded rose and blue of his shield and mottoillumining with curiously marked distinctness the words he himself hadcarved beneath his own heraldic emblems:
"Who here seekynge Forgetfulness Did here fynde Peace!"
She was very strangely still,--and a cold fear suddenly caught atRobin's heart and half choked his breath.
"Innocent!" he cried. Then, leaping into the room like a man in suddenfrenzy, he rushed towards that motionless little figure--threw his armsabout it--lifted it--caressed it...
"Innocent! Look at me! Speak to me!"
The fair head fell passively back against his shoulder with all itswealth of rippling hair--the fragile form he clasped was helpless,lifeless, breathless!--and with a great shuddering sob of agony, herealised the full measure of his life's despair. Innocent wasdead!--and for her, as for the "Sieur Amadis," the quaint words shiningabove
her in the morning sunlight were aptly fitted--
"Who here seekynge Forgetfulness Did here fynde Peace!"
. . . . . . .
Many things in life come too late to be of rescue or service, andjustice is always tardy in arrival. Too late was Pierce Armitage, afterlong years of absence, to give his innocent child the simple heritageof a father's acknowledgment; he could but look upon her dead face andlay flowers on her in her little coffin. The world heard of the suddendeath of the young and brilliant writer with a faintly curiousconcern--but soon forgot that she had ever existed. No one knew, no oneguessed the story of her love for the French painter, Amadis deJocelyn--he was abroad at the time of her death, and only three personssecretly connected him with the sorrow of her end--and these were LordBlythe, Miss Leigh and Robin Clifford. Yet even these said nothing,restrained by the thought of casting the smallest scandal on the sweetlustre of her name. And Amadis de Jocelyn himself?--had he noregret?--no pity? If the truth must be told, he was more relieved thanpained,--more flattered than sorry! The girl had died forhim,--well!--that was more or less a pleasing result of his power! Shewas a silly child--obsessed by a "fancy"--it was not his fault if hecould not live up to that "fancy"--he liked "facts." His picture of herwas the success of the Salon that year, and he was admired andcongratulated,--this was enough for him.
"One of your victims, Amadis?" asked a vivacious society woman he knew,critically studying the portrait on the first day of its exhibition.
He nodded, smilingly.
"Really? And yet--Innocent?"
He nodded again.
"Very much so! She is dead!"
. . . . . . .
Sorrow and joy, strangely intermingled, divided the last years of lifefor good Miss Leigh. The shock of the loss and death of the girl towhom she had become profoundly attached, followed by the startlingdiscovery that her old lover Pierce Armitage was alive, proved almosttoo much for her frail nerves--but her gratitude to God for the joy ofseeing the beloved face once again, and hearing the beloved voice, wasso touching and sincere that Armitage, smitten to the heart by thestory of her long fidelity and her tenderness for his forsakendaughter, offered to marry her, earnestly praying her to let him sharelife with her to the end. This she gently refused,--but for the rest ofher days she--with him and Lord Blythe--made a trio of friends,--acompact of affection and true devotion such as is seldom known in thiswork-a-day world. They were nearly always together,--and the memory ofInnocent, with her young life's little struggle against fate ending sosoon in disaster, was a link never to be broken save by death, whichbreaks all.
L'ENVOI
A few evenings since, I who have written this true story of a younggirl's romantic fancy, passed by Briar Farm. The air was very still,and a red sun was sinking in a wintry sky. The old Tudor farmhouselooked beautiful in the clear half-frosty light--but the trees in theold bye road were leafless, and though the courtyard gate stood openthere were no flowers to be seen beyond, and no doves flying to and froamong the picturesque gables. I knew, as I walked slowly along, thatjust a mile distant, in the small churchyard of the village, Innocent,the "base-born" child of sorrow, lay asleep by her "Dad," the last ofthe Jocelyns,--I knew also that not far off from their graves, themortal remains of the faithful Priscilla were also resting inpeace--and I felt, with a heavy sadness at my heart, that the fame ofthe old house was wearing out and that presently its tradition, likemany legendary and romantic things, would soon be forgotten. But justat the turn of a path, where a low stile gives access to the road, Isaw a man standing, his arms folded and leaning on the topmost bar ofthe stile--a man neither old nor young, with a strong quiet face, andalmost snow-white hair--a man quite alone, whose attitude and bearingexpressed the very spirit of solitude. I knew him for the master of thefarm--a man greatly honoured throughout the neighbourhood for justiceand kindness to all whom he employed, but also a man stricken by agreat sorrow for which there can be no remedy.
"Will he never marry?" I thought,--but as I put the question to myselfI dismissed it almost as a blasphemy. For Robin Clifford is one ofthose rarest souls among men who loves but once, and when love is lostfinds it not again. Except,--perhaps?--in a purer world than ours,where our "fancies" may prove to have had a surer foundation than our"facts."
THE END
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