CHAPTER IV
There are still a few old houses left in rural England which are as yethappily unmolested by the destroying ravages of modern improvement, andBriar Farm was one of these. History and romance alike had their sharein its annals, and its title-deeds went back to the autumnal days of1581, when the Duke of Anjou came over from France to England with aroyal train of noblemen and gentlemen in the hope to espouse thegreatest monarch of all time, "the most renowned and victorious" QueenElizabeth, whose reign has clearly demonstrated to the world how muchmore ably a clever woman can rule a country than a clever man, if sheis left to her own instinctive wisdom and prescience. No king has everbeen wiser or more diplomatic than Elizabeth, and no king has left amore brilliant renown. As the coldest of male historians is bound toadmit, "her singular powers of government were founded equally on hertemper and on her capacity. Endowed with a great command over herself,she soon obtained an uncontrolled ascendant over her people. Fewsovereigns of England succeeded to the throne under more difficultcircumstances, and none ever conducted the government with such uniformsuccess and felicity." Had Elizabeth been weak, the Duke of Anjou mighthave realised his ambitious dream, with the unhappiest results forEngland; and that he fortunately failed was entirely due to hersagacity and her quick perception of his irresolute and feeblecharacter. In the sumptuous train attendant upon this "PetitGrenouille," as he styled himself in one of his babyish epistles toEngland's sovereign majesty, there was a certain knight more inclinedto the study of letters than to the breaking of lances,--the SieurAmadis de Jocelin, who being much about the court in the wake of hissomewhat capricious and hot-tempered master, came, unfortunately forhis own peace of mind, into occasional personal contact with one of themost bewitching young women of her time, the Lady Penelope Devereux,afterwards Lady Rich, she in whom, according to a contemporary writer,"lodged all attractive graces and beauty, wit and sweetness ofbehaviour which might render her the mistress of all eyes and hearts."Surrounded as she was by many suitors, his passion was hopeless fromthe first, and that he found it so was evident from the fact that hesuddenly disappeared from the court and from his master's retinue, andwas never heard of by the great world again. Yet he was not far away.He had not the resolution to leave England, the land which enshrinedthe lady of his love,--and he had lost all inclination to return toFrance. He therefore retired into the depths of the sweet Englishcountry, among the then unspoilt forests and woodlands, and therehappening to find a small manor-house for immediate sale, surrounded bya considerable quantity of land, he purchased it for the ready cash hehad about him and settled down in it for the remainder of his life.Little by little, such social ambitions as he had ever possessed lefthim, and with every passing year he grew more and more attached to thesimplicity and seclusion of his surroundings. He had leisure for theindulgence of his delight in books, and he was able to give the rein tohis passion for poetry, though it is nowhere recorded that he everpublished the numerous essays, sonnets and rhymed pieces which, writtenin the picturesque caligraphy of the period, and roughly bound byhimself in sheepskin, occupied a couple of shelves in his library. Heentered with animation and interest into the pleasures of farming andother agricultural pursuits, and by-and-bye as time went on and theformer idol of his dreams descended from her fair estate of virtue andscandalised the world by her liaison with Lord Mountjoy, he appears tohave gradually resigned the illusions of his first love, for he marrieda simple village girl, remarkable, so it was said, for her beauty, butmore so for her skill in making butter and cheese. She could neitherread nor write, however, and the traditions concerning the Sieur Amadisrelate that he took a singular pleasure in teaching her theseaccomplishments, as well as in training her to sing and to accompanyherself upon the lute in a very pretty manner. She made him anexcellent wife, and gave him no less than six children, three boys andthree girls, all of whom were brought up at home under the supervisionof their father and mother, and encouraged to excel in country pursuitsand to understand the art of profitable farming. It was in their daysthat Briar Farm entered upon its long career of prosperity, which stillcontinued. The Sieur Amadis died in his seventieth year, and by his ownwish, expressed in his "Last Will and Testament," was buried in asequestered spot on his own lands, under a stone slab which he hadhimself fashioned, carving upon it his recumbent figure in the costumeof a knight, a cross upon his breast and a broken sword at his side.His wife, though several years younger than himself, only lived atwelve-month after him and was interred by his side. Theirresting-place was now walled off, planted thickly with flowers, andheld sacred by every succeeding heir to the farm as the burial-place ofthe first Jocelyns. Steadily and in order, the families springing fromthe parent tree of the French knight Amadis had occupied Briar Farm inunbroken succession, and through three centuries the property had beenkept intact, none of its possessions being dispersed and none of itsland being sold. The house was practically in the same sound conditionas when the Sieur Amadis fitted and furnished it for his ownoccupation,--there was the same pewter, the same solid furniture, thesame fine tapestry, preserved by the careful mending of many hundredsof needles worked by hands long ago mingled with the dust of the grave,and, strange as it may seem to those who are only acquainted with theflimsy manufactures of to-day, the same stout hand-wrought linen,which, mended and replenished each year, lasted so long because neverwashed by modern methods, but always by hand in clear cold runningwater. There were presses full of this linen, deliriously scented withlavender, and there were also the spinning-wheels that had spun theflax and the hand-looms on which the threads had been woven. These werewitnesses to the days when women, instead of gadding abroad, were happyto be at home--when the winter evenings seemed short and bright becauseas they sat spinning by the blazing log fire they were cheerful intheir occupation, singing songs and telling stories and having so muchto do that there was no time to indulge in the morbid analysis of lifeand the things of life which in our present shiftless day perplex andconfuse idle and unhealthy brains.
And now after more than three centuries, the direct male line of Amadisde Jocelin had culminated in Hugo, commonly called Farmer Jocelyn, who,on account of some secret love disappointment, the details of which hehad never told to anyone, had remained unmarried. Till the appearanceon the scene of the child, Innocent, who was by the village folkaccepted and believed to be the illegitimate offspring of thisill-starred love, it was tacitly understood that Robin Clifford, hisnephew, and the only son of his twin sister, would be the heir to BriarFarm; but when it was seen how much the old man seemed to cling toInnocent, and to rely upon her ever tender care of him, the questionarose as to whether there might not be an heiress after all, instead ofan heir. And the rustic wiseacres gossiped, as is their wont, watchingwith no small degree of interest the turn of events which had latelytaken place in the frank and open admiration and affection displayed byRobin for his illegitimate cousin, as it was thought she was, and asFarmer Jocelyn had tacitly allowed it to be understood. If the twoyoung people married, everybody agreed it would be the right thing, andthe best possible outlook for the continued prosperity of Briar Farm.For after all, it was the farm that had to be chiefly considered, sothey opined,--the farm was an historic and valuable property as well asan excellent paying concern. The great point to be attained was that itshould go on as it had always gone on from the days of the SieurAmadis,--and that it should be kept in the possession of the samefamily. This at any rate was known to be the cherished wish of old HugoJocelyn, though he was not given to any very free expression of hisfeelings. He knew that his neighbours envied him, watched him andcommented on his actions,--he knew also that the tale he had told themconcerning Innocent had to a great extent whispered away his own goodname and fastened a social slur upon the girl,--yet he could not,according to his own views, have seen any other way out of thedifficulty. The human world is always wicked-tongued; and it is commonknowledge that any man or woman introducing an "adopted" child into afamily is at once accused, whether he or
she be conscious of theaccusation or not, of passing off his own bastard under the "adoption"pretext. Hugo Jocelyn was fairly certain that none of his neighbourswould credit the romantic episode of the man on horseback arriving in astorm and leaving a nameless child on his hands. The story was quitetrue,--but truth is always precisely what people refuse to believe.
The night on which Innocent had learned her own history for the firsttime was a night of consummate beauty in the natural world. When allthe gates and doors of the farm and its outbuildings had been boltedand barred for the night, the moon, almost full, rose in a cloudlessheaven and shed pearl-white showers of radiance all over the newly-mownand clean-swept fields, outlining the points of the old house gablesand touching with luminous silver the roses that clambered up thewalls. One wide latticed window was open to the full inflowing of thescented air, and within its embrasure sat a lonely little figure in aloose white garment with hair tumbling carelessly over its shouldersand eyes that were wet with tears. The clanging chime of the old clockbelow stairs had struck eleven some ten minutes since, and after theecho of its bell had died away there had followed a heavy and intensesilence. The window looked not upon the garden, but out upon the fieldsand a suggestive line of dark foliage edging them softly in thedistance,--away down there, under a huge myriad-branched oak, slept theold knight Sieur Amadis de Jocelin and his English rustic wife, thefounders of the Briar Farm family. The little figure in the darkembrasure of the window clasped its white hands and turned its weepingeyes towards that ancient burial-place, and the moon-rays shone uponits fair face with a silvery glimmer, giving it an almost spectralpallor. "Why was I ever born?" sighed a trembling voice--"Oh, dear God!Why did you let it be?"
The vacant air, the vacant fields looked blankly irresponsive. They hadno sympathy to give,--they never have. To great Mother Nature it is notimportant how or why a child is born, though she occasionally decidesthat it shall be of the greatest importance how and why the child shalllive. What does it matter to the forces of creative life whether it isbrought into the world "basely," as the phrase goes, or honourably? Thechild exists,--it is a human entity--a being full of potential good orevil,--and after a certain period of growth it stands alone, and itsparents have less to do with it than they imagine. It makes its owncircumstances and shapes its own career, and in many cases the less itis interfered with the better. But Innocent could not reason out herposition in any cold-blooded or logical way. She was too young and toounhappy. Everything that she had taken pride in was swept from her atonce. Only that very morning she had made one of her many pilgrimagesdown to the venerable oak beneath whose trailing branches the SieurAmadis de Jocelin lay, covered by the broad stone slab on which he hadcarved his own likeness, and she had put a little knot of the "Glory"roses between his mailed hands which were folded over the cross on hisbreast, and she had said to the silent effigy:
"It is the last day of the haymaking, Sieur Amadis! You would be gladto see the big crop going in if you were here!"
She was accustomed to talk to the old stone knight in this fancifulway,--she had done so all her life ever since she could remember. Shehad taken an intense pride in thinking of him as her ancestor; she hadbeen glad to trace her lineage back over three centuries to thelove-lorn French noble who had come to England in the train of the Dued'Anjou--and now--now she knew she had no connection at all withhim,--that she was an unnamed, unbaptised nobody--an unclaimed waif ofhumanity whom no one wanted! No one in all the world--except Robin! Hewanted her;--but perhaps when he knew her true history his love wouldgrow cold. She wondered whether it would be so. If it were she wouldnot mind very much. Indeed it would be best, for she felt she couldnever marry him.
"No, not if I loved him with all my heart!" she said,passionately--"Not without a name!--not till I have made a name formyself, if only that were possible!"
She left the window and walked restlessly about her room, a room thatshe loved very greatly because it had been the study of the SieurAmadis. It was a wonderful room, oak-panelled from floor to ceiling,and there was no doubt about its history,--the Sieur Amadis himself hadtaken care of that. For on every panel he had carved with his own handa verse, a prayer, or an aphorism, so that the walls were a kind ofopen notebook inscribed with his own personal memoranda. Over the widechimney his coat-of-arms was painted, the colours having faded intotender hues like those of autumn leaves, and the motto underneath was"Mon coeur me soutien." Then followed the inscription:
"Amadis de Jocelin, Knight of France, Who here seekynge Forgetfulness did here fynde Peace."
Every night of her life since she could read Innocent had stood infront of these armorial bearings in her little white night-gown and hadconned over these words. She had taken the memory and tradition ofAmadis to her heart and soul. He was HER ancestor,--hers, she hadalways said;--she had almost learned her letters from the inscriptionshe had carved, and through these she could read old English and aconsiderable amount of old French besides. When she was about twelveyears old she and Robin Clifford, playing about together in this room,happened to knock against one panel that gave forth a hollowreverberant sound, and moved by curiosity they tried whether they couldopen it. After some abortive efforts Robin's fingers closed by chanceon a hidden spring, which being thus pressed caused the panel to flyopen, disclosing a narrow secret stair. Full of burning excitement thetwo children ran up it, and to their delight found themselves in asmall square musty chamber in which were two enormous old dower-chests,locked. Their locks were no bar to the agility of Robin, who, fetchinga hammer, forced the old hasps asunder and threw back the lids. Thecoffers were full of books and manuscripts written on vellum, averitable sixteenth-century treasure-trove. They hastened to report thefind to Farmer Jocelyn, who, though never greatly taken with books oranything concerning them, was sufficiently interested to go with theeager children and look at the discovery they had made. But as he couldmake nothing of either books or manuscripts himself, he gave over thewhole collection to Innocent, saying that as they were found in herpart of the house she might keep them. No one--not even Robin--knew howmuch she had loved and studied these old books, or how patiently shehad spelt out the manuscripts; and no one could have guessed what awide knowledge of literature she had gained or what fine taste she haddeveloped from her silent communications with the parted spirit of theSieur Amadis and his poetical remains. She had even arranged her roomas she thought he might have liked it, in severe yet perfect taste. Itwas now her study as it had been his,--the heavy oak table had a greatpewter inkstand upon it and a few loose sheets of paper with two orthree quill pens ready to hand,--some quaint old vellum-bound volumesand a brown earthenware bowl full of "Glory" roses were set just wherethey could catch the morning sunshine through the lattice window. Oneside of the room was lined with loaded bookshelves, and at its furthestend a wide arch of roughly hewn oak disclosed a smaller apartment whereshe slept. Here there was a quaint little four-poster bedstead, hungwith quite priceless Jacobean tapestry, and a still more rare andbeautiful work of art--an early Italian mirror, full length and framedin silver, a curio worth many hundreds of pounds. In this mirrorInnocent had surveyed herself with more or less disfavour since herinfancy. It was a mirror that had always been there--a mirror in whichthe wife of the Sieur Amadis must have often gazed upon her ownreflection, and in which, after her, all the wives and daughters of thesucceeding Jocelyns had seen their charms presented to their ownadmiration. The two old dower-chests which had been found in the upperchamber were placed on either side of the mirror, and held all thesimple home-made garments which were Innocent's only wear. A specialjoy of hers lay in the fact that she knew the management of the secretsliding panel, and that she could at her own pleasure slip up themysterious stairway with a book and be thus removed from all thehousehold in a solitude which to her was ideal. To-night as shewandered up and down her room like a little distraught ghost, all thehappy and romantic associations of the home she had loved and cherishedf
or so many years seemed cut down like a sheaf of fair blossoms by acareless reaper,--a sordid and miserable taint was on her life, and sheshuddered with mingled fear and grief as she realised that she had noteven the simple privilege of ordinary baptism. She was a nameless waif,dependent on the charity of Farmer Jocelyn. True, the old man had grownto love her and she had loved him--ah!--let the many tender prayersoffered up for him in this very room bear witness before the throne ofGod to her devotion to her "father" as she had thought him! And now--ifwhat the doctors said was true--if he was soon to die--what wouldbecome of her? She wrung her little hands in unconscious agony.
"What shall I do?" she murmured, sobbingly--"I have no claim on him, oron anyone in the world! Dear God, what shall I do?"
Her restless walk up and down took her into her sleeping-chamber, andthere she lit a candle and looked at herself in the old Italian mirror.A little woe-begone creature gazed sorrowfully back at her from itsshining surface, with brimming eyes and quivering lips, and hair alltossed loosely away from a small sad face as pale as a watery moon, andshe drew back from her own reflection with a gesture of repugnance.
"I am no use to anybody in any way," she said, despairingly--"I am noteven good-looking. And Robin--poor foolish Robin!--called me 'lovely'this afternoon! He has no eyes!"
Then a sudden thought flew across her brain of Ned Landon. The tallpowerful-looking brute loved her, she knew. Every look of his told herthat his very soul pursued her with a reckless and relentless passion.She hated him,--she trembled even now as she pictured his dark face andburning eyes;--he had annoyed and worried her in a thousand ways--waysthat were not sufficiently open in their offence to be openlycomplained of, though had Farmer Jocelyn's state of health given herless cause for anxiety she might have said something to him which wouldperhaps have opened his eyes to the situation. But not now,--not nowcould she appeal to anyone for protection from amorous insult. For whowas she--what was she that she should resent it? She was nothing!--amere stray child whose parents nobody knew,--without any lawfulguardian to uphold her rights or assert her position. No wonder oldJocelyn had called her "wilding"--she was indeed a "wilding" orweed,--growing up unwanted in the garden of the world, destined to bepulled out of the soil where she had nourished and throwncontemptuously aside. A wretched sense of utter helplessness stole overher,--of incapacity, weakness and loneliness. She tried to think,--tosee her way through the strange fog of untoward circumstance that hadso suddenly enshrouded her. What would happen when Farmer Jocelyn died?For one thing she would have to quit Briar Farm. She could not stay init when Robin Clifford was its master. He would marry, of course; hewould be sure to marry; and there would be no place for her in hishome. She would have to earn her bread; and the only way to do thatwould be to go out to service. She had a good store of useful domesticknowledge,--she could bake and brew, and wash and scour; she knew howto rear poultry and keep bees; she could spin and knit and embroider;indeed her list of household accomplishments would have startled anygirl fresh out of a modern Government school, where things that areuseful in life are frequently forgotten, and things that are not by anymeans necessary are taught as though they were imperative. One otheraccomplishment she had,--one that she hardly whispered to herself--shecould write,--write what she herself called "nonsense." Scores oflittle poems and essays and stories were locked away in a small oldbureau in a corner of the room,--confessions and expressions of pent-upfeeling which, but for this outlet, would have troubled her brain andhindered her rest. They were mostly, as she frankly admitted to her ownconscience, in the "style" of the Sieur Amadis, and were inspired byhis poetic suggestions. She had no fond or exaggerated idea of theirmerit,--they were the result of solitary hours and long silences inwhich she had felt she must speak to someone,--exchange thoughts withsomeone,--or suffer an almost intolerable restraint. That "someone" wasfor her the long dead knight who had come to England in the train ofthe Duc d'Anjou. To him she spoke,--to him she told all hertroubles--but to no one else did she ever breathe her thoughts, ordisclose a line of what she had written. She had often wonderedwhether, if she sent these struggling literary efforts to a magazine ornewspaper, they would be accepted and printed. But she never made thetrial, for the reason that such newspaper literature as found its wayinto Briar Farm filled her with amazement, repulsion and disgust. Therewas nothing in any modern magazine that at all resembled the delicate,pointed and picturesque phraseology of the Sieur Amadis! Strange,coarse slang-words were used,--and the news of the day was slungtogether in loose ungrammatical sentences and chopped-up paragraphs ofclumsy construction, lacking all pith and eloquence. So, repelled bythe horror of twentieth-century "style," she had hidden her manuscriptsdeeper than ever in the old bureau, under little silk sachets of driedrose-leaves and lavender, as though they were love-letters or old lace.And when sometimes she shut herself up and read them over she felt likeone of Hamlet's "guilty creatures sitting at a play." Her literaryattempts seemed to reproach her for their inadequacy, and when she madesome fresh addition to her store of written thoughts, her crimes seemedto herself doubled and weighted. She would often sit musing, with alittle frown puckering her brow, wondering why she should be moved towrite at all, yet wholly unable to resist the impulse.
To-night, however, she scarcely remembered these outbreaks of herdreaming fancy,--the sordid, hard, matter-of-fact side of life alonepresented itself to her depressed imagination. She pictured herselfgoing into service--as what? Kitchen-maid, probably,--she was not tallenough for a house-parlourmaid. House-parlourmaids were bound to beeffective,--even dignified,--in height and appearance. She had seen oneof these superior beings in church on Sundays--a slim, stately youngwoman with waved hair and a hat as fashionable as that worn by hermistress, the Squire's lady. With a deepening sense of humiliation,Innocent felt that her very limitation of inches was against her. Couldshe be a nursery-governess? Hardly; for though she liked good-tempered,well-behaved children, she could not even pretend to endure them whenthey were otherwise. Screaming, spiteful, quarrelsome children were toher less interesting than barking puppies or squealing pigs;--besides,she knew she could not be an efficient teacher of so much as oneaccomplishment. Music, for instance; what had she learned of music? Shecould play on an ancient spinet which was one of the chief treasures ofthe "best parlour" of Briar Farm, and she could sing old ballads verysweetly and plaintively,--but of "technique" and "style" and all thelatter-day methods of musical acquirement and proficiency she wasabsolutely ignorant. Foreign languages were a dead letter toher--except old French. She could understand that; and Villon's famousverses, "Ou sont les neiges d'antan?" were as familiar to her asHerrick's "Come, my Corinna, let us go a-maying." But, on the whole,she was strangely and poorly equipped for the battle of life. Herknowledge of baking, brewing, and general housewifery would have stoodher in good stead on some Colonial settlement,--but she had scarcelyheard of these far-away refuges for the destitute, as she so seldomread the newspapers. Old Hugo Jocelyn looked upon the cheap daily pressas "the curse of the country," and never willingly allowed a newspaperto come into the living-rooms of Briar Farm. They were relegatedentirely to the kitchen and outhouses, where the farm labourers smokedover them and discussed them to their hearts' content, seldomventuring, however, to bring any item of so-called "news" to theirmaster's consideration. If they ever chanced to do so, he wouldgenerally turn round upon them with a few cutting observations, suchas,--
"How do you know it's true? Who gives the news? Where's the authority?And what do I care if some human brute has murdered his wife and blownout his own brains? Am I going to be any the better for reading such atale? And if one Government is in or t'other out, what does it matterto me, or to any of you, so long as you can work and pay your way? Thenewspapers are always trying to persuade us to meddle in other folks'sbusiness;--I say, take care of your own affairs!--serve God and obeythe laws of the country, and there won't be much going wrong with you!If you must read, read a decent book--something that will last--not aprinted
sheet full of advertisements that's fresh one day and torn upfor waste paper the next!"
Under the sway of these prejudiced and arbitrary opinions, it was notpossible for Innocent to have much knowledge of the world that layoutside Briar Farm. Sometimes she found Priscilla reading an oldmagazine or looking at a picture-paper, and she would borrow these andtake them up to her own room surreptitiously for an hour or so, but shewas always more or less pained and puzzled by their contents. It seemedto her that there were an extraordinary number of pictures of womenwith scarcely any clothes on, and she could not understand how theymanaged to be pictured at all in such scanty attire.
"Who are they?" she asked of Priscilla on one occasion--"And how is itthat they are photographed like this? It must be so shameful for them!"
Priscilla explained as best she could that they were "dancers and thelike."
"They lives by their legs, lovey!" she said soothingly--"It's onlytheir legs that gits them their bread and butter, and I s'pose they'rebound to show 'em off. Don't you worry 'ow they gits done! You'll nevercome across any of 'em!"
Innocent shut her sensitive mouth in a firm, proud line.
"I hope not!" she said.
And she felt as if she had almost wronged the sanctity of the littlestudy which had formerly belonged to the Sieur Amadis by allowing suchpictures to enter it. Of course she knew that dancers and actors, bothmale and female, existed,--a whole troupe of them came every year tothe small theatre of the country town which, by breaking out into aneruption of new slate-roofed houses among the few remaining picturesquegables and tiles of an earlier period, boasted of its "advancement"some eight or ten miles away; but her "father," as she had thought him,had an insurmountable objection to what he termed "gadding abroad," andwould not allow her to be seen even at the annual fair in the town,much less at the theatre. Moreover, it happened once that a girl in thevillage had run away with a strolling player and had gone on thestage,--an incident which had caused a great sensation in the tinywood-encircled hamlet, and had brought all the old women of the placeout to their doorsteps to croak and chatter, and prognosticate terriblethings in the future for the eloping damsel. Innocent alone hadventured to defend her.
"If she loved the man she was right to go with him," she said.
"Oh, don't talk to me about love!" retorted Priscilla, shaking herhead--"That's fancy rubbish! You know naught about it, dearie! On thestage indeed! Poor little hussy! She'll be on the street in a year ortwo, God help her!"
"What is that?" asked Innocent. "Is it to be a beggar?"
Priscilla made no reply beyond her usual sniff, which expressed volumes.
"If she has found someone who really cares for her, she will neverwant," Innocent went on, gently. "No man could be so cruel as to takeaway a girl from her home for his own pleasure and then leave her alonein the world. It would be impossible! You must not think such hardthings, Priscilla!"
And, smiling, she had gone her way,--while Priscilla, shaking her headagain, had looked after her, dimly wondering how long she would keepher faith in men.
On this still moonlight night, when the sadness of her soul seemedheavier than she could bear, her mind suddenly reverted to thisepisode. She thought of the girl who had run away; and remembered thatno one in the village had ever seen or heard of her again, not even herpatient hard-working parents to whom she had been a pride and joy.
"Now she had a real father and mother!" she mused, wistfully--"Theyloved her and would have done anything for her--yet she ran away fromthem with a stranger! I could never have done that! But I have nofather and no mother--no one but Dad!--ah!--how I have loved Dad!--andyet I don't belong to him--and when he is dead--"
Here an overpowering sense of calamity swept over her, and dropping onher knees by the open window she laid her head on her folded arms andwept bitterly.
A voice called her in subdued accents once or twice, "Innocent!Innocent!"--but she did not hear.
Presently a rose flung through the window fell on her bent head. Shestarted up, alarmed.
"Innocent!"
Timidly she leaned out over the window-sill, looking down into thedusky green of clambering foliage, and saw a familiar face smiling upat her. She uttered a soft cry.
"Robin!"
"Yes--it's Robin!" he replied. "Innocent, what's the matter? I heardyou crying!"
"No--no!" she answered, whisperingly--"It's nothing! Oh, Robin!--whyare you here at this time of night? Do go away!"
"Not I!" and Robin placed one foot firmly on the tough and gnarledbranch of a giant wistaria that was trained thickly all over that sideof the house--"I'm coming up!"
"Oh, Robin!" And straightway Innocent ran back into her room, there tothrow on a dark cloak which enveloped her so completely that only hersmall fair head showed above its enshrouding folds,--then returningslowly she watched with mingled interest and trepidation the gradualascent of her lover, as, like another Romeo, he ascended the naturalladder formed by the thick rope-like twisted stems of the ancientcreeper, grown sturdy with years and capable of bearing a much greaterweight than that of the light and agile young man, who, with a smile ofamused triumph, at last brought himself on a level with the window-silland seated himself on its projecting ledge.
"I won't come in," he said, mischievously--"though I might!--if Idared! But I mustn't break into my lady's bower without her sovereignpermission! I say, Innocent, how pretty you look! Don't befrightened!--dear, dear little girl,--you know I wouldn't touch so muchas a hair of your sweet little head! I'm not a brute--and though I'mlonging to kiss you I promise I won't even try!"
She moved away from him into the deeper shadow, but a ray of the moonshowed him her face, very pale, with a deep sadness upon it which wasstrange and new to him.
"Tell me what's wrong?" he asked. "I've been too wide-awake andrestless to go to bed,--so I came out in the garden just to breathe theair and look up at your window--and I heard a sound of sobbing likethat of a little child who was badly hurt--Innocent!"
For she had suddenly stretched out her hands to him in impulsive appeal.
"Oh yes--that's true!--I am badly hurt, Robin!" she said, in lowtrembling accents--"So badly hurt that I think I shall never get overit!"
Surprised, he took her hands in his own with a gentle reverence, thoughto be able to draw her nearer to him thus, set his heart beatingquickly.
"What is it?" he questioned her, anxiously, as all unconsciously sheleaned closer towards him and he saw her soft eyes, wet with tears,shining upon him like stars in the gloom. "Is it bad news of UncleHugo?"
"Bad news of him, but worse of me!" she answered, sighingly. "Oh,Robin, shall I tell you?"
He looked at her tenderly. The dark cloak about her had fallen a littleaside, and showed a gleam of white neck emerging from snowy draperyunderneath--it was, to his fancy, as though a white rose-petal had beensuddenly and delicately unfurled. He longed to kiss that virginalwhiteness, and trembled at the audacity of his own desire.
"Yes, dear, tell me!" he murmured, abstractedly, scarcely thinking ofwhat he was saying, and only conscious of the thrill and ecstasy oflove which seemed to him the one thing necessary for existence in earthor heaven.
And so, with her hands still warmly held in his, she told him all. In asad voice, with lowered eyes and quivering lips, she related herplaintive little history, disclosing her unbaptised shame,--her unownedparentage,--her desperately forlorn and lonely condition. And Robinlistened--amazed and perplexed.
"It seems to be all my fault," concluded Innocent, sorrowfully--"andyet it is not really so! Of course I ought never to have been born--butI couldn't help it, could I? And now it seems quite wrong for me toeven live!--I am not wanted--and ever since I was twelve years old yourUncle has only kept me out of charity--"
But at this Robin started as though some one had struck him.
"Innocent!" he exclaimed--"Do not say such a thing!--do not think it!Uncle Hugo has LOVED you!--and you--you have loved him!"
She drew her h
ands away from his and covered her face.
"I know!--I know!" and her tears fell fast again--"But I am not his,and he is not mine!"
Robin was silent. The position was so unexpected and bewildering thathe hardly knew what to say. But chiefly he felt that he must try andcomfort this little weeping angel, who, so far as he was concerned,held his life subservient to her charm. He began talking softly andcheerily:
"Why should it matter so much?" he said. "If you do not know who youare--if none of us know--it may be more fortunate for you than you canimagine! We cannot tell! Your own father may claim you--your ownmother--such things are quite possible! You may be like the princess ofa fairy-tale--rich people may come and take you away from Briar Farmand from me--and you will be too grand to think of us any more, and Ishall only be the poor farmer in your eyes--you will wonder how youcould ever have spoken to me--"
"Robin!" Her hands dropped from her face and she looked at him inreproachful sadness. "Why do you say this? You know it could never betrue!--never! If I had a father who cared for me, he would not haveforgotten--and my mother, if she were a true mother, would have triedto find me long ago! No, Robin!--I ought to have died when I was ababy. No one wants me--I am a deserted child--'base-born,' as yourUncle Hugo says,--and of course he is right--but the sin of it is notmine!"
She had such a pitiful, fragile and fair appearance, standing half inshadow and half in the mystic radiance of the moon, that RobinClifford's heart ached with love and longing for her.
"Sin!" he echoed--"Sin and you have never met each other! You are likeyour name, innocent of all evil! Oh, Innocent! If you could only carefor me as I care for you!"
She gave a shivering sigh.
"Do you--can you care?--NOW?" she asked.
"Of course! What is there in all this story that can change my love foryou? That you are not my cousin?--that my uncle is not your own father?What does that matter to me? You are someone else's child, and if wenever know who that someone is, why should we vex ourselves about it?You are you!--you are Innocent!--the sweetest, dearest little girl thatever lived, and I adore you! What difference does it make that you arenot Uncle Hugo's daughter?"
"It makes a great difference to me," she answered, sadly--"I do notbelong any more to the Sieur Amadis de Jocelin!"
Robin stared, amazed--then smiled.
"Why, Innocent!" he exclaimed--"Surely you're not worrying your mindover that old knight, dead and gone more than three hundred years ago!Dear little goose! How on earth does he come into this trouble ofyours?"
"He comes in everywhere!" she replied, clasping and unclasping herhands nervously as she spoke. "You don't know, Robin!--you would neverunderstand! But I have loved the Sieur Amadis ever since I canremember;--I have talked to him and studied with him!--I have read hisold books, and all the poems he wrote--and he seemed to be my friend! Ithought I was born of his kindred--and I was proud of it--and I felt itwould be my duty to live at Briar Farm always because he would wish hisline quite unbroken--and I think--perhaps--yes, I think I might havemarried you and been a good wife to you just for his sake!--and now itis all spoiled!--because though you will be the master of Briar Farm,you will not be the lineal descendant of the Sieur Amadis! No,--it isfinished!--all finished with your Uncle Hugo!--and the doctors say hecan only live a year!"
Her grief was so touching and pathetic that Robin could not find it inhis heart to make a jest of the romance she had woven round the oldFrench knight whose history had almost passed into a legend. After all,what she said was true--the line of the Jocelyn family had been keptintact through three centuries till now--and a direct heir had alwaysinherited Briar Farm. He himself had taken a certain pride in thinkingthat Uncle Hugo's "love-child," as he had believed her to be, was atany rate, love-child or no, born of the Jocelyn blood--and that when hemarried her, as he hoped and fully purposed to do, he would discard hisown name of Clifford and take that of Jocelyn, in order to keep thecontinuity of associations unbroken as far as possible. All these ideaswere put to flight by Innocent's story, and, as the position becamemore evident to him, the smiling expression on his face changed to oneof gravity.
"Dear Innocent," he said, at last--"Don't cry! It cuts me to the heart!I would give my very life to save you from a sorrow--you know I would!If you ever thought, as you say, that you could or would marry me forthe sake of the Sieur Amadis, you might just as well marry me now, eventhough the Sieur Amadis is out of it. I would make you so happy! Iwould indeed! And no one need ever know that you are not really thelineal descendant of the Knight--"
She interrupted him.
"Priscilla knows," she said--"and, no matter how you look at it, I am'base-born.' Your Uncle Hugo has let all the village folk think I amhis illegitimate child--and that is 'base-born' of itself. Oh, it iscruel! Even you thought so, didn't you?"
Robin hesitated.
"I did not know, dear," he answered, gently--"I fancied--"
"Do not deny it, Robin!" she said, mournfully. "You did think so! Well,it's true enough, I suppose!--I am 'base-born'--but your uncle is notmy father. He is a good, upright man--you can always be proud of him!He has not sinned,--though he has burdened me with the shame of sin! Ithink that is unfair,--but I must bear it somehow, and I will try to bebrave. I'm glad I've told you all about it,--and you are very kind tohave taken it so well--and to care for me still--but I shall nevermarry you, Robin!--never! I shall never bring my 'base-born' blood intothe family of Jocelyn!"
His heart sank as he heard her--and involuntarily he stretched out hisarms in appeal.
"Innocent!" he murmured--"Don't be hard upon me! Think a little longerbefore you leave me without any hope! It means so much to my life!Surely you cannot be cruel? Do you care for me less than you care forthat old knight buried under his own effigy in the garden? Will you notthink kindly of a living man?--a man who loves you beyond all things?Oh, Innocent!--be gentle, be merciful!"
She came to him and took his hands in her own.
"It is just because I am kind and gentle and merciful," she said, inher sweet, grave accents, "that I will not marry you, dear! I know I amright,--and you will think so too, in time. For the moment you imagineme to be much better and prettier than I am--and that there is no onelike me!--poor Robin!--you are blind!--there are so many sweet andlovely girls, well born, with fathers and mothers to care for them--andyou, with your good looks and kind ways, could marry any one ofthem--and you will, some day! Good-night, dear! You have stayed here along time talking to me!--just suppose you were seen sitting on thiswindow-ledge so late!--it is past midnight!--what would be said of me!"
"What could be said?" demanded Robin, defiantly. "I came up here of myown accord,--the blame would be mine!"
She shook her head sadly, smiling a little.
"Ah, Robin! The man is never blamed! It's always the woman's fault!"
"Where's your fault to-night?" he asked.
"Oh, most plain!" she answered. "When I saw you coming, I ought to haveshut the window, drawn the curtains, and left you to clamber down thewall again as fast as you clambered up! But I wanted to tell you whathad happened--and how everything had changed for me--and now--now thatyou know all--good-night!"
He looked at her longingly. If she would only show some little sign oftenderness!--if he might just kiss her hand, he thought! But shewithdrew into the shadow, and he had no excuse for lingering.
"Good-night!" he said, softly. "Good-night, my angel Innocent!Good-night, my little love!"
She made no response and moved slowly backward into the room. But as hereluctantly left his point of vantage and began to descend, steppinglightly from branch to branch of the accommodating wistaria, he saw theshadowy outline of her figure once more as she stretched out a hand andclosed the lattice window, drawing a curtain across it. With thedrawing of that curtain the beauty of the summer night was over forhim, and poising himself lightly on a tough stem which was twistedstrongly enough to give him adequate support and which projected somefour feet above the smo
oth grass below, he sprang down. Scarcely had hetouched the ground when a man, leaping suddenly out of a thick clump ofbushes near that side of the house, caught him in a savage grip andshook him with all the fury of an enraged mastiff shaking a rat. Takenthus unawares, and rendered almost breathless by the swiftness of theattack, Clifford struggled in the grasp of his assailant and foughtwith him desperately for a moment without any idea of hisidentity,--then as by a dexterous twist of body he managed to partiallyextricate himself, he looked up and saw the face of Ned Landon, lividand convulsed with passion.
"Landon!" he gasped--"What's the matter with you? Are you mad?"
"Yes!" answered Landon, hoarsely--"And enough to make me so! You devil!You've ruined the girl!"
With a rapid movement, unexpected by his antagonist, Clifforddisengaged himself and stood free.
"You lie!" he said--"And you shall pay for it! Come away from the houseand fight like a man! Come into the grass meadow yonder, where no onecan see or hear us. Come!"
Landon paused, drawing his breath thickly, and looking like a snarlingbeast baulked of its prey.
"That's a trick!" he said, scornfully--"You'll run away!"
"Come!" repeated Clifford, vehemently--"You're more likely to run awaythan I am! Come!"
Landon glanced him over from head to foot--the moonbeams fell brightlyon his athletic figure and handsome face--then turned on his heel.
"No, I won't!" he said, curtly--"I've done all I want to do forto-night. I've shaken you like the puppy you are! To-morrow we'llsettle our differences."
For all answer Clifford sprang at him and struck him smartly across theface. In another moment both men were engaged in a fierce tussle, nonethe less deadly because so silent. A practised boxer and wrestler,Clifford grappled more and more closely with the bigger but clumsierman, dragging him steadily inch by inch further away from the house asthey fought. More desperate, more determined became the struggle, tillby two or three adroit manoeuvres Clifford got his opponent under himand bore him gradually to the ground, where, kneeling on his chest, hepinned him down.
"Let me go!" muttered Landon--"You're killing me!"
"Serve you right!" answered Clifford--"You scoundrel! My uncle shallknow of this!"
"Tell him what you like!" retorted Landon, faintly--"I don't care! Getoff my chest!--you're suffocating me!"
Clifford slightly relaxed the pressure of his hands and knees.
"Will you apologise?" he demanded.
"Apologise?--for what?"
"For your insolence to me and my cousin."
"Cousin be hanged!" snarled Landon--"She's no more your cousin than Iam--she's only a nameless bastard! I heard her tell you so! And fineairs she gives herself on nothing!"
"You miserable spy!" and Clifford again held him down as in avise--"Whatever you heard is none of your business! Will you apologise?"
"Oh, I'll apologise, if you like!--anything to get your weight offme!"--and Landon made an abortive effort to rise. "But I keep my ownopinion all the same!"
Slowly Robin released him, and watched him as he picked himself up,with an air of mingled scorn and pity. Landon laughed forcedly, passingone hand across his forehead and staring in a dazed fashion at theshadows cast on the ground by the moon.
"Yes--I keep my own opinion!" he repeated, stupidly. "You've got thebetter of me just now--but you won't always, my pert Cock Robin! Youwon't always. Don't you think it! Briar Farm and I may partcompany--but there's a bigger place than Briar Farm--there's theworld!--that's a wide field and plenty of crops growing on it! And themen that sow those kind of crops and reap them and bring them in, arebetter farmers than you'll ever be! As for your girl!"--here his facedarkened and he shook his fist towards the lattice window behind whichslept the unconscious cause of the quarrel--"You can keep her! A nice'Innocent' SHE is!--talking with a man in her bedroom aftermidnight!--why, I wouldn't have her as a gift--not now!"
Choking with rage, Clifford sprang towards him again--Landon steppedback.
"Hands off!" he said--"Don't touch me! I'm in a killing mood! I've aknife on me--you haven't. You're the master--I'm the man--and I'll playfair! I've my future to think of, and I don't want to start with amurder!"
With this, he turned his back and strode off, walking somewhatunsteadily like a blind man feeling his way.
Clifford stood for a moment, inert. The angry blood burned in hisface,--his hands were involuntarily clenched,--he was impatient withhimself for having, as he thought, let Landon off too easily. He saw atonce the possibility of mischief brewing, and hastily considered how itcould best be circumvented.
"The simplest way out of it is to make a clean breast of everything,"he decided, at last. "Tomorrow I'll see Uncle Hugo early in the morningand tell him just what has happened."
Under the influence of this resolve, he gradually calmed down andre-entered the house. And the moonlight, widening and then waning overthe smooth and peaceful meadows of Briar Farm, had it all its own wayfor the rest of the night, and as it filtered through the leafybranches of the elms and beeches which embowered the old tomb of theSieur Amadis de Jocelin it touched with a pale glitter the stone handsof his sculptured effigy,--hands that were folded prayerfully above themotto,--"Mon coeur me soutien!"