CHAPTER VI
"When I think about love," she began presently, in a soft dreamyvoice--"I'm quite sure that very few people ever really feel it orunderstand it. It must be the rarest thing in all the world! This poorSieur Amadis, asleep so long in his grave, was a true lover,--and Iwill tell you how I know he had said good-bye to love when he married.All those books we found in the old dower-chest, that day when we wereplaying about together as children, belonged to him--some are his owncompositions, written by his own hand,--the others, as you know, areprinted books which must have been difficult to get in his day, and arenow, I suppose, quite out of date and almost unknown. I have read themall!--my head is a little library full of odd volumes! But there isone--a manuscript book--which I never tire of reading,--it is a sort ofjournal in which the Sieur Amadis wrote down many of his ownfeelings--sometimes in prose, sometimes in verse--and by following themcarefully and piecing them together, it is quite easy to find out hissadness and secret--how he loved once and never loved again--"
"You can't tell that," interrupted Robin--"men often say they can onlylove once--but they love ever so many times--"
She smiled--and her eyes showed him what a stupid blunder he had made.
"Do they?" she queried, softly--"I am so glad, Robin! For you will findit easy then to love somebody else instead of me!"
He flushed, vexedly.
"I didn't mean that--" he began.
"No? I think you did!--but of course if you had thought twice youwouldn't have said it! It was uttered quite truly and naturally,Robin!--don't regret it! Only I want to explain to you that the SieurAmadis was not like that--he loved just once--and the lady he lovedmust have been a very beautiful woman who had plenty of admirers anddid not care for him at all. All he writes proves that. He is alwaysgrieved to the heart about it. Still he loved her--and he seems glad tohave loved her, though it was all no use. And he kept a littlechronicle of his dreams and fancies--all that he felt and thoughtabout,--it is beautifully and tenderly written all in quaint oldFrench. I had some trouble to make it out--but I did at last--everyword--and when he made up his mind to marry, he finished the littlebook and never wrote another word in it. Shall I tell you what were thelast lines he wrote?"
"It wouldn't be any use," he answered, kissing again the hand heheld--"I don't understand French. I've never even tried to learn it."
She laughed.
"I know you haven't! But you've missed a great deal, Robin!--you havereally! When I made up my mind to find out all the Sieur Amadis hadwritten, I got Priscilla to buy me a French dictionary and grammar andsome other French lesson-books besides--then I spelt all the wordscarefully and looked them all up in the dictionary, and learned thepronunciation from one of the lesson-books--and by-and-bye it got quiteeasy. For two years at least it was dreadfully hard work--butnow--well!--I think I could almost speak French if I had the chance!"
"I'm sure you could!" said Robin, looking at her, admiringly--"You're aclever little girl and could do anything you wanted to."
Her brows contracted a little,--the easy lightness of his complimenthad that air of masculine indifference which is more provoking to anintelligent woman than downright contradiction. The smile lingered inher eyes, however,--a smile of mingled amusement and compassion.
"Well, I wanted to understand the writing of the Sieur Amadis," shewent on, quietly--"and when I could understand them I translated them.So I can tell you the last words he wrote in his journal--just beforehe married,--in fact on the very eve of his marriage-day--" She pausedabruptly, and looked for a moment at the worn and battered tomb of theold knight, green with moss and made picturesque by a trailing branchof wild roses that had thrown itself across the stone effigy in anattempt to reach some of its neighbours on the opposite side. Robinfollowed her gaze with his own, and for a moment was more than usuallyimpressed by the calm, almost stern dignity of the recumbent figure.
"Go on," he said--"What were the words?"
"These"--and Innocent spoke them in a hushed voice, with sweetreverence and feeling--"'Tonight I pull down and put away for ever thegolden banner of my life's ideal. It has been held aloft too long inthe sunshine of a dream, and the lily broidered on its web is but awithered flower. My life is no longer of use to myself, but as a manand faithful knight I will make it serve another's pleasure andanother's good. And because this good and simple girl doth truly loveme, though her love was none of my seeking, I will give her her heart'sdesire, though mine own heart's desire shall never be accomplished,--Iwill make her my wife, and will be to her a true and loyal husband, sothat she may receive from me all she craves of happiness and peace. Forthough I fain would die rather than wed, I know that life is not givento a man to live selfishly, nor is God satisfied to have it wasted byany one who hath sworn to be His knight and servant. Therefore even solet it be!--I give all my unvalued existence to her who doth considerit valuable, and with all my soul I pray that I may make so gentle andtrustful a creature happy. But to Love--oh, to Love a longfarewell!--farewell my dreams!--farewell ambition!--farewell the gloryof the vision unattainable!--farewell bright splendour of an earthlyParadise!--for now I enter that prison which shall hold me fast tilldeath release me! Close, doors!--fasten, locks!--be patient in thysilent solitude, my Soul!'"
Innocent's voice faltered here--then she said--"That is the end. Hesigned it 'Amadis.'"
Robin was very quiet for a minute or two.
"It's pretty--very pretty and touching--and all that sort of thing," hesaid at last--"but it's like some old sonnet or mediaeval bit ofromance. No one would go on like that nowadays."
Innocent lifted her eyebrows, quizzically.
"Go on like what?"
He moved impatiently.
"Oh, about being patient in solitude with one's soul, and sayingfarewell to love." He gave a short laugh. "Innocent dear, I wish youwould see the world as it really is!--not through the old-stylespectacles of the Sieur Amadis! In his day people were altogetherdifferent from what they are now."
"I'm sure they were!" she answered, quietly--"But love is the sameto-day as it was then."
He considered a moment, then smiled.
"No, dear, I'm not sure that it is," he said. "Those knights and poetsand curious people of that kind lived in a sort of imaginaryecstasy--they exaggerated their emotions and lived at the top-height oftheir fancies. We in our time are much more sane and level-headed. Andit's much better for us in the long run."
She made no reply. Only very gently she withdrew her hand from his.
"I'm not a knight of old," he went on, turning his handsome,sun-browned face towards her,--"but I'm sure I love you as much as everthe Sieur Amadis could have loved his unknown lady. So much indeed do Ilove you that I couldn't write about it to save my life!--though I didwrite verses at Oxford once--very bad ones!" He laughed. "But I can doone thing the Sieur Amadis didn't do--I can keep faithful to my Visionof the glory unattainable'--and if I don't marry you I'll marryno-body--so there!"
She looked at him curiously and wistfully.
"You will not be so foolish," she said--"You will not put me into theposition of the Sieur Amadis, who married some one who loved him,merely out of pity!"
He sprang up from the grass beside her.
"No, no! I won't do that, Innocent! I'm not a coward! If you can't loveme, you shall not marry me, just because you are sorry for me! Thatwould be intolerable! I wouldn't have you for a wife at all under suchcircumstances. I shall be perfectly happy as a bachelor--perhapshappier than if I married."
"And what about Briar Farm?" she asked.
"Briar Farm can get on as best it may!" he replied, cheerily--"I'llwork on it as long as I live and hand it down to some one worthy of it,never fear! So there, Innocent!--be happy, and don't worry yourself!Keep to your old knight and your strange fancies about him--you may beright in your ideas of love, or you may be wrong; but the great pointwith me is that you should be happy--and if you cannot be happy in myway, why you must just be happy in your own!"
She looked at him with a new interest, as he stood upright, facing herin all the vigour and beauty of his young manhood. A little smile creptround the corners of her mouth.
"You are really a very handsome boy!" she said--"Quite a picture inyour way! Some girl will be very proud of you!"
He gave a movement of impatience.
"I must go back to the orchard," he said--"There's plenty to do. Andafter all, work's the finest thing in the world--quite as fine aslove--perhaps finer!"
A faint sense of compunction moved her at his words--she was consciousof a lurking admiration for his cool, strong, healthy attitude towardslife and the things of life. And yet she was resentful that he shouldbe capable of considering anything in the world "finer" than love.Work? What work? Pruning trees and gathering apples? Surely there weregreater ambitions than these? She watched him thoughtfully under thefringe of her long eyelashes, as he moved off.
"Going to the orchard?" she asked.
"Yes."
She smiled a little.
"That's right!"
He glanced back at her. Had she known how bravely he restrained himselfshe might have made as much a hero of him as of the knight Amadis. Forhe was wounded to the heart--his brightest hopes were frustrated, andat the very instant he walked away from her he would have given hislife to have held her for a moment in his arms,--to have kissed herlips, and whispered to her the pretty, caressing love-nonsense which towarm and tender hearts is the sweetest language in the world. And withall his restrained passion he was irritated with what, from a man'spoint of view, he considered folly on her part,--he felt that shedespised his love and himself for no other reason than a mere romanticidea, bred of loneliness and too much reading of a literature alien tothe customs and manners of the immediate time, and an uncomfortablepremonition of fear for her future troubled his mind.
"Poor little girl!" he thought--"She does not know the world!--and whenshe DOES come to know it--ah, my poor Innocent!--I would rather shenever knew!"
Meanwhile she, left to herself, was not without a certain feeling ofregret. She was not sure of her own mind--and she had no control overher own fancies. Every now and then a wave of conviction came over herthat after all tender-hearted old Priscilla might be right--that itwould be best to marry Robin and help him to hold and keep Briar Farmas it had ever been kept and held since the days of the Sieur Amadis.Perhaps, had she never heard the story of her actual condition, as toldher by Farmer Jocelyn on the previous night, she might have consentedto what seemed so easy and pleasant a lot in life; but now it seemed toher more than impossible. She no longer had any link with the far-awayancestor who had served her so long as a sort of ideal--she was a merefoundling without any name save the unbaptised appellation of Innocent.And she regarded herself as a sort of castaway.
She went into the house soon after Robin had left her, and busiedherself with sorting the linen and looking over what had to be mended."For when I go," she said to herself, "they must find everything inorder." She dined alone with Priscilla--Robin sent word that he was toobusy to come in. She was a little piqued at this--and almost cross whenhe sent the same message at tea-time,--but she was proud in her wayand would not go out to see if she could persuade him to leave his workfor half-an-hour. The sun was slowly declining when she suddenly putdown her sewing, struck by a thought which had not previously occurredto her--and ran fleetly across the garden to the orchard, where shefound Robin lying on his back under the trees with closed eyes. Heopened them, hearing the light movement of her feet and the softflutter of her gown--but he did not rise. She stopped--looking at him.
"Were you asleep?"
He stretched his arms above his head, lazily.
"I believe I was!" he answered, smiling.
"And you wouldn't come in to tea!" This with a touch of annoyance.
"Oh yes, I would, if I had wanted tea," he replied--"but I didn't wantit."
"Nor my company, I suppose," she added, with a little shrug of hershoulders. His eyes flashed mischievously.
"Oh, I daresay that had something to do with it!" he agreed.
A curious vexation fretted her. She wished he would not look sohandsome--and--yes!--so indifferent. An impression of loneliness anddesertion came over her--he, Robin, was not the same to her now--so shefancied--no doubt he had been thinking hard all the day while doing hiswork, and at last had come to the conclusion that it was wisest afterall to let her go and cease to care for her as he had done. A littlethrobbing pulse struggled in her throat--a threat of rising tears,--butshe conquered the emotion and spoke in a voice which, though ittrembled, was sweet and gentle.
"Robin," she said--"don't you think--wouldn't it be better--perhaps--"
He looked up at her wonderingly--she seemed nervous or frightened.
"What is it?" he asked--"Anything you want me to do?"
"Yes"--and her eyes drooped--"but I hardly like to say it. You see, Dadmade up his mind this morning that we were to settle thingstogether--and he'll be angry and disappointed--"
Robin half-raised himself on one arm.
"He'll be angry and disappointed if we don't settle it, you mean," hesaid--"and we certainly haven't settled it. Well?"
A faint colour flushed her face.
"Couldn't we pretend it's all right for the moment?" shesuggested--"Just to give him a little peace of mind?"
He looked at her steadily.
"You mean, couldn't we deceive him?"
"Yes!--for his good! He has deceived ME all my life,--I suppose for MYgood--though it has turned out badly--"
"Has it? Why?"
"It has left me nameless," she answered,--"and friendless."
A sudden rush of tears blinded her eyes--she put her hands over them.He sprang up and, taking hold of her slender wrists, tried to drawthose hands down. He succeeded at last, and looked wistfully into herface, quivering with restrained grief.
"Dear, I will do what you like!" he said. "Tell me--what is your wish?"
She waited a moment, till she had controlled herself a little.
"I thought"--she said, then--"that we might tell Dad just for to-nightthat we are engaged--it would make him happy--and perhaps in a week ortwo we might get up a quarrel together and break it off--"
Robin smiled.
"Dear little girl!--I'm afraid the plan wouldn't work! He wants thebanns put up on Sunday--and this is Wednesday."
Her brows knitted perplexedly.
"Something can be managed before then," she said. "Robin, I cannot bearto disappoint him! He's old--and he's so ill too!--it wouldn't hurt usfor one night to say we are engaged!"
"All right!"--and Robin threw back his head and laughed joyously--"Idon't mind! The sensation of even imagining I'm engaged to you is quiteagreeable! For one evening, at least, I can assume a sort ofproprietorship over you! Innocent! I--I--"
He looked so mirthful and mischievous that she smiled, though theteardrops still sparkled on her lashes.
"Well? What are you thinking of now?" she asked.
"I think--I really think--under the circumstances I ought to kiss you!"he said--"Don't you feel it would be right and proper? Even on thestage the hero and heroine ACT a kiss when they're engaged!"
She met his laughing glance with quiet steadfastness.
"I cannot act a kiss," she said--"You can, if you like! I don't mind."
"You don't mind?"
"No."
He looked from right to left--the apple-boughs, loaded with rosy fruit,were intertwined above them like a canopy--the sinking sun made mellowgold of all the air, and touched the girl's small figure with adelicate luminance--his heart beat, and for a second his senses swam ina giddy whirl of longing and ecstasy--then he suddenly pulled himselftogether.
"Dear Innocent, I wouldn't kiss you for the world!" he said,gently--"It would be taking a mean advantage of you. I only spoke infun. There!--dry your pretty eyes!--you sweet, strange, romantic littlesoul! You shall have it all your own way!"
She dre
w a long breath of evident relief.
"Then you'll tell your uncle--"
"Anything you like!" he answered. "By-the-bye, oughtn't he to be homeby this time?"
"He may have been kept by some business," she said--"He won't be longnow. You'll say we're engaged?"
"Yes."
"And perhaps"--went on Innocent--"you might ask him not to have thebanns put up yet as we don't want it known quite so soon--"
"I'll do all I can," he replied, cheerily--"all I can to keep himquiet, and to make you happy! There! I can't say more!"
Her eyes shone upon him with a grateful tenderness.
"You are very good, Robin!"
He laughed.
"Good! Not I! But I can't bear to see you fret--if I had my way youshould never know a moment's trouble that I could keep from you. But Iknow I'm not a patch on your old stone knight who wrote such a lotabout his 'ideal'--and yet went and married a country wench and had sixchildren. Don't frown, dear! Nothing will make me say he was romantic!Not a bit of it! He wrote a lot of romantic things, of course--but hedidn't mean half of them!--I'm sure he didn't!"
She coloured indignantly.
"You say that because you know nothing about it," she said--"You havenot read his writings."
"No--and I'm not sure that I want to," he answered, gaily. "DearInnocent, you must remember that I was at Oxford--my dear old fatherand mother scraped and screwed every penny they could get to send methere--and I believe I acquitted myself pretty well--but one of thebest things I learned was the general uselessness and vanity of thefellows that called themselves 'literary.' They chiefly went in fordisparaging and despising everyone who did not agree with them andthink just as they did. Mulish prigs, most of them!" and Robin laughedhis gay and buoyant laugh once more--"They didn't know that I was allthe time comparing them with the honest type of farmer--the man wholives an outdoor life with God's air blowing upon him, and the soilturned freshly beneath him!--I love books, too, in my way, but I loveNature better."
"And do not poets help you to understand Nature?" asked Innocent.
"The best of them do--such as Shakespeare and Keats and Tennyson,--butthey were of the past. The modern men make you almost despiseNature,--more's the pity! They are always studying THEMSELVES, andanalysing THEMSELVES, and pitying THEMSELVES--now _I_ always say, theless of one's self the better, in order to understand other people."
Innocent's eyes regarded him with quiet admiration.
"Yes, you are a thoroughly good boy," she said--"I have told you sooften. But--I'm not sure that I should always get on with anyone asgood as you are!"
She turned away then, and moved towards the house. As she went, shesuddenly stopped and clapped her hands, calling:
"Cupid! Cupid! Cu-COO-pid!"
A flash of white wings glimmered in the sunset-light, and her pet doveflew to her, circling round and round till it dropped on heroutstretched arm. She caught it to her bosom, kissing its soft headtenderly, and murmuring playful words to it. Robin watched her, as withthis favourite bird-playmate she disappeared across the garden and intothe house. Then he gave a gesture half of despair, half ofresignation--and left the orchard.
The sun sank, and the evening shadows began to steal slowly in theirlong darkening lines over the quiet fields, and yet Farmer Jocelyn hadnot yet returned. The women of the household grew anxious--Priscillawent to the door many times, looking up the tortuous by-road for thefirst glimpse of the expected returning vehicle--and Innocent stood inthe garden near the porch, as watchful as a sentinel and as silent. Atlast the sound of trotting hoofs was heard in the far distance, andRobin, suddenly making his appearance from the stable-yard where he toohad been waiting, called cheerily,--
"Uncle at last! Here he comes!"
Another few minutes and the mare's head turned the corner--then thewhole dog-cart came into view with Farmer Jocelyn driving it. But hewas quite alone.
Robin and Innocent exchanged surprised glances, but had no time to makeany comment as old Hugo just then drove up and, throwing the reins tohis nephew, alighted.
"Aren't you very late, Dad?" said Innocent then, going to meet him--"Iwas beginning to be quite anxious!"
"Were you? Poor little one! I'm all right! I had business--I was keptlonger than I expected--" Here he turned quickly to Robin--"Unharness,boy!--unharness!--and come in to supper!"
"Where's Landon?" asked Robin.
"Landon? Oh, I've left him in the town."
He pulled off his driving-gloves, and unbuttoned his overcoat--thenstrode into the house. Innocent followed him--she was puzzled by hislook and manner, and her heart beat with a vague sense of fear. Therewas something about the old man that was new and strange to her. Shecould not define it, but it filled her mind with a curious andinexplicable uneasiness. Priscilla, who was setting the dishes on thetable in the room where the cloth was laid for supper, had the sameuncomfortable impression when she saw him enter. His face was unusuallypale and drawn, and the slight stoop of age in his otherwise uprightfigure seemed more pronounced than usual. He drew up his chair to thetable and sat down,--then ruffling his fine white hair over his browwith one hand, looked round him with an evidently forced smile.
"Anxious about me, were you, child?" he said, as Innocent took herplace beside him. "Well, well! you need not have given me a thought!I--I was all right--all right! I made a bit of a bargain in thetown--but the prices were high--and Landon--"
He broke off suddenly and stared in front of him with strange fixedeyeballs.
Innocent and Priscilla looked at one another in alarm. There was amoment's tense stillness,--then Innocent said in rather a tremblingvoice--
"Yes, Dad? You were saying something about Landon--"
The stony glare faded from his eyes and he looked at her with a morenatural expression.
"Landon? Did I speak of him? Oh yes!--Landon met with some fellows heknew and decided to spend the evening with them--he asked me for anight off--and I gave it to him. Yes--I--I gave it to him."
Just then Robin entered.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed, gaily--"At supper? Don't begin without me! Isay, Uncle, is Landon coming back to-night?"
Jocelyn turned upon him sharply.
"No!" he answered, in so fierce a tone that Robin stood amazed--"Why doyou all keep on asking me about Landon? He loves drink more than life,and he's having all he wants to-night. I've let him off work to-morrow."
Robin was silent for a moment out of sheer surprise.
"Oh well, that's all right, if you don't mind," he said, atlast--"We're pretty busy--but I daresay we can manage without him."
"I should think so!" and Hugo gave a short laugh of scorn--"Briar Farmwould have come to a pretty pass if it could not get on without a manlike Landon!"
There was another silent pause.
Priscilla gave an anxious side-glance at Innocent's troubled face, anddecided to relieve the tension by useful commonplace talk.
"Well, Landon or no Landon, supper's ready!" she said, briskly--"andit's been waiting an hour at least. Say grace, Mister Jocelyn, and I'llcarve!"
Jocelyn looked at her bewilderedly.
"Say grace?" he queried--"what for?"
Priscilla laughed loudly to cover the surprise she felt.
"What for? Lor, Mister Jocelyn, if you don't know I'm sure I don't! Forthe beef and potatoes, I suppose, an' all the stuff we eats--'for whatwe are going to receive--'"
"Ah, yes! I remember--'May the Lord make us truly thankful!'" respondedJocelyn, closing his eyes for a second and then opening themagain--"And I'll tell you what, Priscilla!--there's a deal more to bethankful for to-night than beef and potatoes!--a great deal more!"