CHAPTER VIII
The news of Farmer Jocelyn's sudden death was as though a cloud-bursthad broken over the village, dealing utter and hopeless destruction. Tothe little community of simple workaday folk living round Briar Farm itwas a greater catastrophe than the death of any king. Nothing else wastalked of. Nothing was done. Men stood idly about, looking at eachother in a kind of stupefied consternation,--women chattered andwhispered at their cottage doors, shaking their heads with all thatmelancholy profundity of wisdom which is not wise till after theevent,--the children were less noisy in their play, checked by thegrave faces of their parents--the very dogs seemed to know thatsomething had occurred which altered the aspect of ordinary dailythings. The last of the famous Jocelyns was no more! It seemedincredible. And Briar Farm? What would become of Briar Farm?
"There ain't none o' th' owd folk left now" said one man, lighting hispipe slowly--"It's all over an' done wi'. Mister Clifford, he's goodenow--but he ain't a Jocelyn, though a Jocelyn were his mother. 'Tisthe male side as tells. An' he's young, an' he'll want change an'rovin' about like all young men nowadays, an' the place'll be broke up,an' the timber felled, an' th' owd oak'll be sold to a dealer, an'Merrikans'll come an' buy the pewter an' the glass an' the linen, an'by-an'-bye we won't know there ever was such a farm at all--"
"That's your style o' thinkin', is it?" put in another man standing by,with a round straw hat set back upon his head in a fashion which gavehim the appearance of a village idiot--"Well, it's not mine! No, by nomeans! There'll be a Will,--an' Mister Robin he'll find a Way! BriarFarm'll allus be Briar Farm accordin' to MY mind!"
"YOUR mind ain't much," growled the first speaker--"so don't ye gosettin' store by it. Lord, Lord! to think o' Farmer Jocelyn bein' gone!Seems as if a right 'and 'ad bin cut off! Onny yesterday I met 'imdrivin' along the road at a tearin' pace, with Ned Landon sittin'beside 'im--an' drivin' fine too, for the mare's a tricky one with amouth as 'ard as iron--but 'e held 'er firm--that 'e did!--no weaknessabout 'im--an' 'e was talkin' away to Landon while 'e drove, 'ardlylookin' right or left, 'e was that sure of hisself. An' now 'e's coldas stone--who would a' thort it!"
"Where's Landon?" asked the other man.
"I dunno. He's nowhere about this mornin' that I've seen."
At that moment a figure came into view, turning the corner of a lane atthe end of the scattered thatched cottages called "the village,"--aportly, consequential-looking figure, which both men recognised as thatof the parson of the parish, and they touched their caps accordingly.The Reverend William Medwin, M.A., was a great personage,--and his"cure of souls" extended to three other villages outlying the one ofwhich Briar Farm was the acknowledged centre.
"Good-morning!" he said, with affable condescension--"I hear thatFarmer Jocelyn died suddenly last night. Is it true?"
Both men nodded gravely.
"Yes, sir, it's true--more's the pity! It's took us all aback."
"Ay, ay!" and Mr. Medwin nodded blandly--"No doubt-no doubt! But Isuppose the farm will go on just the same?--there will be no lack ofemployment?"
The man who was smoking looked doubtful.
"Nobuddy can tell--m'appen the place will be sold--m'appen it won't.The hands may be kept, or they may be given the sack. There's only Mr.Clifford left now, an' 'e ain't a Jocelyn."
"Does that matter?" and the reverend gentleman smiled with the superiorair of one far above all things of mere traditional sentiment. "Thereis the girl--"
"Ah, yes! There's the girl!"
The speakers looked at one another.
"Her position," continued Mr. Medwin, meditatively tracing a pattern onthe ground with the end of his walking-stick, "seems to me to be alittle unfortunate. But I presume she is really the daughter of ourdeceased friend?"
The man who was smoking took the pipe from his mouth and stared for amoment.
"Daughter she may be," he said, "but born out o' wedlock anyhow--an'she ain't got no right to Briar Farm unless th' owd man 'as made 'erlegal. An' if 'e's done that it don't alter the muddle, 'cept in theeyes o' the law which can twist ye any way--for she was born bastard,an' there's never been a bastard Jocelyn on Briar Farm all the hundredso' years it's been standin'!"
Mr. Medwin again interested himself in a dust pattern.
"Ah, dear, dear!" he sighed--"Very sad, very sad! Our follies alwaysfind us out, if not while we live, then when we die! I'm sorry! FarmerJocelyn was not a Churchman--no!--a regrettable circumstance!--still,I'm sorry! He was a useful person in the parish--quite honest, Ibelieve, and a very fair and good master--"
"None better!" chorussed his listeners.
"True! None better. Well, well! I'll just go up to the house and see ifI can be of any service, or--or comfort---"
One of the men smiled darkly.
"Sartin sure Farmer Jocelyn's as dead as door-nails. If so be you area-goin' to Briar Farm, Mr. Medwin!" he said--"Why, you never set footin the place while 'e was a livin' man!"
"Quite correct!" and Mr. Medwin nodded pleasantly--"I make it a rulenever to go where I'm not wanted." He paused, impressively,--consciousthat he had "scored." "But now that trouble has visited the house Iconsider it my duty to approach the fatherless and the afflicted.Good-day!"
He walked off then, treading ponderously and wearing a composed andserious demeanour. The men who had spoken with him were quickly joinedby two or three others.
"Parson goin' to the Farm?" they enquired.
"Ay!"
"We'll 'ave gooseberries growin' on hayricks next!" declared a young,rough-featured fellow in a smock--"anythin' can 'appen now we've lostthe last o' the Jocelyns!"
And such was the general impression throughout the district. Men met inthe small public-houses and over their mugs of beer discussed thepossibilities of emigrating to Canada or New Zealand, for--"there'll beno more farm work worth doin' round 'ere"--they all declared--"MisterJocelyn wanted MEN, an' paid 'em well for workin' LIKE men!--but it'llall be machines now."
Meanwhile, the Reverend Mr. Medwin, M.A., had arrived at Briar Farm.Everything was curiously silent. All the blinds were down--thestable-doors were closed, and the stable-yard was empty. The sunlightswept in broad slanting rays over the brilliant flower-beds which werenow at their gayest and best,--the doves lay sleeping on the roofs ofsheds and barns as though mesmerised and forbidden to fly. A markedloneliness clouded the peaceful beauty of the place--a loneliness thatmade itself seen and felt by even the most casual visitor.
With a somewhat hesitating hand Mr. Medwin pulled the door-bell. In aminute or two a maid answered the summons--her eyes were red withweeping. At sight of the clergyman she looked surprised and a littlefrightened.
"How is Miss--Miss Jocelyn?" he enquired, softly--"I have only justheard the sad news--"
"She's not able to see anyone, sir," replied the maid, tremulously--"atleast I don't think so--I'll ask. She's very upset--"
"Of course, of course!" said Mr. Medwin, soothingly--"I quiteunderstand! Please say I called! Mr. Clifford--"
A figure stepped out from the interior darkness of the shadowed halltowards him.
"I am here," said Robin, gently--"Did you wish to speak to me? This isa house of heavy mourning to-day!"
The young man's voice shook,--he was deadly pale, and there was astrained look in his eyes of unshed tears. Mr. Medwin was conscious ofnervous embarrassment.
"Indeed, indeed I know it is!" he murmured--"I feel for you mostprofoundly! So sudden a shock too!--I--I thought that perhaps MissJocelyn--a young girl struck by her first great loss and sorrow, mightlike to see me--"
Robin Clifford looked at him in silence for a moment. The consolationsof the Church! Would they mean anything to Innocent? He wondered.
"I will ask her," he said at last, abruptly--"Will you step inside?"
Mr. Medwin accepted the suggestion, taking off his hat as he crossedthe threshold, and soon found himself in the quaint sitting-room where,but two days since, Hugo Jocelyn had told Innocent all her truehistory. He could not
help being impressed by its old-world peace andbeauty, furnished as it was in perfect taste, with its window-outlookon a paradise of happy flowers rejoicing in the sunlight. The fragranceof sweet lavender scented the air, and a big china bowl of roses in thecentre of the table gave a touch of tender brightness to the old oakpanelling on the walls.
"There are things in this room that are priceless!" soliloquised theclergyman, who was something of a collector--"If the place comes underthe hammer I shall try to pick up a few pieces."
He smiled, with the pleased air of one who feels that all things musthave an end--either by the "hammer" or otherwise,--even a fine oldhouse, the pride and joy of a long line of its owners during threehundred years. And then he started, as the door opened slowly andsoftly and a girl stood before him, looking more like a spirit than amortal, clad in a plain white gown, with a black ribbon threadedthrough her waving fair hair. She was pale to the very lips, and hereyes were swollen and heavy with weeping. Timidly she held out her hand.
"It is kind of you to come," she said,--and paused.
He, having taken her hand and let it go again, stood awkwardly mute. Itwas the first time he had seen Innocent in her home surroundings, andhe had hardly noticed her at all when he had by chance met her in herrare walks through the village and neighbourhood, so that he wasaltogether unprepared for the refined delicacy and grace of herappearance.
"I am very sorry to hear of your sad bereavement," he began, at last,in a conventional tone--"very sorry indeed--"
She looked at him curiously.
"Are you? I don't think you can be sorry, because you did not knowhim--if you had known him, you would have been really grieved--yes, Iam sure you would. He was such a good man!--one of the best in all theworld! I'm glad you have come to see me, because I have often wanted tospeak to you--and perhaps now is the right time. Won't you sit down?"
He obeyed her gesture, surprised more or less by her quiet air of sadself-possession. He had expected to offer the usual forms of religiousconsolation to a sort of uneducated child or farm-girl, nervous,trembling and tearful,--instead of this he found a woman whose griefwas too deep and sincere to be relieved by mere talk, and whosepathetic composure and patience were the evident result of a highlysensitive mental organisation.
"I have never seen death before," she said, in hushed tones--"except inbirds and flowers and animals--and I have cried over the poor thingsfor sorrow that they should be taken away out of this beautiful world.But with Dad it is different. He was afraid--afraid of suffering andweakness--and he was taken so quickly that he could hardly have feltanything--so that his fears were all useless. And I can hardly believehe is dead--actually dead--can you? But of course you do not believe indeath at all--the religion you teach is one of eternal life--eternallife and happiness."
Mr. Medwin's lips moved--he murmured something about "living again inthe Lord."
Innocent did not hear,--she was absorbed in her own mental problem andanxious to put it before him.
"Listen!" she said--"When Priscilla told me Dad was really dead--thathe would never get off the bed where he lay so cold and white andpeaceful,--that he would never speak to me again, I said she waswrong--that it could not be. I told her he would wake presently andlaugh at us all for being so foolish as to think him dead. Even Hero,our mastiff, does not believe it, for he has stayed all morning by thebedside and no one dare touch him to take him away. And just nowPriscilla has been with me, crying very much--and she says I must notgrieve,--because Dad is gone to a better world. Then surely he must bealive if he is able to go anywhere, must he not? I asked her what sheknew about this better world, and she cried again and said indeed sheknew nothing except what she had been taught in her Catechism. I haveread the Catechism and it seems to me very stupid andunnatural--perhaps because I do not understand it. Can you tell meabout this better world?"
Mr. Medwin's lips moved again. He cleared his throat.
"I'm afraid," he observed--"I'm very much afraid, my poor child, thatyou have been brought up in a sad state of ignorance."
Innocent did not like being called a "poor child"--and she gave alittle gesture of annoyance.
"Please do not pity me," she said, with a touch of hauteur--"I do notwish that! I know it is difficult for me to explain things to you as Isee them, because I have never been taught religion from a Church. Ihave read about the Virgin and Christ and the Saints and all thosepretty legends in the books that belonged to the Sieur Amadis--but helived three hundred years ago and he was a Roman Catholic, as all thoseFrench noblemen were at that time."
Mr. Medwin stared at her in blank bewilderment. Who was the SieurAmadis? She went on, heedless of his perplexity.
"Dad believed in a God who governed all things rightly,--I have heardhim say that God managed the farm and made it what it is. But he neverspoke much about it--and he hated the Church--"
The reverend gentleman interrupted her with a grave uplifted hand.
"I know!" he sighed--"Ah yes, I know! A dreadful thing!--a shockingattitude of mind!' I fear he was not saved!"
She looked straightly at him.
"I don't see what you mean," she said--"He was quite a good man--"
"Are you sure of that?" and Mr. Medwin fixed his shallow brown eyessearchingly upon her. "Our affections are often very deceptive--"
A flush of colour overspread her pale cheeks.
"Indeed I am very sure!" she answered, steadily--"He was a good man.There was never a stain on his character--though he allowed people tothink wrong things of him for my sake. That was his only fault."
He was silent, waiting for her next word.
"I think perhaps I ought to tell you," she continued--"because then youwill be able to judge him better and spare his memory from foolish andwicked scandal. He was not my father--I was only his adopted daughter."
Mr. Medwin gave a slight cough--a cough of incredulity. "Adopted" is aphrase often used to cover the brand of illegitimacy.
"I never knew my own history till the other day," she said, slowly andsadly. "The doctor came to see Dad, with a London specialist, a friendof his--and they told him he had not long to live. After that Dad madeup his mind that I must learn all the truth of myself--oh!--what aterrible truth it was!--I thought my heart would break! It was sostrange--so cruel! I had grown up believing myself to be Dad's own,very own daughter!--and I had been deceived all my life!--for he toldme I was nothing but a nameless child, left on his hands by a stranger!"
Mr. Medwin opened his small eyes in amazement,--he was completely takenaback. He tried to grasp the bearings of this new aspect of thesituation thus presented to him, but could not realise anything savewhat in his own mind was he pleased to call a "cock-and-bull" story.
"Most extraordinary!" he ejaculated, at last--"Did he give you no clueat all as to your actual parentage?"
Innocent shook her head.
"How could he? A man on horseback arrived here suddenly one very stormynight, carrying me in his arms--I was just a little baby--and askedshelter for me, promising to come and fetch me in the morning--but henever came--and Dad never knew who he was. I was kept here out of pityat first--then Dad began to love me--"
The suppressed tears rose to her eyes and began to fall.
"Priscilla can tell you all about it," she continued, tremulously--"ifyou wish to know more. I am only explaining things a little because Ido want you to understand that Dad was really a good man though he didnot go to Church--and he must have been 'saved,' as you put it, for henever did anything unworthy of the name of Jocelyn!"
The clergyman thought a moment.
"You are not Miss Jocelyn, then?" he said.
She met his gaze with a sorrowful calmness.
"No. I am nobody. I have not even been baptised."
He sprang up from his chair, horrified.
"Not baptised!" he exclaimed--"Not baptised! Do you mean to tell methat Farmer Jocelyn never attended to this imperative and sacred dutyon your behalf?--that he allowed you to grow u
p as a heathen?"
She remained unmoved by his outburst.
"I am not a heathen," she said, gently--"I believe in God--as Dadbelieved. I'm sorry I have not been baptised--but it has made nodifference to me that I know of--"
"No difference!" and the clergyman rolled up his eyes and shook hishead ponderously--"You poor unfortunate girl, it has made all thedifference in the world! You are unregenerate--your soul is not washedclean--all your sins are upon you, and you are not redeemed!"
She looked at him tranquilly.
"That is all very sad for me if it is true," she said--"but it is notmy fault. I could not help it. Dad couldn't help it either--he did notknow what to do. He expected that I might be claimed and taken away anyday--and he had no idea what name to give me--except Innocent--which isa name I suppose no girl ever had before. He used to get money fromtime to time in registered envelopes, bearing different foreignpostmarks--and there was always a slip of paper inside with the words'For Innocent' written on it. So that name has been my only name. Yousee, it was very difficult for him--poor Dad!--besides, he did notbelieve in baptism--"
"Then he was an infidel!" declared Mr. Medwin, hotly.
Her serious blue eyes regarded him reproachfully.
"I don't think you should say that--it isn't quite kind on your part,"she replied--"He always thanked God for prosperity, and nevercomplained when things went wrong--that is not being an infidel! Evenwhen he knew he was hopelessly ill, he never worried anyone aboutit--he was only just a little afraid-and that was perfectly natural.We're all a little afraid, you know--though we pretend we're not--noneof us like the idea of leaving this lovely world and the sunshine forever. Even Hamlet was afraid,--Shakespeare makes him say so. And whenone has lived all one's life on Briar Farm--such a sweet peacefulhome!--one can hardly fancy anything better, even in a next world!No--Dad was not an infidel--please do not think such a thing!--he onlydied last night--and I feel as if it would hurt him."
Mr. Medwin was exceedingly embarrassed and annoyed--there was somethingin the girl's quiet demeanour that suggested a certain intellectualsuperiority to himself. He hummed and hawed, lurking various unpleasantthroaty noises.
"Well--to me, of course, it is a very shocking state of affairs," hesaid, irritably--"I hardly think I can be of any use--or consolation toyou in the matters you have spoken of, which are quite outside my scopealtogether. If you have anything to say about the funeralarrangements--but I presume Mr. Clifford--"
"Mr. Clifford is master here now," she answered--"He will give his ownorders, and will do all that is best and wisest. As I have told you, Iam a name-less nobody, and have no right in this house at all. I'msorry if I have vexed or troubled you--but as you called I thought itwas right to tell you how I am situated. You see, when poor Dad isburied I shall be going away at once--and I had an idea you mightperhaps help me--you are God's minister."
He wrinkled up his brows and looked frowningly at her.
"You are leaving Briar Farm?" he asked.
"I must. I have no right to stay."
"Is Mr. Clifford turning you out?"
A faint, sad smile crept round the girl's pretty, sensitive mouth.
"Ah, no! No, indeed! He would not turn a dog out that had once takenfood from his hand," she said. "It is my own wish entirely. When Dadwas alive there was something for me to do in taking care of him--butnow!--there is no need for me--I should feel in the way--besides, Imust try to earn my own living."
"What do you propose to do?" asked Mr. Medwin, whose manner to her hadcompletely changed from the politely patronising to the sharplyaggressive--"Do you want a situation?"
She lifted her eyes to his fat, unpromising face.
"Yes--I should like one very much--I could be a lady's maid, I think, Ican sew very well. But--perhaps you would baptise me first?"
He gave a sound between a cough and a grunt.
"Eh? Baptise you?"
"Yes,--because if I am unregenerate, and my soul is not clean, as yousay, no one would take me--not even as a lady's maid."
Her quaint, perfectly simple way of putting the case made him angry.
"I'm afraid you are not sufficiently aware of the importance of thesacred rite,"--he said, severely--"At your age you would need to beinstructed for some weeks before you could be considered fit andworthy. Then,--you tell me you have no name!--Innocent is not a name atall for a woman--I do not know who you are--you are ignorant of yourparentage--you may have been born out of wedlock--"
She coloured deeply.
"I am not sure of that," she said, in a low tone.
"No--of course you are not sure,--but I should say the probability isthat you are illegitimate"--and the reverend gentleman took up his hatto go. "The whole business is very perplexing and difficult. However, Iwill see what can be done for you--but you are in a very awkwardcorner!--very awkward indeed! Life will not be very easy for you, Ifear!"
"I do not expect ease," she replied--"I have been very happy tillnow--and I am grateful for the past. I must make my own future."
Her eyes filled with tears as she looked out through the open window atthe fair garden which she herself had tended for so long--and she sawthe clergyman's portly form through a mist of sorrow as in half-heartedfashion he bade her good-day.
"I hope--I fervently trust--that God will support you in yourbereavement," he said, unctuously--"I had intended before leaving tooffer up a prayer with you for the soul of the departed and for yourown soul--but the sad fact of your being unbaptised places me in adifficulty. But I shall not fail personally to ask our Lord to prepareyou for the unfortunate change in your lot!"
"Thank you!" she replied, quietly--and without further salute he lefther.
She stood for a moment considering--then sat down by the window,looking at the radiant flowerbeds, with all their profusion of blossom.She wondered dreamily how they could show such brave, gay colouringwhen death was in the house, and the aching sense of loss and sorrowweighted the air as with darkness. A glitter of white wings flashedbefore her eyes, and her dove alighted on the window-sill,--shestretched out her hand and the petted bird stepped on her little rosypalm with all its accustomed familiarity and confidence. She caressedit tenderly.
"Poor Cupid!" she murmured--"You are like me--you areunregenerate!--you have never been baptised!--your soul has not beenwashed clean!--and all your sins are on your head! Yes, Cupid!--we arevery much alike!--for I don't suppose you know your own father andmother any more than I know mine! And yet God made you--and He hastaken care of you--so far!"
She stroked the dove's satiny plumage gently--and then drew back alittle into shadow as she saw Robin Clifford step out from the porchinto the garden and hurriedly interrupt the advance of a woman who justthen pushed open the outer gate--a slatternly-looking creature withdark dishevelled hair and a face which might have been handsome, butfor its unmistakable impress of drink and dissipation.
"Eh, Mr. Clifford--it's you, is it?" she exclaimed, in shrill tones."An' Farmer Jocelyn's dead!--who'd a' thought it! But I'd 'ave 'ad abone to pick with 'im this mornin', if he'd been livin'--that Iwould!--givin' sack to Ned Landon without a warning to me!"
Innocent leaned forward, listening eagerly, with an uncomfortablybeating heart. Through all the miserable, slow, and aching hours thathad elapsed since Hugo Jocelyn's death, there had been a secret anxietyin her mind concerning Ned Landon and the various possibilitiesinvolved in his return to the farm, when he should learn that hisemployer was no more, and that Robin was sole master.
"I've come up to speak with ye," continued the woman,--"It's pretty'ard on me to be left in the ditch, with a man tumbling ye off hishorse an' ridin' away where ye can't get at 'im!" She laughed harshly."Ned's gone to 'Merriker!"
"Gone to America!"--Robin's voice rang out in sharp accents ofsurprise--"Ned Landon? Why, when did you hear that?"
"Just now--his own letter came with the carrier's cart--he left thetown last night and takes ship from Southampton to-day. And why?Because
Farmer Jocelyn gave him five hundred pounds to do it! Sothere's some real news for ye!"
"Five hundred pounds!" echoed Clifford--"My Uncle Hugo gave him fivehundred pounds!"
"Ay, ye may stare!"--and the woman laughed again--"And the devil hastaken it all,--except a five-pun' note which he sends to me to 'keep megoin',' he says. Like his cheek! I'm not his wife, that's true!--butI'm as much as any wife--an' there's the kid--"
Robin glanced round apprehensively at the open window.
"Hush!" he said--"don't talk so loud--"
"The dead can't hear," she said, scornfully--"an' Ned says in hisletter that he's been sent off all on account of you an' your light o'love--Innocent, she's called--a precious 'innocent' SHE is!--an' thatthe old man has paid 'im to go away an' 'old his tongue! So it's allYOUR fault, after all, that I'm left with the kid to rub alonganyhow;--he might ave married me in a while, if he'd stayed. I'm onlyJenny o' Mill-Dykes now--just as I've always been--the toss an' catchof every man!--but I 'ad a grip on Ned with the kid, an' he'd a' doneme right in the end if you an' your precious 'innocent' 'adn't been inthe way--"
Robin made a quick stride towards her.
"Go out of this place!" he said, fiercely--"How dare you come here withsuch lies!"
He stopped, half choked with rage.
Jenny looked at him and laughed--then snapped her fingers in his face.
"Lies, is it?" she said--"Well, lies make good crops, an' FarmerJocelyn's money'll 'elp them to grow! Lies, indeed! An' how dare I comehere? Why, because your old uncle is stiff an' cold an' can't speak nomore--an' no one would know what 'ad become o' Ned Landon if I wasn'there to tell them an' show his own letter! I'll tell them all, rightenough!--you bet your life I will!"
She turned her back on him and began to walk, or rather slouch, out ofthe garden. He went up close to her, his face white with passion.
"If you say one word about Miss Jocelyn--" he began.
"Miss Jocelyn!" she exclaimed, shrilly--"That's good!--we AREgrand!"--and she dropped him a mock curtsey--"Miss Jocelyn! There ain'tno 'Miss Jocelyn,' an' you know it as well as I do! So don't try tofool ME! Look here, Mr. Robin Clifford"--and she confronted him, witharms akimbo--"you're not a Jocelyn neither!--there's not a Jocelyn lefto' the old stock--they're all finished with the one lyin' dead upstairsyonder--and I'll tell ye what!--you an' your 'innocent' are too 'ighan' mighty altogether for the likes o' we poor villagers--seein' yeain't got nothin' to boast of, neither of ye! You've lost me myman--an' I'll let everyone know how an' why!"
With that she went, banging the gate after her--and Clifford stoodinert, furious within himself, yet powerless to do anything savesilently endure the taunts she had flung at him. He could have cursedhimself for the folly he had been guilty of in telling his uncle aboutthe fight between him and Landon--for he saw now that the old man hadsecretly worried over the possible harm that might be done to Innocentthrough Landon's knowledge of her real story, which he had learnedthrough his spying and listening. Whatever that harm could be, was nowintensified--and scandal, beginning as a mere whispered suggestion,would increase to loud and positive assertion ere long.
"Poor Uncle Hugo!" and the young man looked up sorrowfully at thedarkened windows of the room where lay in still and stern repose allthat was mortal of the last of the Jocelyns--"What a mistake you havemade! You meant so well!--you thought you were doing a wise thing insending Landon away--and at such a cost!--but you did not know what hehad left behind him--Jenny of the Mill-Dykes, whose wicked tongue wouldblacken an angel's reputation!"
A hand touched him lightly on the arm from behind. He turned swiftlyround and confronted Innocent--she stood like a little figure of whiteporcelain, holding her dove against her breast.
"Poor Robin!" she said, softly--"Don't worry! I heard everything."
He stared down upon her.
"You heard--?"
"Yes. I was at the open window there--I couldn't help hearing. It wasJenny of the Mill-Dykes--I know her by sight, but not to speakto--Priscilla told me something about her. She isn't a nice woman, isshe?"
"Nice?" Robin gasped--"No, indeed! She is--Well!--I must not tell youwhat she is!"
"No!--you must not--I don't want to hear. But she ought to be NedLandon's wife--I understood that!--and she has a little child. Iunderstood that too. And she knows everything about me--and about thatnight when you climbed up on my window-sill and sat there so long. Itwas a pity you did that, wasn't it?"
"Yes!--when there was a dirty spy in hiding!" said Robin, hotly.
"Ah!--we never imagined such a thing could be on Briar Farm!"--and shesighed--"but it can't be helped now. Poor darling Dad! He parted withall that money to get rid of the man he thought would do me wrong. OhRobin, he loved me!"
The tears gathered in her eyes and fell slowly like bright raindrops onthe downy feathers of the dove she held.
"He loved you, and I love you!" murmured Robin, tenderly. "Dear littlegirl, come indoors and don't cry any more! Your sweet eyes will bespoilt, and Uncle Hugo could never bear to see you weeping. All thetears in the world won't bring him back to us here,--but we can do ourbest to please him still, so that if his spirit has ever been troubled,it can be at peace. Come in and let us talk quietly together--we mustlook at things squarely and straightly, and we must try to do all thethings he would have wished--"
"All except one thing," she said, as they went together side by sideinto the house--"the one thing that can never be!"
"The one thing--the chief thing that shall be!" answered Robin,fiercely--"Innocent, you must be my wife!"
She lifted her tear-wet eyes to his with a grave and piteous appealwhich smote him to the heart by its intense helplessness and sorrow.
"Robin,--dear Robin!" she said--"Don't make it harder for me than itis! Think for a moment! I am nameless--a poor, unbaptised, desertedcreature who was flung on your uncle's charity eighteen years ago--I ama stranger and intruder in this old historic place--I have no right tobe here at all--only through your uncle's kindness and yours. And nowthings have happened so cruelly for me that I am supposed to be toyou--what I am not,"--and the deep colour flushed her cheeks and brow."I have somehow--through no fault of my own--lost my name!--though Ihad no name to lose--except Innocent!--which, as the clergyman told me,is no name for a woman. Do you not see that if I married you, peoplewould say it was because you were compelled to marry me?--that you hadgone too far to escape from me?--that, in fact, we were a sort of copyof Ned Landon and Jenny of the Mill-Dykes?"
"Innocent!"
He uttered the name in a tone of indignant and despairing protest. Theywere in the oak parlour together, and she went slowly to the window andlet her pet dove fly.
"Ah, yes! Innocent!" she repeated, sadly--"But you must let me go,Robin!--just as I have let my dove fly, so you must let me flyalso--far, far away!"
Innocent : her fancy and his fact Page 8