CHAPTER XII
To be whirled along through the crowded streets of London in a taxi-cabfor the first time in one's life must needs be a somewhatdisconcerting, even alarming experience, and Innocent was the poorlittle prey of so many nervous fears during her journey to Kensingtonin this fashion, that she could think of nothing and realise nothingexcept that at any moment it seemed likely she would be killed. Withwide-open, terrified eyes, she watched the huge motor-omnibuses almostbearing down upon the vehicle in which she sat, and shivered at thenarrow margin of space the driver seemed to allow for any sort ofescape from instant collision and utter disaster. She only began tobreathe naturally again when, turning away out of the greater press oftraffic, the cab began to run at a smoother and less noisy pace, tillpresently, in less time than she could have imagined possible, it drewup at a modestly retreating little door under an arched porch in aquiet little square, where there were some brave and pretty trees doingtheir best to be green, despite London soot and smoke. Innocent steppedout, and seeing a bell-handle pulled it timidly. The summons wasanswered by a very neat maid-servant, who looked at her in primlypolite enquiry.
"Is Mrs.--or Miss 'Lavinia' at home?" she murmured. "I saw heradvertisement in the 'Morning Post.'"
The servant's face changed from primness to propitiation.
"Oh yes, miss! Please step in! I'll tell Miss Leigh."
"Thank you. I'll pay the driver."
She thereupon paid for the cab and dismissed it, and then followed themaid into a very small but prettily arranged hall, and from thence intoa charming little drawing-room, with French windows set open, showing atiny garden beyond--a little green lawn, smooth as velvet, and a fewminiature flower-beds gay with well-kept blossoms.
"Would you please take a seat, miss?" and the maid placed a chair."Miss Leigh is upstairs, but she'll be down directly."
She left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Innocent sat still, satchel in hand, looking wistfully about her. Theroom appealed to her taste in its extreme simplicity--and itinstinctively suggested to her mind resigned poverty making the best ofitself. There were one or two old miniatures on little velvet standsset on the mantelpiece--these were beautiful, and of value; someengravings of famous pictures adorned the walls, all well chosen; thequaint china bowl on the centre table was full of roses carefullyarranged--and there was a very ancient harpsichord in one corner whichapparently served only as a stand for the portrait of a man'sstrikingly handsome face, near which was placed a vase containing astem of Madonna lilies. Innocent found herself looking at this portraitnow and again--there was something familiar in its expression which hada curious fascination for her. But her thoughts revolved chiefly rounda difficulty which had just presented itself--she had no real name.What name could she take to be known by for the moment? She would notcall herself "Jocelyn"--she felt she had no right to do so. "Ena" mightpass muster for an abbreviation of "Innocent"--she decided to make useof that as a Christian name--but a surname that would be appropriatelyfitted to her ultimate intentions she could not at once select. Thenshe suddenly thought of the man who had been her father and had broughther as a helpless babe to Briar Farm. Pierce Armitage was his name--andhe was dead. Surely she might call herself Armitage? While she wasstill puzzling her mind over the question the door opened and a littleold lady entered--a soft-eyed, pale, pretty old lady, as dainty anddelicate as the fairy-godmother of a child's dream, with white hairbunched on either side of her face, and a wistful, rather plaintiveexpression of mingled hope and enquiry.
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," she began--then paused in a kind ofembarrassment. The two looked at each other. Innocent spoke, a littleshyly:
"I saw your advertisement in the 'Morning Post,'" she said, "and Ithought perhaps--I thought that I might come to you as a paying guest.I have to live in London, and I shall be very busy studying all day, soI should not give you much trouble."
"Pray do not mention it!" said the old lady, with a quaint air ofold-fashioned courtesy. "Trouble would not be considered! But you are amuch younger person than I expected or wished to accommodate."
"You said in the advertisement that it would be suitable for a personstudying art, or for a scholarship," put in Innocent, quickly. "And Iam studying for literature."
"Are you indeed?" and the old lady waved a little hand in courteousdeprecation of all unnecessary explanation--a hand which Innocentnoticed had a delicate lace mitten on it and one or two sparklingrings. "Well, let us sit down together and talk it over. I have twospare rooms--a bedroom and a sitting-room--they are small but verycomfortable, and for these I have been told I should ask three guineasa week, including board. I feel it a little difficult"--and the oldlady heaved a sigh--"I have never done this kind of thing before--Idon't know what my poor father, Major Leigh, would have said--he was avery proud man--very proud--!"
While she thus talked, Innocent had been making a rapid calculation inher own mind. Three guineas a week! It was more than she had meant topay, but she was instinctively wise enough to realise the advantage ofsafety and shelter in this charming little home of one who wasevidently a lady, gentle, kindly, and well-mannered. She had plenty ofmoney to go on with--and in the future she hoped to make more. So shespoke out bravely.
"I will pay the three guineas a week gladly," she said. "May I see therooms?"
The old lady meanwhile had been studying her with great intentness, andnow asked abruptly--
"Are you an English girl?"
Innocent flushed a sudden rosy red.
"Yes. I was brought up in the country, but all my people are dead now.I have no friends, but I have a little money left to me--and for therest--I must earn my own living."
"Well, my dear, that won't hurt you!" and an encouraging smilebrightened Miss Leigh's pleasantly wrinkled face. "You shall see therooms. But you have not told me your name yet."
Again Innocent blushed.
"My name is Armitage," she said, in a low, hesitating tone--"EnaArmitage."
"Armitage!"--Miss Leigh repeated the name with a kind of wonderingaccent--"Armitage? Are you any relative of the painter, PierceArmitage?"
The girl's heart beat quickly--for a moment the little drawing-roomseemed to whirl round her--then she collected her forces with a strongeffort and answered--"No!"
The old lady's wistful blue eyes, dimmed with age, yet retaining abeautiful tenderness of expression, rested upon her anxiously.
"You are quite sure?"
Repressing the feeling that prompted her to cry out--"He was myfather!" she replied--
"I am quite sure!"
Lavinia Leigh raised her little mittened hand and pointed to theportrait standing on the harpsichord:
"That was Pierce Armitage!" she said. "He was a dear friend ofmine"--her voice trembled a little--"and I should have been glad if youhad been in any way connected with him."
As she spoke Innocent turned and looked steadily at the portrait, andit seemed to her excited fancy that its eyes gave her glance forglance. She could hardly breathe--the threatening tears half chokedher. What strange fate was it, she thought, that had led her to a housewhere she looked upon her own father's likeness for the first time!
"He was a very fine man," continued Miss Leigh in the samehalf-tremulous voice--"very gifted--very clever! He would have been agreat artist, I think--"
"Is he dead?" the girl asked, quietly.
"Yes--I--I think so--he died abroad--so they say, but I have neverquite believed it--I don't know why! Come, let me show you the rooms. Iam glad your name is Armitage."
She led the way, walking slowly,--Innocent followed like one in adream. They ascended a small staircase, softly carpeted, to a squarelanding, and here Miss Leigh opened a door.
"This is the sitting-room," she said. "You see, it has a nicebow-window with a view of the garden. The bedroom is just beyondit--both lead into one another."
Innocent looked in and could not resist giving a little exclamation ofpleasure. Ever
ything was so clean and dainty and well kept--it seemedto her a perfect haven of rest and shelter. She turned to Miss Leigh ineager impulsiveness.
"Oh, please let me stay!" she said. "Now, at once! I have only justarrived in London and this is the first place I have seen. It seemsso--so fortunate that you should have had a friend named Armitage!Perhaps--perhaps I may be a friend too!"
A curious tremor seemed to pass over the old lady as though sheshivered in a cold wind. She laid one hand gently on the girl's arm.
"You may, indeed!" she said. "One never can tell what may happen inthis strange world! But we have to be practical--and I am very poor andpressed for money. I do not know you--and of course I should expectreferences from some respectable person who can tell me who you are andall about you."
Innocent grew pale. She gave a little expressive gesture of utterhopelessness.
"I cannot give you any references," she said--"I am quite alone in theworld--my people are dead--you see I am in mourning. The last friend Ihad died a little while ago and left me four hundred pounds inbank-notes. I have them here"--and she touched her breast--"and if youlike I will give you one of them in advance payment for the rooms andboard at once."
The old lady heaved a quick sharp sigh. One hundred pounds! It wouldrelieve her of a weight of pressing difficulty--and yet--! She paused,considering.
"No, my child!" she said, quietly. "I would not on any account take somuch money from you. If you wish to stay, and if I must omit referencesand take you on trust--which I am quite willing to do!"--and shesmiled, gravely--"I will accept two months' rent in advance if youthink you can spare this--can you?"
"Yes--oh, yes!" the girl exclaimed, impulsively. "If only I maystay--now!"
"You may certainly stay now," and Miss Leigh rang a bell to summon theneat maid-servant. "Rachel, the rooms are let to this young lady, MissArmitage. Will you prepare the bedroom and help her unpack her things?"Then, turning round to Innocent, she said kindly,--"You will of coursetake your meals with me at my table--I keep very regular hours, and iffor any cause you have to be absent, I should wish to know beforehand."
Innocent said nothing;--her eyes were full of tears, but she took theold lady's little hand and kissed it. They went down together again tothe drawing-room, Innocent just pausing to tell the maid Rachel thatshe would prefer to unpack and arrange the contents of her satchel--allher luggage,--herself; and in a very few minutes the whole business wassettled. Eager to prove her good faith to the gentle lady who had soreadily trusted her, she drew from her bosom the envelope containingthe bank-notes left to her by Hugo Jocelyn, and, unfolding all four,she spread them out on the table.
"You see," she said, "this is my little fortune! Please change one ofthem and take the two months' rent and anything more you want--pleasedo!"
A faint colour flushed Miss Leigh's pale cheeks.
"No, my dear, no!" she answered. "You must not tempt me! I will takeexactly the two months' rent and no more; but I think you ought not tocarry this money about with you--you should put it in a bank. We'lltalk of this afterwards--but go and lock it up somewhere now--there's alittle desk in your room you could use--but a bank would be safest.After dinner this evening I'll tell you what I think you ought todo--you are so very young!"--and she smiled--"such a young littlething! I shall have to look after you and play chaperone!"
Innocent looked up with a sweet confidence in her eyes.
"That will be kind of you!" she said, and leaving the one bank-note ofa hundred pounds on the table, she folded up the other three in theiroriginal envelope and returned them to their secret place of safety."In a little while I will tell you a great deal about myself--and I dohope I shall please you! I will not give any trouble, and I'll try tobe useful in the house if you'll let me. I can cook and sew and do allsorts of things!"
"Can you, indeed!" and Miss Leigh laughed good-naturedly. "And whatabout studying for literature?"
"Ah!--that of course comes first!" she said. "But I shall do all mywriting in the mornings--in the afternoons I can help you as much asyou like."
"My dear, your time must be your own," said Miss Leigh, decisively."You have paid for your accommodation, and you must have perfectliberty to do as you like, as long as you keep to my regular hours formeals and bed-time. I think we shall get on well together,--and I hopewe shall be good friends!"
As she spoke she bent forward and on a sudden impulse drew the girl toher and kissed her. Poor lonely Innocent thrilled through all her beingto the touch of instinctive tenderness, and her heart beat quickly asshe saw the portrait on the harpsichord--her father's picturedface--apparently looking at her with a smile.
"Oh, you are very good to me!" she murmured, with a little sob in herbreath, as she returned the gentle old lady's kiss. "I feel as if I hadknown you for years! Did you know him"--and she pointed to theportrait--"very long?"
Miss Leigh's eyes grew bright and tender.
"Yes!" she answered. "We were boy and girl together--and once--once wewere very fond of each other. Perhaps I will tell you the story someday! Now go up to your rooms and arrange everything as you like, andrest a little. Would you like some tea? Anything to eat?"
Poor Innocent, who had left Briar Farm at dawn without any thought offood, and had travelled to London almost unconscious of either hungeror fatigue, was beginning to feel the lack of nourishment, and shegratefully accepted the suggestion.
"I lunch at two o'clock," continued Miss Leigh. "But it's only a littlepast twelve now, and if you have come a long way from the country youmust be tired. I'll send Rachel up to you with some tea."
She went to give the order, and Innocent, left to herself for a moment,moved softly up to her father's picture and gazed upon it with all hersoul in her eyes. It was a wonderful face--a face expressive of thehighest thought and intelligence--the face of a thinker or a poet,though the finely moulded mouth and chin had nothing of the weaknesswhich sometimes marks a mere dreamer of dreams. Timidly glancing abouther to make sure she was not observed, she kissed the portrait, thecold glass which covered it meeting her warm caressing lips with arepelling chill. He was dead--this father whom she could neverclaim!--dead as Hugo Jocelyn, who had taken that father's place in herlife. She might love the ghost of him if her fancy led her that way, asshe loved the ghost of the "Sieur Amadis"--but there was nothing elseto love! She was alone in the world, with neither father nor "knight ofold" to protect or defend her, and on herself alone depended herfuture. She turned away and left the room, looking a fragile, sad,unobtrusive little creature, with nothing about her to suggest eitherbeauty or power. Yet the mind in that delicate body had a strength ofwhich she was unconscious, and she was already bending it instinctivelyand intellectually like a bow ready for the first shot--with an arrowwhich was destined to go straight to its mark.
Meanwhile on Briar Farm there had fallen a cloud of utter desolation.The day was fair and brilliant with summer sunshine, the birds sang,the roses bloomed, the doves flew to and fro on the gabled roof, andInnocent's pet "Cupid" waited in vain on the corner of her window-sillfor the usual summons that called it to her hand,--but a strangedarkness and silence like a whelming wave submerged the very light fromthe eyes of those who suddenly found themselves deprived of a belovedpresence--a personality unobtrusively sweet, which had bestowed on theold house a charm and grace far greater than had been fully recognised.The "base-born" Innocent, nameless, and unbaptised, and thereforeshadowed by the stupid scandal of commonplace convention, had given the"home" its homelike quality--her pretty idealistic fancies about theold sixteenth-century knight "Sieur Amadis" had invested the place witha touch of romance and poetry which it would hardly have possessedwith-out her--her gentle ways, her care of the flowers and the animals,and the never-wearying delight she had taken in the householdaffairs--all her part in the daily life of the farm had been asnecessary to happiness as the mastership of Hugo Jocelyn himself--andwithout her nothing seemed the same. Poor Priscilla went about herwork, crying silently, and Robin Clif
ford paced restlessly up and downthe smooth grass in front of the old house with Innocent's farewellletter in his hand, reading it again and again. He had returned earlyfrom the market town where he had stayed the night, eager to explain toher all the details of the business he had gone through with the lawyerto whom his Uncle Hugo had entrusted his affairs, and to tell her howadmirably everything had been arranged for the prosperous continuanceof Briar Farm on the old traditional methods of labour by which it hadalways been worked to advantage. Hugo Jocelyn had indeed shown plentyof sound wisdom and foresight in all his plans save one--and that onewas his fixed idea of Innocent's marriage with his nephew. It hadevidently never occurred to him that a girl could have a will of herown in such a momentous affair--much less that she could or would be sounwise as to refuse a good husband and a settled home when both were athand for her acceptance. Robin himself, despite her rejection of him,had still hoped and believed that when the first shock of his uncle'sdeath had lessened, he might by patience and unwearying tenderness moveher heart to softer yielding, and he had meant to plead his cause withher for the sake of the famous old house itself, so that she mightbecome its mistress and help him to prove a worthy descendant of itslong line of owners. But now! All hope was at an end--she had taken thelaw into her own hands and gone--no one knew whither. Priscilla was thelast who had seen her--Priscilla could only explain, with many tears,that when she had gone to call her to breakfast she had found her roomvacant, her bed unslept in, and the letter for Robin on the table--andthat letter disclosed little or nothing of her intentions.
"Oh, the poor child!" Priscilla said, sobbingly. "All alone in a hardworld, with her strange little fancies, and no one to take care of her!Oh, Mr. Robin, whatever are we to do!"
"Nothing!" and Robin's handsome face was pale and set. "We can onlywait to hear from her--she will not keep us long in anxiety--she hastoo much heart for that. After all, it is MY fault, Priscilla! I triedto persuade her to marry me against her will--I should have let heralone."
Sudden boyish tears sprang to his eyes--he dashed them away inself-contempt.
"I'm a regular coward, you see," he said. "I could cry like a baby--notfor myself so much, but to think of her running away from Briar Farmout into the wide world all alone! Little Innocent! She was safehere--and if she had wished it, _I_ would have gone away--I would havemade HER the owner of the farm, and left her in peace to enjoy it andto marry any other man she fancied. But she wouldn't listen to any planfor her own happiness since she knew she was not my uncle'sdaughter--that is what has changed her! I wish she had never known!"
"Ay, so do I!" agreed Priscilla, dolefully. "But she's got thefancifullest notions! All about that old stone knight in thegarden--an' what wi' the things he's left carved all over the wall ofthe room where she read them queer old books, she's fair 'mazed withideas that don't belong to the ways o' the world at all. I can't thinkwhat'll become o' the child. Won't there be any means of findin' outwhere she's gone?"
"I'm afraid not!" answered Robin, sadly. "We muse trust to herremembrance of us, Priscilla, and her thoughts of the old home whereshe was loved and cared for." His voice shook. "It will be a drearyplace without her! We shall miss her every minute, every hour of theday! I cannot fancy what the garden will look like without her littlewhite figure flitting over the grass, and her sweet fair face smilingamong the roses! Hang it all, Priscilla, if it were not for the lastwishes of my Uncle Hugo I'd throw the whole thing up and go abroad!"
"Don't do that, Mister Robin!"--and Priscilla laid her rough work-wornhand on his arm--"Don't do it! It's turning your back on duty to giveup the work entrusted to you by a dead man. You know it is! An' thechild may come back any day! I shouldn't wonder if she got frightenedat being alone and ran home again to-morrow! Think of it, Mister Robin!Suppose she came an' you weren't here? Why, you'd never forgiveyourself! I can't think she's gone far or that she'll stay away long.Her heart's in Briar Farm all the while--I'd swear to that! Why, onlyyesterday when a fine lady came to see if she couldn't buy somethingout o' the house, you should just a' seen her toss her pretty littlehead when she told me how she'd said it wasn't to be sold."
"Lady? What lady?" and Robin looked, as he felt, bewildered byPriscilla's vague statement. "Did someone come here to see the house?"
"Not exactly--I don't know what it was all about," replied Priscilla."But quite a grand lady called an' gave me her card. I saw the name onit--'Lady Maude Blythe'--and she asked to see 'Miss Jocelyn' onbusiness. I asked if it was anything I could do, and she said no. So Icalled the child in from the garden, and she and the lady had quite along talk together in the best parlour. Then when the lady went away,Innocent told me that she had wished to buy something from BriarFarm--but that it was not to be sold."
Robin listened attentively. "Curious!" he murmured--"very curious! Whatwas the lady's name?"
"Lady Maude Blythe," repeated Priscilla, slowly.
He took out a note-book and pencil, and wrote it down.
"You don't think she came to engage Innocent for some service?" heasked. "Or that Innocent herself had perhaps written to an agencyasking for a place, and that this lady had come to see her inconsequence?"
Such an idea had never occurred to Priscilla's mind, but now it wassuggested to her it seemed more than likely.
"It might be so," she answered, slowly. "But I can't bear to think thechild was playin' a part an' tellin' me things that weren't true justto get away from us. No! Mister Robin! I don't believe that lady hadanything to do with her going."
"Well, I shall keep the name by me," he said. "And I shall find outwhere the lady lives, who she is and all about her. For if I don't hearfrom Innocent, if she doesn't write to us, I'll search the whole worldand never rest till I find her!"
Priscilla looked at him, pityingly, tears springing again to her eyes.
"Aye, you've lost the love o' your heart, my lad! I know that wellenough!" she said. "An' it's mighty hard on you! But you must be a manan' turn to work as though nowt had happened. There's the farm--"
"Yes, there's the farm," he repeated, absently. "But what do I care forthe farm without her! Priscilla, YOU will stay with me?"
"Stay with you? Surely I will, Mister Robin! Where should an old womanlike me go to at this time o' day!" and Priscilla took his hand andclasped it affectionately. "Don't you fear! My place is in Briar Farmtill the Lord makes an end of me! And if the child comes back at anyhour of the day or night, she'll find old Priscilla ready to welcomeher,--ready an' glad an' thankful to see her pretty face again."
Here, unable to control her sobs, she turned away and made a hastyretreat into the kitchen.
He did not follow her, but acting on the sudden impulse of his mind heentered the house and went up to Innocent's deserted room. He openedthe door hesitatingly,--the little study, in its severe simplicity andneatness, looked desolate--like an empty shrine from which theworshipped figure had been taken. He trod softly across the floor,hushing his footsteps, as though some one slept whom he feared to wake,and his eyes wandered from one familiar object to another till theyrested on the shelves where the old vellum-bound books, which Innocenthad loved and studied so much, were ranged in orderly rows. Taking oneor two of them out he glanced at their title-pages;--he knew that mostof them were rare and curious, though his Oxford training had notimpressed him with as great a love of things literary as it might orshould have done. But he realised that these strange black-letter andmanuscript volumes were of unique value, and that their contents, sodifficult to decipher, were responsible for the formation of Innocent'sguileless and romantic spirit, colouring her outlook on life with aglamour of rainbow brilliancy which, though beautiful, was unreal. Onequaint little book he opened had for its title--"Ye Whole Art of Love,Setting Forth ye Noble Manner of Noble Knights who woulde serve theirLadies Faithfullie in Death as in Lyfe"--this bore the date of 1590. Hesighed as he put it back in its place.
"Ah, well," he said, half aloud, "these books are hers, and I'll keepthem for he
r--but I believe they've done her a lot of mischief, and Idon't love them! They've made her see the world as it is not--and lifeas it never will be! And she has got strange fancies into herhead--fancies which she will run after like a child chasing prettybutterflies--and when the butterflies are caught, they die, much to thechild's surprise and sorrow! My poor little Innocent! She has gone outalone into the world, and the world will break her heart! Oh dearestlittle love, come back to me!"
He sat down in her vacant chair and covered his face with his hands,giving himself up to the relief of unwitnessed tears. Above his headshone the worn glitter of the old armoured device of the "Sieur Amadis"with its motto--"Mon coeur me soutien"--and only a psychist could havethought or imagined it possible that the spirit of the old Frenchknight of Tudor times might still be working through clouds ofcircumstance and weaving the web of the future from the torn threads ofthe past. And when Robin had regained his self-possession and had leftthe room, there was yet a Presence in its very emptiness,--the silentassertion of an influence which if it had been given voice and speechmight have said--"Do what you consider is your own will and intention,but _I_ am still your Master!--and all your thoughts and wishes are butthe reflex of MY desire!"
It was soon known in the village that Innocent had left BriarFarm--"run away," the gossips said, eager to learn more. But they couldget no information out of Robin Clifford or Priscilla Priday, and thelabourers on the farm knew nothing. The farm work was going on asusual--that was all they cared about. Mr. Clifford was verysilent--Miss Priday very busy. However, all anxiety and suspense cameto an end very speedily so far as Innocent's safety was concerned, forin a few days letters arrived from her--both for Robin andPriscilla--kind, sweetly-expressed letters full of the tenderestaffection.
"Do not be at all sorry or worried about me, dear good Priscilla!" shewrote. "I know I am doing right to be away from Briar Farm for atime--and I am quite well and happy. I have been very fortunate infinding rooms with a lady who is very kind to me, and as soon as I feelI can do so I will let you know my address. But I don't want anyonefrom home to come and see me--not yet!--not for a very long time! Itwould only make me sad--and it would make you sad too! But be quitesure it will not be long before you see me again."
Her letter to Robin was longer and full of restrained feeling:
"I know you are very unhappy, you kind, loving boy," it ran. "You havelost me altogether--yes, that is true--but do not mind, it is betterso, and you will love some other girl much more than me some day. Ishould have been a mistake in your life had I stayed with you. You willsee me again--and you will then understand why I left Briar Farm. Icould not wrong the memory of the Sieur Amadis, and if I married you Ishould be doing a wicked thing to bring myself, who am base-born, intohis lineage. Surely you do understand how I feel? I am quite safe--in agood home, with a lady who takes care of me--and as soon as I can Iwill let you know exactly where I am--then if you ever come to London Iwill see you. But your work is on Briar Farm--that dear and belovedhome!--and you will keep up its old tradition and make everybody happyaround you. Will you not? Yes! I am sure you will! You MUST, if everyou loved me. "INNOCENT."
With this letter his last hope died within him. She would never behis--never, never! Some dim future beckoned her in which he had nopart--and he confronted the fact as a brave soldier fronts the guns,with grim endurance, aware, yet not afraid of death.
"If ever I loved her!" he thought. "If ever I cease to love her then Ishall be as stone-cold a man as her fetish of a French knight, theSieur Amadis! Ah, my little Innocent, in time to come you mayunderstand what love is--perhaps to your sorrow!--you may need a strongdefender--and I shall be ready! Sooner or later--now or years hence--ifyou call me, I shall answer. I would find strength to rise from mydeath-bed and go to you if you wanted me! For I love you, my littlelove! I love you, and nothing can change me. Only once in a life-timecan a man love any woman as I love you!"
And with a deep vow of fidelity sworn to his secret soul he sat alone,watching the shadows of evening steal over the landscape--falling,falling slowly, like a gradually descending curtain upon all visiblethings, till Briar Farm stood spectral in the gloom like the ghost ofits own departed days, and lights twinkled in the lattice windows likelittle eyes glittering in the dark. Then silently bidding farewell toall his former dreams of happiness, he set himself to face "the burdenand heat of the day"--that long, long day of life so difficult to live,when deprived of love!
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