Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “And your humblest of slaves, Ned Landon!” added Landon, with a quick glance, doffing his cap. “Mr. Clifford mustn’t expect to have it all his own way!”

  “What the devil are you talking about?” demanded Robin, turning upon him with a sudden fierceness.

  Innocent gave him an appealing look.

  “Don’t! — Oh, don’t quarrel!” she whispered, — and with a parting nod to the whole party of workers she hurried away.

  With her disappearance came a brief pause among the men. Then Robin, turning away from Landon, proceeded to give various orders. He was a person in authority, and as everyone knew, was likely to be the owner of the farm when his uncle was dead. Landon went close up to him.

  “Mr. Clifford,” he said, somewhat thickly, “you heard what I said just now? You mustn’t expect to have it all your own way! There’s other men after the girl as well as you!”

  Clifford glanced him up and down.

  “Yourself, I suppose?” he retorted.

  “And why not?” sneered Landon.

  “Only because there are two sides to every question,” said Clifford, carelessly, with a laugh. “And no decision can be arrived at till both are heard!”

  He climbed up among the other men and set to work, stacking steadily, and singing in a fine soft baritone the old fifteenth-century song:

  “Yonder comes a courteous knight,

  Lustily raking over the hay,

  He was well aware of a bonny lass,

  As she came wandering over the way.

  Then she sang Downe a downe, hey downe derry!

  “Jove you speed, fair ladye, he said,

  Among the leaves that be so greene,

  If I were a king and wore a crown,

  Full soon faire Ladye shouldst thou be queene.

  Then she sang Downe a downe, hey downe derry!”

  Landon looked up at him with a dark smile.

  “Those laugh best who laugh last!” he muttered, “And a whistling throstle has had its neck wrung before now!”

  Meanwhile Innocent had entered the farmhouse. Passing through the hall, which, — unaltered since the days of its original building, — was vaulted high and heavily timbered, she went first into the kitchen to see Priscilla, who, assisted by a couple of strong rosy-cheeked girls, did all the housework and cooking of the farm. She found that personage rolling out pastry and talking volubly as she rolled:

  “Ah! YOU’LL never come to much good, Jenny Spinner,” she cried. “What with a muck of dirty dishes in one corner and a muddle of ragged clouts in another, you’re the very model of a wife for a farm hand! Can’t sew a gown for yerself neither, but bound to send it into town to be made for ye, and couldn’t put a button on a pair of breeches for fear of ‘urtin’ yer delicate fingers! Well! God ‘elp ye when the man comes as ye’re lookin’ for! He’ll be a fool anyhow, for all men are that, — but he’ll be twice a fool if he takes you for a life-satchel on his shoulders!”

  Jenny Spinner endured this tirade patiently, and went on with the washing-up in which she was engaged, only turning her head to look at Innocent as she appeared suddenly in the kitchen doorway, with her hair slightly dishevelled and the wreath of wild roses crowning her brows.

  “Priscilla, where’s Dad?” she asked.

  “Lord save us, lovey! You gave me a real scare coming in like that with them roses on yer head like a pixie out of the woods! The master? He’s just where the doctors left ’im, sittin’ in his easy-chair and looking out o’ window.”

  “Was it — was it all right, do you think?” asked the girl, hesitatingly.

  “Now, lovey, don’t ask me about doctors, ‘cos I don’t know nothin’ and wants to know nothin’, for they be close-tongued folk who never sez what they thinks lest they get their blessed selves into hot water. And whether it’s all right or all wrong, I couldn’t tell ye, for the two o’ them went out together, and Mr. Slowton sez ‘Good-arternoon, Miss Friday!’ quite perlite like, and the other gentleman he lifts ’is ‘at quite civil, so I should say ’twas all wrong. For if you mark me, lovey, men’s allus extra perlite when they thinks there’s goin’ to be trouble, hopin’ they’ll get somethin’ for theirselves out of it.”

  Innocent hardly waited to hear her last words.

  “I’m going to Dad,” she said, quickly, and disappeared.

  Priscilla Friday stopped for a minute in the rolling-cut of her pastry. Some great stress of thought appeared to be working behind her wrinkled brow, for she shook her head, pursed her lips and rolled up her eyes a great many times. Then she gave a short sigh and went on with her work.

  The farmhouse was a rambling old place, full of quaint corners, arches and odd little steps up and down leading to cupboards, mysterious recesses and devious winding ways which turned into dark narrow passages, branching right and left through the whole breadth of the house. It was along one of these that Innocent ran swiftly on leaving the kitchen, till she reached a closed door, where pausing, she listened a moment-then, hearing no sound, opened it and went softly in. The room she entered was filled with soft shadows of the gradually falling dusk, yet partially lit by a golden flame of the after-glow which shone through the open latticed window from the western sky. Close to the waning light sat the master of the farm, still clad in his smock frock, with his straw hat on the table beside him and his stick leaning against the arm of his chair. He was very quiet, — so quiet, that a late beam of the sun, touching the rough silver white of his hair, seemed almost obtrusive, as suggesting an interruption to the moveless peace of his attitude. Innocent stopped short, with a tremor of nervous fear.

  “Dad!” she said, softly.

  He turned towards her.

  “Ay, lass! What is it?”

  She did not answer, but came up and knelt down beside him, taking one of his brown wrinkled hands in her own and caressing it. The silence between them was unbroken for quite two or three minutes; then he said:

  “Last load in all safe?”

  “Yes, Dad!”

  “Not a drop of rain to wet it, and no hard words to toughen it, eh?”

  “No, Dad.”

  She gave the answer a little hesitatingly. She was thinking of Ned Landon. He caught the slight falter in her voice and looked at her suspiciously.

  “Been quarrelling with Robin?”

  “Dear Dad, no! We’re the best of friends.”

  He loosened his hand from her clasp and patted her head with it.

  “That’s right! That’s as it should be! Be friends with Robin, child! Be friends! — be lovers!”

  She was silent. The after-glow warmed the tints of her hair to russet-gold and turned to a deeper pink the petals of the roses in the wreath she wore. He touched the blossoms and spoke with great gentleness.

  “Did Robin crown thee?”

  She looked up, smiling.

  “No, it’s Larry’s wreath.”

  “Larry! Ay, poor Larry! A good lad — but he can eat for two and only work for one. ’Tis the way of men nowadays!”

  Another pause ensued, and the western gold of the sky began to fade into misty grey.

  “Dad,” said the girl then, in a low tone— “Do tell me — what did the

  London doctor say?”

  He lifted his head quickly, and his old eyes for a moment flashed as though suddenly illumined by a flame from within.

  “Say! What should he say, lass, but that I am old and must expect to die? It’s natural enough — only I haven’t thought about it. It’s just that — I haven’t thought about it!”

  “Why should you think about it?” she asked, with quick tenderness— “You will not die yet — not for many years. You are not so very old. And you are strong.”

  He patted her head again.

  “Poor little wilding!” he said— “If you had your way I should live for ever, no doubt! But an’ you were wise with modern wisdom, you would say I had already lived too long!”

  For answer, she drew down his hand and kissed i
t.

  “I do not want any modern wisdom,” she said— “I am your little girl and

  I love you!”

  A shadow flitted across his face and he moved uneasily. She looked up at him.

  “You will not tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “All that the London doctor said.”

  He was silent for a minute’s space — then he answered.

  “Yes, I will tell you, but not now. To-night after supper will be time enough. And then—”

  “Yes — then?” she repeated, anxiously.

  “Then you shall know — you will have to know—” Here he broke off abruptly. “Innocent!”

  “Yes, Dad?”

  “How old are you now?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Ay, so you are!” And he looked at her searchingly. “Quite a woman!

  Time flies! You’re old enough to learn—”

  “I have always tried to learn,” she said— “and I like studying things out of books—”

  “Ay! But there are worse things in life than ever were written in books,” he answered, wearily— “things that people hide away and are ashamed to speak of! Ay, poor wilding! Things that I’ve tried to keep from you as long as possible — but — time presses, and, I shall have to speak—”

  She looked at him earnestly. Her face paled and her eyes grew dark and wondering.

  “Have I done anything wrong?” she asked.

  “You? No! Not you! You are not to blame, child! But you’ve heard the law set out in church on Sundays that ‘The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children even unto the third and fourth generation.’ You’ve heard that?”

  “Yes, Dad!”

  “Ay! — and who dare say the fourth generation are to blame! Yet, though they are guiltless, they suffer most! No just God ever made such a law, though they say ’tis God speaking. I say ’tis the devil!”

  His voice grew harsh and loud, and finding his stick near his chair, he took hold of it and struck it against the ground to emphasise his words.

  “I say ’tis the devil!”

  The girl rose from her kneeling attitude and put her arms gently round his shoulders.

  “There, Dad!” she said soothingly,— “Don’t worry! Church and church things seem to rub you up all the wrong way! Don’t think about them! Supper will be ready in a little while and after supper we’ll have a long talk. And then you’ll tell me what the doctor said.”

  His angry excitement subsided suddenly and his head sank on his breast.

  “Ay! After supper. Then — then I’ll tell you what the doctor said.”

  His speech faltered. He turned and looked out on the garden, full of luxuriant blossom, the colours of which were gradually merging into indistinguishable masses under the darkening grey of the dusk.

  She moved softly about the room, setting things straight, and lighting two candles in a pair of tall brass candlesticks which stood one on either side of a carved oak press. The room thus illumined showed itself to be a roughly-timbered apartment in the style of the earliest Tudor times, and all the furniture in it was of the same period. The thick gate-legged table — the curious chairs, picturesque, but uncomfortable — the two old dower chests — the quaint three-legged stools and upright settles, were a collection that would have been precious to the art dealer and curio hunter, as would the massive eight-day clock with its grotesquely painted face, delineating not only the hours and days but the lunar months, and possessing a sonorous chime which just now struck eight with a boom as deep as that of a cathedral bell. The sound appeared to startle the old farmer with a kind of shock, for he rose from his chair and grasped his stick, looking about him as though for the moment uncertain of his bearings.

  “How fast the hours go by!” he muttered, dreamily. “When we’re young they don’t count — but when we’re old we know that every hour brings us nearer to the end-the end, the end of all! Another night closing in — and the last load cleared from the field — Innocent!”

  The name broke from his lips like a cry of suffering, and she ran to him trembling.

  “Dad, dear, what is it?”

  He caught her outstretched hands and held them close.

  “Nothing — nothing!” he answered, drawing his breath quick and hard— “Nothing, lass! No pain — no — not that! I’m only frightened! Frightened! — think of it! — me frightened who never knew fear! And I — I wouldn’t tell it to anyone but you — I’m afraid of what’s coming — of what’s bound to come! ’Twould always have come, I know — but I never thought about it — it never seemed real! It never seemed real—”

  Here the door opened, admitting a flood of cheerful light from the outside passage, and Robin Clifford entered.

  “Hullo, Uncle! Supper’s ready!”

  The old man’s face changed instantly. Its worn and scared expression smoothed into a smile, and, loosening his hold of Innocent, he straightened himself and stood erect.

  “All right, my lad! You’ve worked pretty late!”

  “Yes, and we’ve not done yet. But we shall finish stacking tomorrow,” answered Clifford— “Just now we’re all tired and hungry.”

  “Don’t say you’re thirsty!” said the old farmer, his smile broadening.

  “How many barrels have been tapped to-day?”

  “Oh, well! You’d better ask Landon,” — and Clifford’s light laugh had a touch of scorn in it,— “he’s the man for the beer! I hardly ever touch it — Innocent knows that.”

  “More work’s done on water after all,” said Jocelyn. “The horses that draw for us and the cattle that make food for us prove that. But we think we’re a bit higher than the beasts, and some of us get drunk to prove it! That’s one of our strange ways as men! Come along, lad! And you, child,” — here he turned to Innocent— “run and tell Priscilla we’re waiting in the Great Hall.”

  He seemed to have suddenly lost all feebleness, and walked with a firm step into what he called the Great Hall, which was distinguished by this name from the lesser or entrance hall of the house. It was a nobly proportioned, very lofty apartment, richly timbered, the roof being supported by huge arched beams curiously and intricately carved. Long narrow boards on stout old trestles occupied the centre, and these were spread with cloths of coarse but spotlessly clean linen and furnished with antique plates, tankards and other vessels of pewter which would have sold for a far larger sum in the market than solid silver. A tall carved chair was set at the head of the largest table, and in this Farmer Jocelyn seated himself. The men now began to come in from the fields in their work-a-day clothes, escorted by Ned Landon, their only attempt at a toilet having been a wash and brush up in the outhouses; and soon the hall presented a scene of lively bustle and activity. Priscilla, entering it from the kitchen with her two assistants, brought in three huge smoking joints on enormous pewter dishes, — then followed other good things of all sorts, — vegetables, puddings, pasties, cakes and fruit, which Innocent helped to set out all along the boards in tempting array. It was a generous supper fit for a “Harvest Home” — yet it was only Farmer Jocelyn’s ordinary way of celebrating the end of the haymaking, — the real harvest home was another and bigger festival yet to come. Robin Clifford began to carve a sirloin of beef, — Ned Landon, who was nearly opposite him, actively apportioned slices of roast pork, the delicacy most favoured by the majority, and when all the knives and forks were going and voices began to be loud and tongues discursive, Innocent slipped into a chair by Farmer Jocelyn and sat between him and Priscilla. For not only the farm hands but all the servants on the place were at table, this haymaking supper being the annual order of the household. The girl’s small delicate head, with its coronal of wild roses, looked strange and incongruous among the rough specimens of manhood about her, and sometimes as the laughter became boisterous, or some bucolic witticism caught her ear, a faint flush coloured the paleness of her cheeks and a little nervous tremor ran through her frame. She drew as clo
sely as she could to the old farmer, who sat rigidly upright and quiet, eating nothing but a morsel of bread with a bowl of hot salted milk Priscilla had put before him. Beer was served freely, and was passed from man to man in leather “blackjacks” such as were commonly used in olden times, but which are now considered mere curiosities. They were, however, ordinary wear at Briar Farm, and had been so since very early days. The Great Hall was lighted by tall windows reaching almost to the roof and traversed with shafts of solid stonework; the one immediately opposite Farmer Jocelyn’s chair showed the very last parting glow of the sunset like a dull red gleam on a dark sea. For the rest, thick home-made candles of a torch shape fixed into iron sconces round the walls illumined the room, and burned with unsteady flare, giving rise to curious lights and shadows as though ghostly figures were passing to and fro, ruffling the air with their unseen presences. Priscilla Priday, her wizened yellow face just now reddened to the tint of a winter apple by her recent exertions in the kitchen, was not so much engaged in eating her supper as in watching her master. Her beady brown eyes roved from him to the slight delicate girl beside him with inquisitive alertness. She felt and saw that the old man’s thoughts were far away, and that something of an unusual nature was troubling his mind. Priscilla was an odd-looking creature but faithful; — her attachments were strong, and her dislikes only a shade more violent, — and just now she entertained very uncomplimentary sentiments towards “them doctors” who had, as she surmised, put her master out of sorts with himself, and caused anxiety to the “darling child,” as she invariably called Innocent when recommending her to the guidance of the Almighty in her daily and nightly prayers. Meanwhile the noise at the supper table grew louder and more incessant, and sundry deep potations of home-brewed ale began to do their work. One man, seated near Ned Landon, was holding forth in very slow thick accents on the subject of education:

  “Be eddicated!” he said, articulating his words with difficulty,— “That’s what I says, boys! Be eddicated! Then everything’s right for us! We can kick all the rich out into the mud and take their goods and enjoy ’em for ourselves. Eddication does it! Makes us all we wants to be, — members o’ Parli’ment and what not! I’ve only one boy, — but he’ll be eddicated as his father never was—”