Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Oh, Robin!” And straightway Innocent ran back into her room, there to throw on a dark cloak which enveloped her so completely that only her small fair head showed above its enshrouding folds, — then returning slowly she watched with mingled interest and trepidation the gradual ascent of her lover, as, like another Romeo, he ascended the natural ladder formed by the thick rope-like twisted stems of the ancient creeper, grown sturdy with years and capable of bearing a much greater weight than that of the light and agile young man, who, with a smile of amused triumph, at last brought himself on a level with the window-sill and seated himself on its projecting ledge.

  “I won’t come in,” he said, mischievously— “though I might! — if I dared! But I mustn’t break into my lady’s bower without her sovereign permission! I say, Innocent, how pretty you look! Don’t be frightened! — dear, dear little girl, — you know I wouldn’t touch so much as a hair of your sweet little head! I’m not a brute — and though I’m longing to kiss you I promise I won’t even try!”

  She moved away from him into the deeper shadow, but a ray of the moon showed him her face, very pale, with a deep sadness upon it which was strange and new to him.

  “Tell me what’s wrong?” he asked. “I’ve been too wide-awake and restless to go to bed, — so I came out in the garden just to breathe the air and look up at your window — and I heard a sound of sobbing like that of a little child who was badly hurt — Innocent!”

  For she had suddenly stretched out her hands to him in impulsive appeal.

  “Oh yes — that’s true! — I am badly hurt, Robin!” she said, in low trembling accents— “So badly hurt that I think I shall never get over it!”

  Surprised, he took her hands in his own with a gentle reverence, though to be able to draw her nearer to him thus, set his heart beating quickly.

  “What is it?” he questioned her, anxiously, as all unconsciously she leaned closer towards him and he saw her soft eyes, wet with tears, shining upon him like stars in the gloom. “Is it bad news of Uncle Hugo?”

  “Bad news of him, but worse of me!” she answered, sighingly. “Oh,

  Robin, shall I tell you?”

  He looked at her tenderly. The dark cloak about her had fallen a little aside, and showed a gleam of white neck emerging from snowy drapery underneath — it was, to his fancy, as though a white rose-petal had been suddenly and delicately unfurled. He longed to kiss that virginal whiteness, and trembled at the audacity of his own desire.

  “Yes, dear, tell me!” he murmured, abstractedly, scarcely thinking of what he was saying, and only conscious of the thrill and ecstasy of love which seemed to him the one thing necessary for existence in earth or heaven.

  And so, with her hands still warmly held in his, she told him all. In a sad voice, with lowered eyes and quivering lips, she related her plaintive little history, disclosing her unbaptised shame, — her unowned parentage, — her desperately forlorn and lonely condition. And Robin listened — amazed and perplexed.

  “It seems to be all my fault,” concluded Innocent, sorrowfully— “and yet it is not really so! Of course I ought never to have been born — but I couldn’t help it, could I? And now it seems quite wrong for me to even live! — I am not wanted — and ever since I was twelve years old your Uncle has only kept me out of charity—”

  But at this Robin started as though some one had struck him.

  “Innocent!” he exclaimed— “Do not say such a thing! — do not think it!

  Uncle Hugo has LOVED you! — and you — you have loved him!”

  She drew her hands away from his and covered her face.

  “I know! — I know!” and her tears fell fast again— “But I am not his, and he is not mine!”

  Robin was silent. The position was so unexpected and bewildering that he hardly knew what to say. But chiefly he felt that he must try and comfort this little weeping angel, who, so far as he was concerned, held his life subservient to her charm. He began talking softly and cheerily:

  “Why should it matter so much?” he said. “If you do not know who you are — if none of us know — it may be more fortunate for you than you can imagine! We cannot tell! Your own father may claim you — your own mother — such things are quite possible! You may be like the princess of a fairy-tale — rich people may come and take you away from Briar Farm and from me — and you will be too grand to think of us any more, and I shall only be the poor farmer in your eyes — you will wonder how you could ever have spoken to me—”

  “Robin!” Her hands dropped from her face and she looked at him in reproachful sadness. “Why do you say this? You know it could never be true! — never! If I had a father who cared for me, he would not have forgotten — and my mother, if she were a true mother, would have tried to find me long ago! No, Robin! — I ought to have died when I was a baby. No one wants me — I am a deserted child— ‘base-born,’ as your Uncle Hugo says, — and of course he is right — but the sin of it is not mine!”

  She had such a pitiful, fragile and fair appearance, standing half in shadow and half in the mystic radiance of the moon, that Robin Clifford’s heart ached with love and longing for her.

  “Sin!” he echoed— “Sin and you have never met each other! You are like your name, innocent of all evil! Oh, Innocent! If you could only care for me as I care for you!”

  She gave a shivering sigh.

  “Do you — can you care? — NOW?” she asked.

  “Of course! What is there in all this story that can change my love for you? That you are not my cousin? — that my uncle is not your own father? What does that matter to me? You are someone else’s child, and if we never know who that someone is, why should we vex ourselves about it? You are you! — you are Innocent! — the sweetest, dearest little girl that ever lived, and I adore you! What difference does it make that you are not Uncle Hugo’s daughter?”

  “It makes a great difference to me,” she answered, sadly— “I do not belong any more to the Sieur Amadis de Jocelin!”

  Robin stared, amazed — then smiled.

  “Why, Innocent!” he exclaimed— “Surely you’re not worrying your mind over that old knight, dead and gone more than three hundred years ago! Dear little goose! How on earth does he come into this trouble of yours?”

  “He comes in everywhere!” she replied, clasping and unclasping her hands nervously as she spoke. “You don’t know, Robin! — you would never understand! But I have loved the Sieur Amadis ever since I can remember; — I have talked to him and studied with him! — I have read his old books, and all the poems he wrote — and he seemed to be my friend! I thought I was born of his kindred — and I was proud of it — and I felt it would be my duty to live at Briar Farm always because he would wish his line quite unbroken — and I think — perhaps — yes, I think I might have married you and been a good wife to you just for his sake! — and now it is all spoiled! — because though you will be the master of Briar Farm, you will not be the lineal descendant of the Sieur Amadis! No, — it is finished! — all finished with your Uncle Hugo! — and the doctors say he can only live a year!”

  Her grief was so touching and pathetic that Robin could not find it in his heart to make a jest of the romance she had woven round the old French knight whose history had almost passed into a legend. After all, what she said was true — the line of the Jocelyn family had been kept intact through three centuries till now — and a direct heir had always inherited Briar Farm. He himself had taken a certain pride in thinking that Uncle Hugo’s “love-child,” as he had believed her to be, was at any rate, love-child or no, born of the Jocelyn blood — and that when he married her, as he hoped and fully purposed to do, he would discard his own name of Clifford and take that of Jocelyn, in order to keep the continuity of associations unbroken as far as possible. All these ideas were put to flight by Innocent’s story, and, as the position became more evident to him, the smiling expression on his face changed to one of gravity.

  “Dear Innocent,” he said,
at last— “Don’t cry! It cuts me to the heart! I would give my very life to save you from a sorrow — you know I would! If you ever thought, as you say, that you could or would marry me for the sake of the Sieur Amadis, you might just as well marry me now, even though the Sieur Amadis is out of it. I would make you so happy! I would indeed! And no one need ever know that you are not really the lineal descendant of the Knight—”

  She interrupted him.

  “Priscilla knows,” she said— “and, no matter how you look at it, I am ‘base-born.’ Your Uncle Hugo has let all the village folk think I am his illegitimate child — and that is ‘base-born’ of itself. Oh, it is cruel! Even you thought so, didn’t you?”

  Robin hesitated.

  “I did not know, dear,” he answered, gently— “I fancied—”

  “Do not deny it, Robin!” she said, mournfully. “You did think so! Well, it’s true enough, I suppose! — I am ‘base-born’ — but your uncle is not my father. He is a good, upright man — you can always be proud of him! He has not sinned, — though he has burdened me with the shame of sin! I think that is unfair, — but I must bear it somehow, and I will try to be brave. I’m glad I’ve told you all about it, — and you are very kind to have taken it so well — and to care for me still — but I shall never marry you, Robin! — never! I shall never bring my ‘base-born’ blood into the family of Jocelyn!”

  His heart sank as he heard her — and involuntarily he stretched out his arms in appeal.

  “Innocent!” he murmured— “Don’t be hard upon me! Think a little longer before you leave me without any hope! It means so much to my life! Surely you cannot be cruel? Do you care for me less than you care for that old knight buried under his own effigy in the garden? Will you not think kindly of a living man? — a man who loves you beyond all things? Oh, Innocent! — be gentle, be merciful!”

  She came to him and took his hands in her own.

  “It is just because I am kind and gentle and merciful,” she said, in her sweet, grave accents, “that I will not marry you, dear! I know I am right, — and you will think so too, in time. For the moment you imagine me to be much better and prettier than I am — and that there is no one like me! — poor Robin! — you are blind! — there are so many sweet and lovely girls, well born, with fathers and mothers to care for them — and you, with your good looks and kind ways, could marry any one of them — and you will, some day! Good-night, dear! You have stayed here a long time talking to me! — just suppose you were seen sitting on this window-ledge so late! — it is past midnight! — what would be said of me!”

  “What could be said?” demanded Robin, defiantly. “I came up here of my own accord, — the blame would be mine!”

  She shook her head sadly, smiling a little.

  “Ah, Robin! The man is never blamed! It’s always the woman’s fault!”

  “Where’s your fault to-night?” he asked.

  “Oh, most plain!” she answered. “When I saw you coming, I ought to have shut the window, drawn the curtains, and left you to clamber down the wall again as fast as you clambered up! But I wanted to tell you what had happened — and how everything had changed for me — and now — now that you know all — good-night!”

  He looked at her longingly. If she would only show some little sign of tenderness! — if he might just kiss her hand, he thought! But she withdrew into the shadow, and he had no excuse for lingering.

  “Good-night!” he said, softly. “Good-night, my angel Innocent!

  Good-night, my little love!”

  She made no response and moved slowly backward into the room. But as he reluctantly left his point of vantage and began to descend, stepping lightly from branch to branch of the accommodating wistaria, he saw the shadowy outline of her figure once more as she stretched out a hand and closed the lattice window, drawing a curtain across it. With the drawing of that curtain the beauty of the summer night was over for him, and poising himself lightly on a tough stem which was twisted strongly enough to give him adequate support and which projected some four feet above the smooth grass below, he sprang down. Scarcely had he touched the ground when a man, leaping suddenly out of a thick clump of bushes near that side of the house, caught him in a savage grip and shook him with all the fury of an enraged mastiff shaking a rat. Taken thus unawares, and rendered almost breathless by the swiftness of the attack, Clifford struggled in the grasp of his assailant and fought with him desperately for a moment without any idea of his identity, — then as by a dexterous twist of body he managed to partially extricate himself, he looked up and saw the face of Ned Landon, livid and convulsed with passion.

  “Landon!” he gasped— “What’s the matter with you? Are you mad?”

  “Yes!” answered Landon, hoarsely— “And enough to make me so! You devil!

  You’ve ruined the girl!”

  With a rapid movement, unexpected by his antagonist, Clifford disengaged himself and stood free.

  “You lie!” he said— “And you shall pay for it! Come away from the house and fight like a man! Come into the grass meadow yonder, where no one can see or hear us. Come!”

  Landon paused, drawing his breath thickly, and looking like a snarling beast baulked of its prey.

  “That’s a trick!” he said, scornfully— “You’ll run away!”

  “Come!” repeated Clifford, vehemently— “You’re more likely to run away than I am! Come!”

  Landon glanced him over from head to foot — the moonbeams fell brightly on his athletic figure and handsome face — then turned on his heel.

  “No, I won’t!” he said, curtly— “I’ve done all I want to do for to-night. I’ve shaken you like the puppy you are! To-morrow we’ll settle our differences.”

  For all answer Clifford sprang at him and struck him smartly across the face. In another moment both men were engaged in a fierce tussle, none the less deadly because so silent. A practised boxer and wrestler, Clifford grappled more and more closely with the bigger but clumsier man, dragging him steadily inch by inch further away from the house as they fought. More desperate, more determined became the struggle, till by two or three adroit manoeuvres Clifford got his opponent under him and bore him gradually to the ground, where, kneeling on his chest, he pinned him down.

  “Let me go!” muttered Landon— “You’re killing me!”

  “Serve you right!” answered Clifford— “You scoundrel! My uncle shall know of this!”

  “Tell him what you like!” retorted Landon, faintly— “I don’t care! Get off my chest! — you’re suffocating me!”

  Clifford slightly relaxed the pressure of his hands and knees.

  “Will you apologise?” he demanded.

  “Apologise? — for what?”

  “For your insolence to me and my cousin.”

  “Cousin be hanged!” snarled Landon— “She’s no more your cousin than I am — she’s only a nameless bastard! I heard her tell you so! And fine airs she gives herself on nothing!”

  “You miserable spy!” and Clifford again held him down as in a vise— “Whatever you heard is none of your business! Will you apologise?”

  “Oh, I’ll apologise, if you like! — anything to get your weight off me!” — and Landon made an abortive effort to rise. “But I keep my own opinion all the same!”

  Slowly Robin released him, and watched him as he picked himself up, with an air of mingled scorn and pity. Landon laughed forcedly, passing one hand across his forehead and staring in a dazed fashion at the shadows cast on the ground by the moon.

  “Yes — I keep my own opinion!” he repeated, stupidly. “You’ve got the better of me just now — but you won’t always, my pert Cock Robin! You won’t always. Don’t you think it! Briar Farm and I may part company — but there’s a bigger place than Briar Farm — there’s the world! — that’s a wide field and plenty of crops growing on it! And the men that sow those kind of crops and reap them and bring them in, are better farmers than you’ll ever be! As for your girl!” — her
e his face darkened and he shook his fist towards the lattice window behind which slept the unconscious cause of the quarrel— “You can keep her! A nice ‘Innocent’ SHE is! — talking with a man in her bedroom after midnight! — why, I wouldn’t have her as a gift — not now!”

  Choking with rage, Clifford sprang towards him again — Landon stepped back.

  “Hands off!” he said— “Don’t touch me! I’m in a killing mood! I’ve a knife on me — you haven’t. You’re the master — I’m the man — and I’ll play fair! I’ve my future to think of, and I don’t want to start with a murder!”

  With this, he turned his back and strode off, walking somewhat unsteadily like a blind man feeling his way.

  Clifford stood for a moment, inert. The angry blood burned in his face, — his hands were involuntarily clenched, — he was impatient with himself for having, as he thought, let Landon off too easily. He saw at once the possibility of mischief brewing, and hastily considered how it could best be circumvented.

  “The simplest way out of it is to make a clean breast of everything,” he decided, at last. “Tomorrow I’ll see Uncle Hugo early in the morning and tell him just what has happened.”

  Under the influence of this resolve, he gradually calmed down and re-entered the house. And the moonlight, widening and then waning over the smooth and peaceful meadows of Briar Farm, had it all its own way for the rest of the night, and as it filtered through the leafy branches of the elms and beeches which embowered the old tomb of the Sieur Amadis de Jocelin it touched with a pale glitter the stone hands of his sculptured effigy, — hands that were folded prayerfully above the motto,— “Mon coeur me soutien!”

  CHAPTER V

  As early as six o’clock the next morning Innocent was up and dressed, and, hastening down to the kitchen, busied herself, as was her usual daily custom, in assisting Priscilla with the housework and the preparation for breakfast. There was always plenty to do, and as she moved quickly to and fro, fulfilling the various duties she had taken upon herself and which she performed with unobtrusive care and exactitude, the melancholy forebodings of the past night partially cleared away from her mind. Yet there was a new expression on her face — one of sadness and seriousness unfamiliar to its almost child-like features, and it was not easy for her to smile in her ordinary bright way at the round of scolding which Priscilla administered every morning to the maids who swept and scrubbed and dusted and scoured the kitchen till no speck of dirt was anywhere visible, till the copper shone like mirrors, and the tables were nearly as smooth as polished silver or ivory. Going into the dairy where pans of new milk stood ready for skimming, and looking out for a moment through the lattice window, she saw old Hugo Jocelyn and Robin Clifford walking together across the garden, engaged in close and earnest conversation. A little sigh escaped her as she thought: “They are talking about me!” — then, on a sudden impulse, she went back into the kitchen where Priscilla was for the moment alone, the other servants having dispersed into various quarters of the house, and going straight up to her said, simply —