Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Priscilla dear, why did you never tell me that I wasn’t Dad’s own daughter?”

  Priscilla started violently, and her always red face turned redder, — then, with an effort to recover herself, she answered —

  “Lord, lovey! How you frightened me! Why didn’t I tell you? Well, in the first place, ’twasn’t none of my business, and in the second, ’twouldn’t have done any good if I had.”

  Innocent was silent, looking at her with a piteous intensity.

  “And who is it that’s told you now?” went on Priscilla, nervously— “some meddlin’ old fool—”

  Innocent raised her hand, warningly.

  “Hush, Priscilla! Dad himself told me—”

  “Well, he might just as well have kept a still tongue in his head,” retorted Priscilla, sharply. “He’s kept it for eighteen years, an’ why he should let it go wagging loose now, the Lord only knows! There’s no making out the ways of men, — they first plays the wise and silent game like barn-door owls, — then all on a suddint-like they starts cawing gossip for all they’re worth, like crows. And what’s the good of tellin’ ye, anyway?”

  “No good, perhaps,” answered Innocent, sorrowfully— “but it’s right I should know. You see, I’m not a child any more — I’m eighteen — that’s a woman — and a woman ought to know what she must expect more or less in her life—”

  Priscilla leaned on the newly scrubbed kitchen table and looked across at the girl with a compassionate expression.

  “What a woman must expect in life is good ‘ard knocks and blows,” she said— “unless she can get a man to look arter her what’s not of the general kicking spirit. Take my advice, dearie! You marry Mr. Robin! — as good a boy as ever breathed — he’ll be a kind fond ‘usband to ye, and arter all that’s what a woman thrives best on — kindness — an’ you’ve ‘ad it all your life up to now—”

  “Priscilla,” interrupted Innocent, decidedly— “I cannot marry Robin! You know I cannot! A poor nameless girl like me! — why, it would be a shame to him in after-years. Besides, I don’t love him — and it’s wicked to marry a man you don’t love.”

  Priscilla smothered a sound between a grunt and a sigh.

  “You talks a lot about love, child,” she said— “but I’m thinkin’ you don’t know much about it. Them old books an’ papers you found up in the secret room are full of nonsense, I’m pretty sure — an’ if you believes that men are always sighin’ an’ dyin’ for a woman, you’re mistaken — yes, you are, lovey! They goes where they can be made most comfortable — an’ it don’t matter what sort o’ woman gives the comfort so long as they gits it.”

  Innocent smiled, faintly.

  “You don’t know anything about it, Priscilla,” she answered— “You were never married.”

  “Thank the Lord and His goodness, no!” said Priscilla, with an emphatic sniff— “I’ve never been troubled with the whimsies of a man, which is worse than all the megrims of a woman any day. I’ve looked arter Mr. Jocelyn in a way — but he’s no sort of a man to worry about — he just goes reglar to the farmin’ — an’ that’s all — a decent creature always, an’ steady as his own oxen what pulls the plough. An’ when he’s gone, if go he must, I’ll look arter you an’ Mr. Robin, an’ please God, I’ll dance your babies on my old knees—” Here she broke off and turned her head away. Innocent ran to her, surprised.

  “Why, Priscilla, you’re crying!” she exclaimed— “Don’t do that! Why should you cry?”

  “Why indeed!” blubbered Priscilla— “Except that I’m a doiterin’ fool! I can’t abear the thoughts of you turnin’ yer back on the good that God gives ye, an’ floutin’ Mr. Robin, who’s the best sort o’ man that ever could fall to the lot of a little tender maid like you — why, lovey, you don’t know the wickedness o’ this world, nor the ways of it — an’ you talks about love as if it was somethin’ wonderful an’ far away, when here it is at yer very feet for the pickin’ up! What’s the good of all they books ye’ve bin readin’ if they don’t teach ye that the old knight you’re fond of got so weary of the world that arter tryin’ everythin’ in turn he found nothin’ better than to marry a plain, straight country wench and settle down in Briar Farm for all his days? Ain’t that the lesson he’s taught ye?”

  She paused, looking hopefully at the girl through her tears — but Innocent’s small fair face was pale and calm, though her eyes shone with a brilliancy as of suppressed excitement.

  “No,” she said— “He has not taught me that at all. He came here to ‘seek forgetfulness’ — so it is said in the words he carved on the panel in his study, — but we do not know that he ever really forgot. He only ‘found peace,’ and peace is not happiness — except for the very old.”

  “Peace is not happiness!” re-echoed Priscilla, staring— “That’s a queer thing to say, lovey! What do you call being happy?”

  “It is difficult to explain” — and a swift warm colour flew over the girl’s cheeks, expressing some wave of hidden feeling— “Your idea of happiness and mine must be so different!” She smiled— “Dear, good Priscilla! You are so much more easily contented than I am!”

  Priscilla looked at her with a great tenderness in her dim old grey eyes.

  “See here, lovey!” she said— “You’re just like a young bird on the edge of a nest ready to fly. You don’t know the world nor the ways of it. Oh, my dear, it ain’t all gold harvests and apples ripening rosy in the sun! You’ve lived all your life in the open country, and so you’ve always had the good God near you, — but there’s places where the houses stand so close together that the sky can hardly make a patch of blue between the smoking chimneys — like London, for instance — ah! — that’s where you’d find what the world’s like, lovey! — where you feels so lonesome that you wonders why you ever were born—”

  “I wonder that already,” interrupted the girl, quickly. “Don’t worry me, dear! I have so much to think about — my life seems so altered and strange — I hardly understand myself — and I don’t know what I shall do with my future — but I cannot — I will not marry Robin!”

  She turned away quickly then, to avoid further discussion.

  A little later she went into the quaint oak-panelled room where the fateful disclosures of the past night had been revealed to her. Here breakfast was laid, and the latticed window was set wide open, admitting the sweet scent of stocks and mignonette with every breath of the morning air. She stood awhile looking out on the gay beauty of the garden, and her eyes unconsciously filled with tears.

  “Dear home!” she murmured— “Home that is not mine — that never will be mine! How I have loved you! — how I shall always love you!”

  A slow step behind her interrupted her meditations — and she looked around with a smile as timid as it was tender. There was her “Dad” — the same as ever, — yet now to her mind so far removed from her that she hesitated a moment before giving him her customary good-morning greeting. A pained contraction of his brow showed her that he felt this little difference, and she hastened to make instant amends.

  “Dear Dad!” she said, softly, — and she put her soft arms about him and kissed his cheek— “How are you this morning? Did you sleep well?”

  He took her arms from his shoulders, and held her for a moment, looking at her scrutinisingly from under his shaggy brows.

  “I did not sleep at all,” he answered her— “I lay broad awake, thinking of you. Thinking of you, my little innocent, fatherless, motherless lamb! And you, child! — you did not sleep so well as you should have done, talking with Robin half the night out of window!”

  She coloured deeply. He smiled and pinched her crimsoning cheek, apparently well pleased.

  “No harm, no harm!” he said— “Just two young doves cooing among the leaves at mating time! Robin has told me all about it. Now listen, child! — I’m away to-day to the market town — there’s seed to buy and crops to sell — I’ll take Ned Landon with me—” he paused, and an odd
expression of sternness and resolve clouded his features— “Yes! — I’ll take Ned Landon with me — he’s shrewd enough when he’s sober — and he’s cunning enough, too, for that matter! — yes, I’ll take him with me. We’ll be off in the dog-cart as soon as breakfast’s done. My time’s getting short, but I’ll attend to my own business as long as I can — I’ll look after Briar Farm till I die — and I’ll die in harness. There’s plenty of work to do yet — plenty of work; and while I’m away you can settle up things—”

  Here he broke off, and his eyes grew fixed in a sudden vacant stare. Innocent, frightened at his unnatural look, laid her hand caressingly on his arm.

  “Yes, dear Dad!” she said, soothingly— “What is it you wish me to do?”

  The stare faded from his eyeballs, and his face softened.

  “Settle up things,” he repeated, slowly, and with emphasis— “Settle up things with Robin. No more beating about the bush! You talked to him long enough out of window last night, and mind you! — somebody was listening! That means mischief! I don’t blame you, poor wilding! — but remember, SOMEBODY WAS LISTENING! Now think of that and of your good name, child! — settle with Robin and we’ll have the banns put up next Sunday.”

  While he thus spoke the warm rose of her cheeks faded to an extreme pallor, — her very lips grew white and set. Her hurrying thoughts clamoured for utterance, — she could have expressed in passionate terms her own bitter sense of wrong and unmerited shame, but pity for the old man’s worn and haggard look of pain held her silent. She saw and felt that he was not strong enough to bear any argument or opposition in his present mood, so she made no sort of reply, not even by a look or a smile. Quietly she went to the breakfast table, and busied herself in preparing his morning meal. He followed her and sat heavily down in his usual chair, watching her furtively as she poured out the tea.

  “Such little white hands, aren’t they?” he said, coaxingly, touching her small fingers when she gave him his cup— “Eh, wilding? The prettiest lily flowers I ever saw! And one of them will look all the prettier for a gold wedding-ring upon it! Ay, ay! We’ll have the banns put up on Sunday.”

  Still she did not speak; once she turned away her head to hide the tears that involuntarily rose to her eyes. Old Hugo, meanwhile, began to eat his breakfast with the nervous haste of a man who takes his food more out of custom than necessity. Presently he became irritated at her continued silence.

  “You heard what I said, didn’t you?” he demanded— “And you understood?”

  She looked full at him with sorrowful, earnest eyes.

  “Yes, Dad. I heard. And I understood.”

  He nodded and smiled, and appeared to take it for granted that she had received an order which it was her bounden duty to obey. The sun shone brilliantly in upon the beautiful old room, and through the open window came a pleasant murmuring of bees among the mignonette, and the whistle of a thrush in an elm-tree sounded with clear and cheerful persistence. Hugo Jocelyn looked at the fair view of the flowering garden and drew his breath hard in a quick sigh.

  “It’s a fine day,” he said— “and it’s a fine world! Ay, that it is! I’m not sure there’s a better anywhere! And it’s a bit difficult to think of going down for ever into the dark and the cold, away from the sunshine and the sky — but it’s got to be done!” — here he clenched his fist and brought it down on the table with a defiant blow— “It’s got to be done, and I’ve got to do it! But not yet — not quite yet! — I’ve plenty of time and chance to stop mischief!”

  He rose, and drawing himself up to his full height looked for the moment strong and resolute. Taking one or two slow turns up and down the room, he suddenly stopped in front of Innocent.

  “We shall be away all day,” he said— “I and Ned Landon. Do you hear?”

  There was something not quite natural in the tone of his voice, and she glanced up at him in a little surprise.

  “Well, what are you wondering at?” he demanded, a trifle testily— “You need not open your eyes at me like that!”

  She smiled faintly.

  “Did I open my eyes, Dad?” she said— “I did not mean to be curious. I only thought—”

  “You only thought what?” he asked, with sudden heat— “What did you think?”

  “Oh, just about your being away all day in the town — you will be so tired—”

  “Tired? Not I! — not when there’s work to do and business to settle!” He rubbed his hands together with a kind of energetic expectancy. “Work to do and business to settle!” he repeated— “Yes, little girl! There’s not much time before me, and I must leave everything in good order for you and Robin.”

  She dropped her head, and the expression of her face was hidden from him.

  “You and Robin!” he said, again. “Ay, ay! Briar Farm will be in the best of care when I’m dead, and it’ll thrive well with young love and hope to keep it going!” He came up to her and took one of her little hands in his own. “There, there!” he went on, patting it gently— “We’ll think no more of trouble and folly and mistakes in life; it’ll be all joy and peace for you, child! Take God’s good blessing of an honest lad’s love and be happy with it! And when I come home to-night,” — he paused and appeared to think for a moment— “yes! — when I come home, let me hear that it’s all clear and straight between you — and we’ll have the banns put up on Sunday!”

  She said not a word in answer. Her hand slid passively from his hold, — and she never looked up. He hesitated for a moment — then walked towards the door.

  “You’ll have all the day to yourself with Robin,” he added, glancing back at her— “There’ll be no spies about the place, and no one listening, as there was last night!”

  She sprang up from her chair, moved at last by an impulse of indignation.

  “Who was it?” she asked— “I said nothing wrong — and I do not care! — but who was it?”

  A curious strained look came into old Hugo’s eyes as he answered —

  “Ned Landon.”

  She looked amazed, — then scared.

  “Ned Landon?”

  “Ay! Ned Landon. He hasn’t the sweetest of tempers and he isn’t always sober. He’s a bit in the way sometimes, — ay, ay! — a bit in the way! But he’s a good farm hand for all that, — and his word stands for something! I’d rather he hadn’t heard you and Robin talking last night — but what’s done is done, and it’s a mischief easy mended—”

  “Why, what mischief can there be?” the girl demanded, her colour coming and going quickly— “And why should he have listened? It’s a mean trick to spy upon others!”

  He smiled indulgently.

  “Of course it’s a mean trick, child! — but there’s a good many men — and women too — who are just made up of mean tricks and nothing more. They spend their lives in spying upon their neighbours and interfering in everybody’s business. You’d soon find that out, my girl, if you lived in the big world that lies outside Briar Farm! Ay! — and that reminds me—” Here he came from the door back into the room again, and going to a quaint old upright oaken press that stood in one corner, he unlocked it and took out a roll of bank-notes. These he counted carefully over to himself, and folding them up put them away in his breast pocket. “Now I’m ready!” he said— “Ready for all I’ve got to do! Good-bye, my wilding!” He approached her, and lifting her small face between his hands, kissed it tenderly. “Bless thee! No child of my own could be dearer than thou art! All I want now is to leave thee in safe and gentle keeping when I die. Think of this and be good to Robin!”

  She trembled under his caress, and her heart was full of speechless sorrow. She longed to yield to his wishes, — she knew that if she did so she would give him happiness and greater resignation to the death which confronted him; and she also knew that if she could make up her mind to marry Robin Clifford she would have the best and the tenderest of husbands. And Briar Farm, — the beloved old home — would be hers! — her very own! Her c
hildren would inherit it and play about the fair and fruitful fields as she had done — they, too, could be taught to love the memory of the old knight, the Sieur Amadis de Jocelin — ah! — but surely it was the spirit of the Sieur Amadis himself that held her back and prevented her from doing his name and memory grievous wrong! She was not of his blood or race — she was nameless and illegitimate, — no good could come of her engrafting herself like a weed upon a branch of the old noble stock — the farm would cease to prosper.

  So she thought and so she felt, in her dreamy imaginative way, and though she allowed old Hugo to leave her without vexing him by any decided opposition to his plans, she was more than ever firmly resolved to abide by her own interior sense of what was right and fitting. She heard the wheels of the dog-cart grating the gravel outside the garden gate, and an affectionate impulse moved her to go and see her “Dad” off. As she made her appearance under the rose-covered porch of the farm-house door, she perceived Landon, who at once pulled off his cap with an elaborate and exaggerated show of respect.