Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Good-morning, Miss Jocelyn!”

  He emphasized the surname with a touch of malice. She coloured, but replied “Good-morning” with a sweet composure. He eyed her askance, but had no opportunity for more words, as old Hugo just then clambered up into the dog-cart, and took the reins of the rather skittish young mare which was harnessed to it.

  “Come on, Landon!” he shouted, impatiently— “No time for farewells!” Then, as Landon jumped up beside him, he smiled, seeing the soft, wistful face of the girl watching him from beneath a canopy of roses.

  “Take care of the house while I’m gone!” he called to her;— “You’ll find Robin in the orchard.”

  He laid the lightest flick of the whip on the mare’s ears, and she trotted rapidly away.

  Innocent stood a moment gazing after the retreating vehicle till it disappeared, — then she went slowly into the house. Robin was in the orchard, was he? Well! — he had plenty of work to do there, and she would not disturb him. She turned away from the sunshine and flowers and made her way upstairs to her own room. How quiet and reposeful it looked! It was a beloved shrine, full of sweet memories and dreams, — there would never be any room like it in the world for her, she well knew. Listlessly she sat down at the table, and turned over the pages of an old book she had been reading, but her eyes were not upon it.

  “I wonder!” she said, half aloud — then paused.

  The thought in her mind was too daring for utterance. She was picturing the possibility of going quietly away from Briar Farm all alone, and trying to make a name and career for herself through the one natural gift she fancied she might possess, a gift which nowadays is considered almost as common as it was once admired and rare. To be a poet and romancist, — a weaver of wonderful thoughts into musical language, — this seemed to her the highest of all attainment; the proudest emperor of the most powerful nation on earth was, to her mind, far less than Shakespeare, — and inferior to the simplest French lyrist of old time that ever wrote a “chanson d’amour.” But the doubt in her mind was whether she, personally, had any thoughts worth expressing, — any ideas which the world might be the happier or the better for knowing and sharing? She drew a long breath, — the warm colour flushed her cheeks and then faded, leaving her very pale, — the whole outlook of her life was so barren of hope or promise that she dared not indulge in any dream of brighter days. On the face of it, there seemed no possible chance of leaving Briar Farm without some outside assistance — she had no money, and no means of obtaining any. Then, — even supposing she could get to London, she knew no one there, — she had no friends. Sighing wearily, she opened a deep drawer in the table at which she sat, and took out a manuscript — every page of it so neatly written as to be almost like copper-plate — and set herself to reading it steadily. There were enough written sheets to make a good-sized printed volume — and she read on for more than an hour. When she lifted her eyes at last they were eager and luminous.

  “Perhaps,” she half whispered— “perhaps there is something in it after all! — something just a little new and out of the ordinary — but — how shall I ever know!”

  Putting the manuscript by with a lingering care, she went to the window and looked out. The peaceful scene was dear and familiar — and she already felt a premonition of the pain she would have to endure in leaving so sweet and safe a home. Her thoughts gradually recurred to the old trouble — Robin, and Robin’s love for her, — Robin, who, if she married him, would spend his life gladly in the effort to make her happy, — where in the wide world would she find a better, truer-hearted man? And yet — a curious reluctance had held her back from him, even when she had believed herself to be the actual daughter of Hugo Jocelyn, — and now — now, when she knew she was nothing but a stray foundling, deserted by her own parents and left to the care of strangers, she considered it would be nothing short of shame and disgrace to him, were she to become his wife.

  “I can always be his friend,” she said to herself— “And if I once make him understand clearly how much better it is for us to be like brother and sister, he will see things in the right way. And when he marries I am sure to be fond of his wife and children — and — and — it will be ever so much happier for us all! I’ll go and talk to him now.”

  She ran downstairs and out across the garden, and presently made a sudden appearance in the orchard — a little vision of white among the russet-coloured trees with their burden of reddening apples. Robin was there alone — he was busied in putting up a sturdy prop under one of the longer branches of a tree heavily laden with fruit. He saw her and smiled — but went on with his work.

  “Are you very busy?” she asked, approaching him almost timidly.

  “Just now, yes! In a moment, no! We shall lose this big bough in the next high wind if I don’t take care.”

  She waited — watching the strength and dexterity of his hands and arms, and the movements of his light muscular figure. In a little while he had finished all he had to do — and turning to her said, laughingly —

  “Now I am at your service! You look very serious! — grave as a little judge, and quite reproachful! What have I done? — or what has anybody done that you should almost frown at me on this bright sun-shiny morning?”

  She smiled in response to his gay, questioning look.

  “I’m sorry I have such a depressing aspect,” she said— “I don’t feel very happy, and I suppose my face shows it.”

  He was silent for a minute or two, watching her with a grave tenderness in his eyes.

  By and by he spoke, gently —

  “Come and stroll about a bit with me through the orchard, — it will cheer you to see the apples hanging in such rosy clusters among the grey-green leaves. Nothing prettier in all the world, I think! — and they are just ripening enough to be fragrant. Come, dear! Let us talk our troubles out!”

  She walked by his side, mutely — and they moved slowly together under the warm scented boughs, through which the sunlight fell in broad streams of gold, making the interlacing shadows darker by contrast. There was a painful throbbing in her throat, — the tension of struggling tears which strove for an outlet, — but gradually the sweet influences of the air and sunshine did good work in calming her nerves, and she was quite composed when Robin spoke again.

  “You see, dear, I know quite well what is worrying you. I’m worried myself — and I’d better tell you all about it. Last night—” he paused.

  She looked up at him, quickly.

  “Last night? — Well?”

  “Well — Ned Landon was in hiding in the bushes under your window — and he must have been there all the time we were talking together. How or why he came there I cannot imagine. But he heard a good deal — and when you shut your window he was waiting for me. Directly I got down he pounced on me like a tramp-thief, and — now there! — don’t look so frightened! — he said something that I couldn’t stand, so we had a jolly good fight. He got the worst of it, I can tell you! He’s stiff and unfit to work to-day — that’s why Uncle Hugo has taken him to the town. I told the whole story to Uncle Hugo this morning — and he says I did quite right. But it’s a bore to have to go on ‘bossing’ Landon — he bears me a grudge, of course — and I foresee it will be difficult to manage him. He can hardly be dismissed — the other hands would want to know why; no man has ever been dismissed from Briar Farm without good and fully explained reasons. This time no reasons could be given, because your name might come in, and I won’t have that—”

  “Oh, Robin, it’s all my fault!” she exclaimed. “If you would only let me go away! Help me — do help me to go away!”

  He stared at her, amazed.

  “Go away!” he echoed— “You! Why, Innocent, how can you think of such a thing! You are the very life and soul of the place — how can you talk of going away! No, no! — not unless” — here he drew nearer and looked at her steadily and tenderly in the eyes— “not unless you will let me take you away! — just for a little whil
e! — as a bridegroom takes a bride — on a honeymoon of love and sunshine and roses—”

  He stopped, deterred by her look of sadness.

  “Dear Robin,” she said, very gently— “would you marry a girl who cannot love you as a wife should love? Won’t you understand that if I could and did love you I should be happier than I am? — though now, even if I loved you with all my heart, I would not marry you. How could I? I am nothing — I have no name — no family — and can you think that I would bring shame upon you? No, Robin! — never! I know what your Uncle Hugo wishes — and oh! — if I could only make him happy I would do it! — but I cannot — it would be wrong of me — and you would regret it—”

  “I should never regret it,” he interrupted her, quickly. “If you would be my wife, Innocent, I should be the proudest, gladdest man alive! Ah, dear! — do put all your fancies aside and try to realise what good you would be doing to the old man if he felt quite certain that you would be the little mistress of the old farm he loves so much — I will not speak of myself — you do not care for me! — but for him—”

  She looked up at him with a sudden light in her eyes.

  “Could we not pretend?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why, pretend that we’re engaged — just to satisfy him. Couldn’t you make things easy for me that way?”

  “I don’t quite understand,” he said, with a puzzled air— “How would it make things easy?”

  “Why, don’t you see?” and she spoke with hurried eagerness— “When he comes home to-night let him think it’s all right — and then — then I’ll run away by myself — and it will be my fault—”

  “Innocent! What are you talking about?” — and he flushed with vexation. “My dear girl, if you dislike me so much that you would rather run away than marry me, I won’t say another word about it. I’ll manage to smooth things over with my uncle for the present — just to prevent his fretting himself — and you shall not be worried—”

  “You must not be worried either,” she said. “You will not understand, and you do not think! — but just suppose it possible that, after all, my own parents did remember me at last and came to look after me — and that they were perhaps dreadful wicked people—”

  Robin smiled.

  “The man who brought you here was a gentleman,” he said— “Uncle Hugo told me so this morning, and said he was the finest-looking man he had ever seen.”

  Innocent was silent a moment.

  “You think he was a ‘gentleman’ to desert his own child?” she asked.

  Robin hesitated.

  “Dear, you don’t know the world,” he said— “There may have been all sorts of dangers and difficulties — anyhow, I don’t bear him any grudge! He gave you to Briar Farm!”

  She sighed, and made no response. Inadvertently they had walked beyond the orchard and were now on the very edge of the little thicket where the tomb of the Sieur Amadis de Jocelin glimmered pallidly through the shadow of the leaves. Innocent quickened her steps.

  “Come!” she said.

  He followed her reluctantly. Almost he hated the old stone knight which served her as a subject for so many fancies and feelings, and when she beckoned him to the spot where she stood beside the recumbent effigy, he showed a certain irritation of manner which did not escape her.

  “You are cross with him!” she said, reproachfully. “You must not be so.

  He is the founder of your family—”

  “And the finish of it, I suppose!” he answered, abruptly. “He stands between us two, Innocent! — a cold stone creature with no heart — and you prefer him to me! Oh, the folly of it all! How can you be so cruel!”

  She looked at him wistfully — almost her resolution failed her. He saw her momentary hesitation and came close up to her.

  “You do not know what love is!” he said, catching her hand in his own— “Innocent, you do not know! If you did! — if I might teach you — !”

  She drew her hand away very quickly and decidedly.

  “Love does not want teaching,” she said— “it comes — when it will, and where it will! It has not come to me, and you cannot force it, Robin! If I were your wife — your wife without any wife’s love for you — I should grow to hate Briar Farm! — yes, I should! — I should pine and die in the very place where I have been so happy! — and I should feel that HE” — here she pointed to the sculptured Sieur Amadis— “would almost rise from this tomb and curse me!”

  She spoke with sudden, almost dramatic vehemence, and he gazed at her in mute amazement. Her eyes flashed, and her face was lit up by a glow of inspiration and resolve.

  “You take me just for the ordinary sort of girl,” she went on— “A girl to caress and fondle and marry and make the mother of your children, — now for that you might choose among the girls about here, any of whom would be glad to have you for a husband. But, Robin, do you think I am really fit for that sort of life always? — can’t you believe in anything else but marriage for a woman?”

  As she thus spoke, she unconsciously created a new impression on his mind, — a veil seemed to be suddenly lifted, and he saw her as he had never before seen her — a creature removed, isolated and unattainable through the force of some inceptive intellectual quality which he had not previously suspected. He answered her, very gently —

  “Dear, I cannot believe in anything else but love for a woman,” he said— “She was created and intended for love, and without love she must surely be unhappy.”

  “Love! — ah yes!” she responded, quickly— “But marriage is not love!”

  His brows contracted.

  “You must not speak in that way, Innocent,” he said, seriously— “It is wrong — people would misunderstand you—”

  Her eyes lightened, and she smiled.

  “Yes! — I’m sure ‘people’ would!” she answered— “But ‘people’ don’t matter — to ME. It is truth that matters, — truth, — and love!”

  He looked at her, perplexed.

  “Why should you think marriage is not love?” he asked— “It is the one thing all lovers wish for — to be married and to live together always—”

  “Oh, they wish for it, yes, poor things!” she said, with a little uplifting of her brows— “And when their wishes are gratified, they often wish they had not wished!” She laughed. “Robin, this talk of ours is making me feel quite merry! I am amused!”

  “I am not!” he replied, irritably— “You are much too young a girl to think these things—”

  She nodded, gravely.

  “I know! And I ought to get married while young, before I learn too many of ‘these things,’” she said— “Isn’t that so? Don’t frown, Robin! Look at the Sieur Amadis! How peacefully he sleeps! He knew all about love!”

  “Of course he did!” retorted Robin— “He was a perfectly sensible man — he married and had six children.”

  Innocent nodded again, and a little smile made two fascinating dimples in her soft cheeks.

  “Yes! But he said good-bye to love first!”

  He looked at her in visible annoyance.

  “How can you tell? — what do you know about it?” he demanded.

  She lifted her eyes to the glimpses of blue sky that showed in deep clear purity between the over-arching boughs, — a shaft of sunlight struck on her fair hair and illumined its pale brown to gold, so that for a moment she looked like the picture of a young rapt saint, lost in heavenly musing.

  Then a smile, wonderfully sweet and provocative, parted her lips, and she beckoned him to a grassy slope beneath one of the oldest trees, where little tufts of wild thyme grew thickly, filling the air with fragrance.

  “Come and sit beside me here,” she said— “We have the day to ourselves — Dad said so, — and we can talk as long as we like. You ask me what I know? — not much indeed! But I’ll tell you what the Sieur Amadis has told me! — if you care to hear it!”

  “I’m not sure that I do,” he
answered, dubiously.

  She laughed.

  “Oh, Robin! — how ungrateful you are! You ought to be so pleased! If you really loved me as much as you say, the mere sound of my voice ought to fill you with ecstasy! Yes, really! Come, be good!” And she sat down on the grass, glancing up at him invitingly. He flung himself beside her, and she extended her little white hand to him with a pretty condescension.

  “There! — you may hold it!” she said, as he eagerly clasped it— “Yes, you may! Now, if the Sieur Amadis had been allowed to hold the hand of the lady he loved he would have gone mad with joy!”

  “Much good he’d have done by going mad!” growled Robin, with an affectation of ill-humour— “I’d rather be sane, — sane and normal.”

  She bent her smiling eyes upon him.

  “Would you? Poor Robin! Well, you will be — when you settle down—”

  “Settle down?” he echoed— “How? What do you mean?”

  “Why, when you settle down with a wife, and — shall we say six children?” she queried, merrily— “Yes, I think it must be six! Like the Sieur Amadis! And when you forget that you ever sat with me under the trees, holding my hand — so!”

  The lovely, half-laughing compassion of her look nearly upset his self-possession. He drew closer to her side.

  “Innocent!” he exclaimed, passionately— “if you would only listen to reason—”

  She shook her head.

  “I never could!” she declared, with an odd little air of penitent self-depreciation— “People who ask you to listen to reason are always so desperately dull! Even Priscilla! — when she asks you to ‘listen to reason,’ she’s in the worst of tempers! Besides, Robin, dear, we shall have plenty of chances to ‘listen to reason’ when we grow older, — we’re both young just now, and a little folly won’t hurt us. Have patience with me! — I want to tell you some quite unreasonable — quite abnormal things about love! May I?”

  “Yes — if I may too!” he answered, kissing the hand he held, with lingering tenderness.