Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  The hours moved on, bearing with them different destinies to millions of different human lives, and the tall old clock in the great hall of Briar Farm told them off with a sonorous chime and clangour worthy of Westminster itself. It was a quiet night; there was not a breath of wind to whistle through crack or key-hole, or swing open an unbolted door, — and Hero, the huge mastiff that always slept “on guard” just within the hall entrance, had surely no cause to sit up suddenly on his great haunches and listen with uplifted ears to sounds which were to any other creature inaudible. Yet listen he did — sharply and intently. Raising his massive head he snuffed the air — then suddenly began to tremble as with cold, and gave vent to a long, low, dismal moan. It was a weird noise — worse than positive howling, and the dog himself seemed distressfully conscious that he was expressing something strange and unnatural. Two or three times he repeated this eerie muffled cry — then, lying down again, he put his nose between his great paws, and, with a deep shivering sigh, appeared to resign himself to the inevitable. There followed several moments of tense silence. Then came a sudden dull thud overhead, as of a heavy load falling or being thrown down, and a curious inexplicable murmur like smothered choking or groaning. Instantly the great dog sprang erect and raced up the staircase like a mad creature, barking furiously. The house was aroused — doors were flung open — Priscilla rushed from her room half dressed — and Innocent ran along the corridor in her little white nightgown, her feet bare, and her hair falling dishevelled over her shoulders.

  “What is it?” she cried piteously— “Oh, do tell me! What is it?”

  Robin Clifford, hearing the dog’s persistent barking, had hastily donned coat and trousers and now appeared on the scene.

  “Hero, Hero!” he called— “Quiet, Hero!”

  But Hero had bounded to his master Jocelyn’s door and was pounding against it with all the force of his big muscular body, apparently seeking to push or break it open. Robin laid one hand on the animal’s collar and pulled him back — then tried the door himself — it was locked.

  “Uncle Hugo!”

  There was no answer.

  He turned to one of the frightened servants who were standing near. His face was very pale.

  “Fetch me a hammer,” he said— “Something — anything that will force the lock. Innocent!” — and with deep tenderness he took her little cold hands in his own— “I wish you would go away!”

  “Why?” and she looked at him with eyes full of terror. “Oh no, no! Let me be with you — let me call him!” — and she knelt outside the closed door— “Dad! Dear Dad! I want to speak to you! Mayn’t I come in? I’m so frightened — do let me come in. Dad!”

  But the silence remained unbroken.

  “Priscilla!” — and Robin beckoned to her— “keep Innocent beside you — I’m afraid—”

  Priscilla nodded, turning her head aside a moment to wipe away the tears that were gathering in her eyes, — then she put an arm round Innocent’s waist.

  “Don’t kneel there, lovey,” she whispered— “It’s no good and you’re in the way when they open the door. Come with me! — there’s a dear!” — and she drew the trembling little figure tenderly into her arms. “There! — that’ll be a bit warmer!” and she signed to one of the farm maids near her to fetch a cloak which she carefully wrapped round the girl’s shoulders. Just then the hammer was brought with other tools, and Robin, to save any needless clamour, took a chisel and inserted it in such a manner as should most easily force the catch of the door — but the lock was an ancient and a strong one, and would not yield for some time. At last, with an extra powerful and dexterous movement of his hand, it suddenly gave way — and he saw what he would have given worlds that Innocent should not have seen — old Hugo lying face forward on the floor, motionless. There was a rush and a wild cry —

  “Dad! Dad!”

  She was beside him in a moment, trying with all her slight strength to lift his head and turn his face.

  “Help me — oh, help me!” she wailed. “He has fainted — we must lift him — get some one to lift him on the bed. It is only a faint — he will recover — get some brandy and send for the doctor. Don’t lose time! — for Heaven’s sake be quick! Robin, make them hurry!”

  Robin had already whispered his orders, — and two of the farm lads, roused from sleep and hastily summoned, were ready to do what he told them. With awed, hushed movements they lifted the heavy fallen body of their master between them and laid it gently down on the bed. As the helpless head dropped back on the pillow they saw that all was over, — the pinched ashen grey of the features and the fast glazing eyes told their own fatal story — there was no hope. But Innocent held the cold hand of the dead man to her warm young bosom, endeavouring to take from it its cureless chill.

  “He will be better soon,” she said,— “Priscilla, bring me that brandy — just a little will revive him, I’m sure. Why do you stand there crying? You surely don’t think he’s dead? — No, no, that isn’t possible! It isn’t possible, is it, Robin? He’ll come to himself in a few minutes — a fainting fit may last quite a long time. I wish he had not locked his door — we could have been with him sooner.”

  So she spoke, tremblingly nursing the dead hand in her bosom. No one present had the heart to contradict her — and Priscilla, with the tears running down her face, brought the brandy she asked for and held it while she tenderly moistened the lips of the corpse and tried to force a few drops between the clenched teeth — in vain. This futile attempt frightened her, and she looked at Robin Clifford with a wild air.

  “I cannot make him swallow it,” she said— “Can you, Robin? He looks so grey and cold! — but his lips are quite warm.”

  Robin, restraining the emotion that half choked him and threatened to overflow in womanish weeping, went up to her and tried to coax her away from the bedside.

  “Dear, if you could leave him for a little it would perhaps be better,” he said. “He might — he might recover sooner. We have sent for the doctor — he will be here directly—”

  “I will stay here till he comes,” replied the girl, quietly. “How can you think I would leave Dad when he’s ill? If we could only rouse him a little—”

  Ah, that “if”! If we could only rouse our beloved ones who fall into that eternal sleep, would not all the riches and glories of the world seem tame in comparison with such joy! Innocent had never seen death — she could not realise that this calm irresponsiveness, this cold and stiffening rigidity, meant an end to the love and care she had known all her life — love and care which would never be replaced in quite the same way!

  The first peep of a silver dawn began to peer through the lattice window, and as she saw this suggestion of wakening life, a sudden dread clutched at her heart and made it cold.

  “It will be morning soon,” she said— “Priscilla, when will the doctor come?”

  Scarcely had she said the words when the doctor entered. He took a comprehensive glance round the room, — at the still form on the bed — at the little crouching girl — figure beside it — at Priscilla, trembling and tearful — at Robin, deadly pale and self-restrained — at the farm-lads and servants.

  “When did this happen?” he said.

  Robin told him.

  “I see!” he said. “He must have fallen forward on getting out of bed. I rather expected a sudden seizure of this kind.” He made his brief examination. The eyes of the dead man were open and glassily staring upward — he gently closed the lids over them and pressed them down.

  “Nothing to be done,” he went on, gently— “His end was painless.”

  Innocent had risen — she had laid the cold hand of the corpse back on its breast — and she stood gazing vacantly before her in utter misery.

  “Nothing to be done?” she faltered— “Do you mean that you cannot rouse him? Will he never speak to me again?”

  The doctor looked at her gravely and kindly.

  “Not in this world, my dear,” he
said— “in the next — perhaps! Let us hope so!”

  She put her hand up to her forehead with a bewildered gesture.

  “He is dead!” she cried— “Dead! Oh, Robin, Robin! I can’t believe it! — it isn’t true! Dad, dear Dad! My only friend! Good-bye — good-bye, Dad! — good-bye, Briar Farm — good-bye to everything — oh, Dad!”

  Her voice quavered and broke in a passion of tears.

  “I loved him as if he were my own father,” she sobbed. “And he loved me as if I were his own child! Oh, Dad, darling Dad! We can never love each other again!”

  CHAPTER VIII

  The news of Farmer Jocelyn’s sudden death was as though a cloud-burst had broken over the village, dealing utter and hopeless destruction. To the little community of simple workaday folk living round Briar Farm it was a greater catastrophe than the death of any king. Nothing else was talked of. Nothing was done. Men stood idly about, looking at each other in a kind of stupefied consternation, — women chattered and whispered at their cottage doors, shaking their heads with all that melancholy profundity of wisdom which is not wise till after the event, — the children were less noisy in their play, checked by the grave faces of their parents — the very dogs seemed to know that something had occurred which altered the aspect of ordinary daily things. The last of the famous Jocelyns was no more! It seemed incredible. And Briar Farm? What would become of Briar Farm?

  “There ain’t none o’ th’ owd folk left now” said one man, lighting his pipe slowly— “It’s all over an’ done wi’. Mister Clifford, he’s good enow — but he ain’t a Jocelyn, though a Jocelyn were his mother. ’Tis the male side as tells. An’ he’s young, an’ he’ll want change an’ rovin’ about like all young men nowadays, an’ the place’ll be broke up, an’ the timber felled, an’ th’ owd oak’ll be sold to a dealer, an’ Merrikans’ll come an’ buy the pewter an’ the glass an’ the linen, an’ by-an’-bye we won’t know there ever was such a farm at all—”

  “That’s your style o’ thinkin’, is it?” put in another man standing by, with a round straw hat set back upon his head in a fashion which gave him the appearance of a village idiot— “Well, it’s not mine! No, by no means! There’ll be a Will, — an’ Mister Robin he’ll find a Way! Briar Farm’ll allus be Briar Farm accordin’ to MY mind!”

  “YOUR mind ain’t much,” growled the first speaker— “so don’t ye go settin’ store by it. Lord, Lord! to think o’ Farmer Jocelyn bein’ gone! Seems as if a right ‘and ‘ad bin cut off! Onny yesterday I met ’im drivin’ along the road at a tearin’ pace, with Ned Landon sittin’ beside ’im — an’ drivin’ fine too, for the mare’s a tricky one with a mouth as ‘ard as iron — but ’e held ‘er firm — that ’e did! — no weakness about ’im — an’ ’e was talkin’ away to Landon while ’e drove, ‘ardly lookin’ right or left, ’e was that sure of hisself. An’ now ‘e’s cold as stone — who would a’ thort it!”

  “Where’s Landon?” asked the other man.

  “I dunno. He’s nowhere about this mornin’ that I’ve seen.”

  At that moment a figure came into view, turning the corner of a lane at the end of the scattered thatched cottages called “the village,” — a portly, consequential-looking figure, which both men recognised as that of the parson of the parish, and they touched their caps accordingly. The Reverend William Medwin, M.A., was a great personage, — and his “cure of souls” extended to three other villages outlying the one of which Briar Farm was the acknowledged centre.

  “Good-morning!” he said, with affable condescension— “I hear that

  Farmer Jocelyn died suddenly last night. Is it true?”

  Both men nodded gravely.

  “Yes, sir, it’s true — more’s the pity! It’s took us all aback.”

  “Ay, ay!” and Mr. Medwin nodded blandly— “No doubt-no doubt! But I suppose the farm will go on just the same? — there will be no lack of employment?”

  The man who was smoking looked doubtful.

  “Nobuddy can tell — m’appen the place will be sold — m’appen it won’t.

  The hands may be kept, or they may be given the sack. There’s only Mr.

  Clifford left now, an’ ’e ain’t a Jocelyn.”

  “Does that matter?” and the reverend gentleman smiled with the superior air of one far above all things of mere traditional sentiment. “There is the girl—”

  “Ah, yes! There’s the girl!”

  The speakers looked at one another.

  “Her position,” continued Mr. Medwin, meditatively tracing a pattern on the ground with the end of his walking-stick, “seems to me to be a little unfortunate. But I presume she is really the daughter of our deceased friend?”

  The man who was smoking took the pipe from his mouth and stared for a moment.

  “Daughter she may be,” he said, “but born out o’ wedlock anyhow — an’ she ain’t got no right to Briar Farm unless th’ owd man ‘as made ‘er legal. An’ if ‘e’s done that it don’t alter the muddle, ‘cept in the eyes o’ the law which can twist ye any way — for she was born bastard, an’ there’s never been a bastard Jocelyn on Briar Farm all the hundreds o’ years it’s been standin’!”

  Mr. Medwin again interested himself in a dust pattern.

  “Ah, dear, dear!” he sighed— “Very sad, very sad! Our follies always find us out, if not while we live, then when we die! I’m sorry! Farmer Jocelyn was not a Churchman — no! — a regrettable circumstance! — still, I’m sorry! He was a useful person in the parish — quite honest, I believe, and a very fair and good master—”

  “None better!” chorussed his listeners.

  “True! None better. Well, well! I’ll just go up to the house and see if

  I can be of any service, or — or comfort—”

  One of the men smiled darkly.

  “Sartin sure Farmer Jocelyn’s as dead as door-nails. If so be you are a-goin’ to Briar Farm, Mr. Medwin!” he said— “Why, you never set foot in the place while ’e was a livin’ man!”

  “Quite correct!” and Mr. Medwin nodded pleasantly— “I make it a rule never to go where I’m not wanted.” He paused, impressively, — conscious that he had “scored.” “But now that trouble has visited the house I consider it my duty to approach the fatherless and the afflicted. Good-day!”

  He walked off then, treading ponderously and wearing a composed and serious demeanour. The men who had spoken with him were quickly joined by two or three others.

  “Parson goin’ to the Farm?” they enquired.

  “Ay!”

  “We’ll ‘ave gooseberries growin’ on hayricks next!” declared a young, rough-featured fellow in a smock— “anythin’ can ‘appen now we’ve lost the last o’ the Jocelyns!”

  And such was the general impression throughout the district. Men met in the small public-houses and over their mugs of beer discussed the possibilities of emigrating to Canada or New Zealand, for— “there’ll be no more farm work worth doin’ round ’ere” — they all declared— “Mister Jocelyn wanted MEN, an’ paid ’em well for workin’ LIKE men! — but it’ll all be machines now.”

  Meanwhile, the Reverend Mr. Medwin, M.A., had arrived at Briar Farm. Everything was curiously silent. All the blinds were down — the stable-doors were closed, and the stable-yard was empty. The sunlight swept in broad slanting rays over the brilliant flower-beds which were now at their gayest and best, — the doves lay sleeping on the roofs of sheds and barns as though mesmerised and forbidden to fly. A marked loneliness clouded the peaceful beauty of the place — a loneliness that made itself seen and felt by even the most casual visitor.

  With a somewhat hesitating hand Mr. Medwin pulled the door-bell. In a minute or two a maid answered the summons — her eyes were red with weeping. At sight of the clergyman she looked surprised and a little frightened.

  “How is Miss — Miss Jocelyn?” he enquired, softly— “I have only just heard the sad news—”

  “She’s not able to see anyone, sir
,” replied the maid, tremulously— “at least I don’t think so — I’ll ask. She’s very upset—”

  “Of course, of course!” said Mr. Medwin, soothingly— “I quite understand! Please say I called! Mr. Clifford—”

  A figure stepped out from the interior darkness of the shadowed hall towards him.

  “I am here,” said Robin, gently— “Did you wish to speak to me? This is a house of heavy mourning to-day!”

  The young man’s voice shook, — he was deadly pale, and there was a strained look in his eyes of unshed tears. Mr. Medwin was conscious of nervous embarrassment.

  “Indeed, indeed I know it is!” he murmured— “I feel for you most profoundly! So sudden a shock too! — I — I thought that perhaps Miss Jocelyn — a young girl struck by her first great loss and sorrow, might like to see me—”

  Robin Clifford looked at him in silence for a moment. The consolations of the Church! Would they mean anything to Innocent? He wondered.

  “I will ask her,” he said at last, abruptly— “Will you step inside?”

  Mr. Medwin accepted the suggestion, taking off his hat as he crossed the threshold, and soon found himself in the quaint sitting-room where, but two days since, Hugo Jocelyn had told Innocent all her true history. He could not help being impressed by its old-world peace and beauty, furnished as it was in perfect taste, with its window-outlook on a paradise of happy flowers rejoicing in the sunlight. The fragrance of sweet lavender scented the air, and a big china bowl of roses in the centre of the table gave a touch of tender brightness to the old oak panelling on the walls.