Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “There are things in this room that are priceless!” soliloquised the clergyman, who was something of a collector— “If the place comes under the hammer I shall try to pick up a few pieces.”

  He smiled, with the pleased air of one who feels that all things must have an end — either by the “hammer” or otherwise, — even a fine old house, the pride and joy of a long line of its owners during three hundred years. And then he started, as the door opened slowly and softly and a girl stood before him, looking more like a spirit than a mortal, clad in a plain white gown, with a black ribbon threaded through her waving fair hair. She was pale to the very lips, and her eyes were swollen and heavy with weeping. Timidly she held out her hand.

  “It is kind of you to come,” she said, — and paused.

  He, having taken her hand and let it go again, stood awkwardly mute. It was the first time he had seen Innocent in her home surroundings, and he had hardly noticed her at all when he had by chance met her in her rare walks through the village and neighbourhood, so that he was altogether unprepared for the refined delicacy and grace of her appearance.

  “I am very sorry to hear of your sad bereavement,” he began, at last, in a conventional tone— “very sorry indeed—”

  She looked at him curiously.

  “Are you? I don’t think you can be sorry, because you did not know him — if you had known him, you would have been really grieved — yes, I am sure you would. He was such a good man! — one of the best in all the world! I’m glad you have come to see me, because I have often wanted to speak to you — and perhaps now is the right time. Won’t you sit down?”

  He obeyed her gesture, surprised more or less by her quiet air of sad self-possession. He had expected to offer the usual forms of religious consolation to a sort of uneducated child or farm-girl, nervous, trembling and tearful, — instead of this he found a woman whose grief was too deep and sincere to be relieved by mere talk, and whose pathetic composure and patience were the evident result of a highly sensitive mental organisation.

  “I have never seen death before,” she said, in hushed tones— “except in birds and flowers and animals — and I have cried over the poor things for sorrow that they should be taken away out of this beautiful world. But with Dad it is different. He was afraid — afraid of suffering and weakness — and he was taken so quickly that he could hardly have felt anything — so that his fears were all useless. And I can hardly believe he is dead — actually dead — can you? But of course you do not believe in death at all — the religion you teach is one of eternal life — eternal life and happiness.”

  Mr. Medwin’s lips moved — he murmured something about “living again in the Lord.”

  Innocent did not hear, — she was absorbed in her own mental problem and anxious to put it before him.

  “Listen!” she said— “When Priscilla told me Dad was really dead — that he would never get off the bed where he lay so cold and white and peaceful, — that he would never speak to me again, I said she was wrong — that it could not be. I told her he would wake presently and laugh at us all for being so foolish as to think him dead. Even Hero, our mastiff, does not believe it, for he has stayed all morning by the bedside and no one dare touch him to take him away. And just now Priscilla has been with me, crying very much — and she says I must not grieve, — because Dad is gone to a better world. Then surely he must be alive if he is able to go anywhere, must he not? I asked her what she knew about this better world, and she cried again and said indeed she knew nothing except what she had been taught in her Catechism. I have read the Catechism and it seems to me very stupid and unnatural — perhaps because I do not understand it. Can you tell me about this better world?”

  Mr. Medwin’s lips moved again. He cleared his throat.

  “I’m afraid,” he observed— “I’m very much afraid, my poor child, that you have been brought up in a sad state of ignorance.”

  Innocent did not like being called a “poor child” — and she gave a little gesture of annoyance.

  “Please do not pity me,” she said, with a touch of hauteur— “I do not wish that! I know it is difficult for me to explain things to you as I see them, because I have never been taught religion from a Church. I have read about the Virgin and Christ and the Saints and all those pretty legends in the books that belonged to the Sieur Amadis — but he lived three hundred years ago and he was a Roman Catholic, as all those French noblemen were at that time.”

  Mr. Medwin stared at her in blank bewilderment. Who was the Sieur

  Amadis? She went on, heedless of his perplexity.

  “Dad believed in a God who governed all things rightly, — I have heard him say that God managed the farm and made it what it is. But he never spoke much about it — and he hated the Church—”

  The reverend gentleman interrupted her with a grave uplifted hand.

  “I know!” he sighed— “Ah yes, I know! A dreadful thing! — a shocking attitude of mind!’ I fear he was not saved!”

  She looked straightly at him.

  “I don’t see what you mean,” she said— “He was quite a good man—”

  “Are you sure of that?” and Mr. Medwin fixed his shallow brown eyes searchingly upon her. “Our affections are often very deceptive—”

  A flush of colour overspread her pale cheeks.

  “Indeed I am very sure!” she answered, steadily— “He was a good man. There was never a stain on his character — though he allowed people to think wrong things of him for my sake. That was his only fault.”

  He was silent, waiting for her next word.

  “I think perhaps I ought to tell you,” she continued— “because then you will be able to judge him better and spare his memory from foolish and wicked scandal. He was not my father — I was only his adopted daughter.”

  Mr. Medwin gave a slight cough — a cough of incredulity. “Adopted” is a phrase often used to cover the brand of illegitimacy.

  “I never knew my own history till the other day,” she said, slowly and sadly. “The doctor came to see Dad, with a London specialist, a friend of his — and they told him he had not long to live. After that Dad made up his mind that I must learn all the truth of myself — oh! — what a terrible truth it was! — I thought my heart would break! It was so strange — so cruel! I had grown up believing myself to be Dad’s own, very own daughter! — and I had been deceived all my life! — for he told me I was nothing but a nameless child, left on his hands by a stranger!”

  Mr. Medwin opened his small eyes in amazement, — he was completely taken aback. He tried to grasp the bearings of this new aspect of the situation thus presented to him, but could not realise anything save what in his own mind was he pleased to call a “cock-and-bull” story.

  “Most extraordinary!” he ejaculated, at last— “Did he give you no clue at all as to your actual parentage?”

  Innocent shook her head.

  “How could he? A man on horseback arrived here suddenly one very stormy night, carrying me in his arms — I was just a little baby — and asked shelter for me, promising to come and fetch me in the morning — but he never came — and Dad never knew who he was. I was kept here out of pity at first — then Dad began to love me—”

  The suppressed tears rose to her eyes and began to fall.

  “Priscilla can tell you all about it,” she continued, tremulously— “if you wish to know more. I am only explaining things a little because I do want you to understand that Dad was really a good man though he did not go to Church — and he must have been ‘saved,’ as you put it, for he never did anything unworthy of the name of Jocelyn!”

  The clergyman thought a moment.

  “You are not Miss Jocelyn, then?” he said.

  She met his gaze with a sorrowful calmness.

  “No. I am nobody. I have not even been baptised.”

  He sprang up from his chair, horrified.

  “Not baptised!” he exclaimed— “Not baptised! Do you mean to tell me that
Farmer Jocelyn never attended to this imperative and sacred duty on your behalf? — that he allowed you to grow up as a heathen?”

  She remained unmoved by his outburst.

  “I am not a heathen,” she said, gently— “I believe in God — as Dad believed. I’m sorry I have not been baptised — but it has made no difference to me that I know of—”

  “No difference!” and the clergyman rolled up his eyes and shook his head ponderously— “You poor unfortunate girl, it has made all the difference in the world! You are unregenerate — your soul is not washed clean — all your sins are upon you, and you are not redeemed!”

  She looked at him tranquilly.

  “That is all very sad for me if it is true,” she said— “but it is not my fault. I could not help it. Dad couldn’t help it either — he did not know what to do. He expected that I might be claimed and taken away any day — and he had no idea what name to give me — except Innocent — which is a name I suppose no girl ever had before. He used to get money from time to time in registered envelopes, bearing different foreign postmarks — and there was always a slip of paper inside with the words ‘For Innocent’ written on it. So that name has been my only name. You see, it was very difficult for him — poor Dad! — besides, he did not believe in baptism—”

  “Then he was an infidel!” declared Mr. Medwin, hotly.

  Her serious blue eyes regarded him reproachfully.

  “I don’t think you should say that — it isn’t quite kind on your part,” she replied— “He always thanked God for prosperity, and never complained when things went wrong — that is not being an infidel! Even when he knew he was hopelessly ill, he never worried anyone about it — he was only just a little afraid-and that was perfectly natural. We’re all a little afraid, you know — though we pretend we’re not — none of us like the idea of leaving this lovely world and the sunshine for ever. Even Hamlet was afraid, — Shakespeare makes him say so. And when one has lived all one’s life on Briar Farm — such a sweet peaceful home! — one can hardly fancy anything better, even in a next world! No — Dad was not an infidel — please do not think such a thing! — he only died last night — and I feel as if it would hurt him.”

  Mr. Medwin was exceedingly embarrassed and annoyed — there was something in the girl’s quiet demeanour that suggested a certain intellectual superiority to himself. He hummed and hawed, lurking various unpleasant throaty noises.

  “Well — to me, of course, it is a very shocking state of affairs,” he said, irritably— “I hardly think I can be of any use — or consolation to you in the matters you have spoken of, which are quite outside my scope altogether. If you have anything to say about the funeral arrangements — but I presume Mr. Clifford—”

  “Mr. Clifford is master here now,” she answered— “He will give his own orders, and will do all that is best and wisest. As I have told you, I am a name-less nobody, and have no right in this house at all. I’m sorry if I have vexed or troubled you — but as you called I thought it was right to tell you how I am situated. You see, when poor Dad is buried I shall be going away at once — and I had an idea you might perhaps help me — you are God’s minister.”

  He wrinkled up his brows and looked frowningly at her.

  “You are leaving Briar Farm?” he asked.

  “I must. I have no right to stay.”

  “Is Mr. Clifford turning you out?”

  A faint, sad smile crept round the girl’s pretty, sensitive mouth.

  “Ah, no! No, indeed! He would not turn a dog out that had once taken food from his hand,” she said. “It is my own wish entirely. When Dad was alive there was something for me to do in taking care of him — but now! — there is no need for me — I should feel in the way — besides, I must try to earn my own living.”

  “What do you propose to do?” asked Mr. Medwin, whose manner to her had completely changed from the politely patronising to the sharply aggressive— “Do you want a situation?”

  She lifted her eyes to his fat, unpromising face.

  “Yes — I should like one very much — I could be a lady’s maid, I think, I can sew very well. But — perhaps you would baptise me first?”

  He gave a sound between a cough and a grunt.

  “Eh? Baptise you?”

  “Yes, — because if I am unregenerate, and my soul is not clean, as you say, no one would take me — not even as a lady’s maid.”

  Her quaint, perfectly simple way of putting the case made him angry.

  “I’m afraid you are not sufficiently aware of the importance of the sacred rite,” — he said, severely— “At your age you would need to be instructed for some weeks before you could be considered fit and worthy. Then, — you tell me you have no name! — Innocent is not a name at all for a woman — I do not know who you are — you are ignorant of your parentage — you may have been born out of wedlock—”

  She coloured deeply.

  “I am not sure of that,” she said, in a low tone.

  “No — of course you are not sure, — but I should say the probability is that you are illegitimate” — and the reverend gentleman took up his hat to go. “The whole business is very perplexing and difficult. However, I will see what can be done for you — but you are in a very awkward corner! — very awkward indeed! Life will not be very easy for you, I fear!”

  “I do not expect ease,” she replied— “I have been very happy till now — and I am grateful for the past. I must make my own future.”

  Her eyes filled with tears as she looked out through the open window at the fair garden which she herself had tended for so long — and she saw the clergyman’s portly form through a mist of sorrow as in half-hearted fashion he bade her good-day.

  “I hope — I fervently trust — that God will support you in your bereavement,” he said, unctuously— “I had intended before leaving to offer up a prayer with you for the soul of the departed and for your own soul — but the sad fact of your being unbaptised places me in a difficulty. But I shall not fail personally to ask our Lord to prepare you for the unfortunate change in your lot!”

  “Thank you!” she replied, quietly — and without further salute he left her.

  She stood for a moment considering — then sat down by the window, looking at the radiant flowerbeds, with all their profusion of blossom. She wondered dreamily how they could show such brave, gay colouring when death was in the house, and the aching sense of loss and sorrow weighted the air as with darkness. A glitter of white wings flashed before her eyes, and her dove alighted on the window-sill, — she stretched out her hand and the petted bird stepped on her little rosy palm with all its accustomed familiarity and confidence. She caressed it tenderly.

  “Poor Cupid!” she murmured— “You are like me — you are unregenerate! — you have never been baptised! — your soul has not been washed clean! — and all your sins are on your head! Yes, Cupid! — we are very much alike! — for I don’t suppose you know your own father and mother any more than I know mine! And yet God made you — and He has taken care of you — so far!”

  She stroked the dove’s satiny plumage gently — and then drew back a little into shadow as she saw Robin Clifford step out from the porch into the garden and hurriedly interrupt the advance of a woman who just then pushed open the outer gate — a slatternly-looking creature with dark dishevelled hair and a face which might have been handsome, but for its unmistakable impress of drink and dissipation.

  “Eh, Mr. Clifford — it’s you, is it?” she exclaimed, in shrill tones. “An’ Farmer Jocelyn’s dead! — who’d a’ thought it! But I’d ‘ave ‘ad a bone to pick with ’im this mornin’, if he’d been livin’ — that I would! — givin’ sack to Ned Landon without a warning to me!”

  Innocent leaned forward, listening eagerly, with an uncomfortably beating heart. Through all the miserable, slow, and aching hours that had elapsed since Hugo Jocelyn’s death, there had been a secret anxiety in her mind concerning Ned Landon and the various possibilit
ies involved in his return to the farm, when he should learn that his employer was no more, and that Robin was sole master.

  “I’ve come up to speak with ye,” continued the woman,— “It’s pretty ‘ard on me to be left in the ditch, with a man tumbling ye off his horse an’ ridin’ away where ye can’t get at ’im!” She laughed harshly. “Ned’s gone to ‘Merriker!”

  “Gone to America!” — Robin’s voice rang out in sharp accents of surprise— “Ned Landon? Why, when did you hear that?”

  “Just now — his own letter came with the carrier’s cart — he left the town last night and takes ship from Southampton to-day. And why? Because Farmer Jocelyn gave him five hundred pounds to do it! So there’s some real news for ye!”

  “Five hundred pounds!” echoed Clifford— “My Uncle Hugo gave him five hundred pounds!”

  “Ay, ye may stare!” — and the woman laughed again— “And the devil has taken it all, — except a five-pun’ note which he sends to me to ‘keep me goin’,’ he says. Like his cheek! I’m not his wife, that’s true! — but I’m as much as any wife — an’ there’s the kid—”

  Robin glanced round apprehensively at the open window.

  “Hush!” he said— “don’t talk so loud—”

  “The dead can’t hear,” she said, scornfully— “an’ Ned says in his letter that he’s been sent off all on account of you an’ your light o’ love — Innocent, she’s called — a precious ‘innocent’ SHE is! — an’ that the old man has paid ’im to go away an’ ‘old his tongue! So it’s all YOUR fault, after all, that I’m left with the kid to rub along anyhow; — he might ave married me in a while, if he’d stayed. I’m only Jenny o’ Mill-Dykes now — just as I’ve always been — the toss an’ catch of every man! — but I ‘ad a grip on Ned with the kid, an’ he’d a’ done me right in the end if you an’ your precious ‘innocent’ ‘adn’t been in the way—”