She gave a slight, scarcely perceptible movement of vexation, and then, taking up the sealed packet which was addressed to her personally, she left the room.
The lawyer looked after her in a little perplexity.
“I’m afraid she takes her loss rather badly,” he said— “or — perhaps — is she a little absent-minded?”
Robin Clifford smiled, sadly.
“I think not,” he answered. “Of course she feels the death of my uncle deeply — she adored him — and then-I-suppose you know — my uncle may have told you—”
“That he hoped and expected you to marry her?” said Mr. Bayliss, nodding his head, sagaciously— “Yes — I am aware that such was his dearest wish. In fact he led me to believe that the matter was as good as settled.”
“She will not have me,” said Clifford, gently— “and I cannot compel her to marry me against her will — indeed I would not if I could.”
The lawyer was so surprised that he was obliged to take off his glasses and polish them.
“She will not have you!” he exclaimed. “Dear me! That is indeed most unexpected and distressing! There is — there is nothing against you, surely? — you are quite a personable young man—”
Robin shrugged his shoulders, disdainfully.
“Whatever I am does not matter to her,” he said— “Let us talk no more about it.”
Priscilla looked from one to the other.
“Eh well!” she said— “If any one knows ‘er at all ’tis I as ‘ave ‘ad ‘er with me night an’ day when she was a baby — and ‘as watched ‘er grow into the little beauty she is, — an’ ‘er ‘ed’s just fair full o’ strange fancies that she’s got out o’ the books she found in the old knight’s chest years ago — we must give ‘er time to think a bit an’ settle. ’Tis an awful blow to ‘er to lose ‘er Dad, as she allus called Farmer Jocelyn — she’s like a little bird fallen out o’ the nest with no strength to use ‘er wings an’ not knowin’ where to go. Let ‘er settle a bit! — that’s what I sez — an’ you’ll see I’m right. You leave ‘er alone, Mister Robin, an’ all’ll come right, never fear! She’s got the queerest notions about love — she picked ’em out o’ they old books — an’ she’ll ‘ave to find out they’s more lies than truth. Love’s a poor ‘oldin’ for most folks — it don’t last long enough.”
Mr. Bayliss permitted himself to smile, as he took his hat, and prepared to go.
“I’m sure you’re quite right, Miss Priday!” he said— “you speak — er — most sensibly! I’m sure I hope, for the young lady’s sake, that she will ‘settle down’ — if she does not—”
“Ay, if she does not!” echoed Clifford.
“Well! if she does not, life may be difficult for her” — and the lawyer shook his head forebodingly— “A girl alone in the world — with no relatives! — ah, dear, dear me! A sad look-out! — a very sad look-out! But we must trust to her good sense that she will be wise in time!”
CHAPTER X
Upstairs, shut in her own little room with the door locked, Innocent opened the sealed packet. She found within it a letter and some bank-notes. With a sensitive pain which thrilled every nerve in her body she unfolded the letter, written in Hugo Jocelyn’s firm clear writing — a writing she knew so well, and which bore no trace of weakness or failing in the hand that guided the pen. How strange it was, she thought, that the written words should look so living and distinct when the writer was dead! Her head swam. — her eyes were dim — for a moment she could scarcely see — then the mist before her slowly dispersed and she read the first words, which made her heart swell and the tears rise in her aching throat.
“MY LITTLE WILDING! — When you read this I shall be gone to that wonderful world which all the clergymen tell us about, but which none of them are in any great hurry to see for themselves. I hope — and I sometimes believe — such a world exists — and that perhaps it is a place where a man may sow seed and raise crops as well and as prosperously as on Briar Farm — however, I’m praying I may not be taken till I’ve seen you safely wed to Robin — and yet, something tells me this will not be; and that’s the something that makes me write this letter and put it with the pearls that are, by my will, destined for you on your marriage-morning. I’m writing it, remember, on the same night I’ve told you all about yourself — the night of the day the doctor gave me my death-warrant. I may live a year, — I may live but a week, — it will be hard if I may not live to see you married! — but God’s will must be done. The bank-notes folded in this letter make up four hundred pounds — and this money you can spend as you like — on your clothes for the bridal, or on anything you fancy — I place no restriction on you as to its use. When a maid weds there are many pretties she needs to buy, and the prettier they are for you the better shall I be pleased. Whether I live or whether I die, you need say nothing of this money to Robin, or to anyone. It is your own absolutely — to do as you like with. I am thankful to feel that you will be safe in Robin’s loving care — for the world is hard on a woman left alone as you would be, were it not for him. I give you my word that if I had any clue, however small, to your real parentage, I would write down here for you all I know — but I know nothing more than I have told you. I have loved you as my own child and you have been the joy of my old days. May God bless you and give you joy and peace in Briar Farm! — you and your children, and your children’s children! Amen!
“Your ‘Dad’
“HUGO JOCELYN.”
She read this to the end, and then some tension in her brain seemed to relax, and she wept long and bitterly, her head bent down on the letter and her bright hair falling over it. Presently, checking her sobs, she rose, and looked about her in a kind of dream — the familiar little room seemed to have suddenly become strange to her, and she thought she saw standing in one corner a figure clad in armour, — its vizor was up, showing a sad pale face and melancholy eyes — the lips moved — and a sighing murmur floated past her ears— “Mon coeur me soutien!” A cold terror seized her, and she trembled from head to foot — then the vision or hallucination vanished as swiftly and mysteriously as it had appeared. Rallying her forces, she gradually mastered the overpowering fear which for a moment had possessed her, — and folding up Hugo Jocelyn’s last letter, she kissed it, and placed it in her bosom. The bank-notes were four in number — each for one hundred pounds; — these she put in an envelope, and shut them in the drawer containing her secret manuscript.
“Now the way is clear!” she said— “I can do what I like — I have my wings, and I can fly away! Oh Dad, dear Dad! — you would be so unhappy if you knew what I mean to do! — it would break your heart, Dad! — but you have no heart to break now, poor Dad! — it is cold as stone! — it will never beat any more! Mine is the heart that beats! — the heart that burns, and aches, and hurts me! — ah! — how it hurts! And no one can understand — no one will ever care to understand!”
She locked her manuscript-drawer — then went and bathed her eyes, which smarted with the tears she had shed. Looking at herself in the mirror she saw a pale plaintive little creature, without any freshness of beauty — all the vitality seemed gone out of her. Smoothing her ruffled hair, she twisted it up in a loose coil at the back of her head, and studied with melancholy dislike and pain the heavy effect of her dense black draperies against her delicate skin.
“I shall do for anything now,” she said— “No one will look at me, and I shall pass quite unnoticed in a crowd. I’m glad I’m not a pretty girl — it might be more difficult to get on. And Robin called me ‘lovely’ the other day! — poor, foolish Robin!”
She went downstairs then to see if she could help Priscilla — but Priscilla would not allow her to do anything in the way of what she called “chores.”
“No, lovey,” she said— “you just keep quiet, an’ by-an’-bye you an’ me’ll ‘ave a quiet tea together, for Mister Robin he’s gone off for the rest o’ the day an’ night with Mr. Bayliss, as there’s lots o’ thing
s to see to, an’ ’e left you this little note” — here Priscilla produced a small neatly folded paper from her apron pocke-t-”an’ sez ’e— ‘Give this to Miss Innocent`’ ’e sez, ‘an’ she won’t mind my bein’ out o’ the way — it’ll be better for ‘er to be quiet a bit with you’ — an’ so it will, lovey, for sometimes a man about the ‘ouse is a worrit an’ a burden, say what we will, an’ good though ’e be.”
Innocent took the note and read —
“I have made up my mind to go with Bayliss into the town and stay at his house for the night — there are many business matters we have to go into together, and it is important for me to thoroughly understand the position of my uncle’s affairs. If I cannot manage to get back to-morrow, I will let you know. Robin.”
She heaved a sigh of intense relief. For twenty-four hours at least she was free from love’s importunity — she could be alone to think, and to plan. She turned to Priscilla with a gentle look and smile.
“I’ll go into the garden,” she said— “and when it’s tea-time you’ll come and fetch me, won’t you? I shall be near the old stone knight, Sieur Amadis—”
“Oh, bother ’im,” muttered Priscilla, irrelevantly— “You do think too much o’ that there blessed old figure! — why, what’s ’e got to do with you, my pretty?”
“Nothing!” and the colour came to her pale cheeks for a moment, and then fled back again— “He never had anything to do with me, really! But I seem to know him.”
Priscilla gave a kind of melancholy snort — and the girl moved slowly away through the open door and beyond it, out among the radiant flowers. Her little figure in deep black was soon lost to sight, and after watching her for a minute, Priscilla turned to her home-work with tears blinding her eyes so thickly that she could scarcely see.
“If she winnot take Mister Robin, the Lord knows what’ll become of ‘er!” sighed the worthy woman— “For she’s as lone i’ the world as a thrush fallen out o’ the nest before it’s grown strong enough to fly! Eh, we thort we did a good deed, Mister Jocelyn an’ I, when we kep’ ‘er as a baby, ‘opin’ agin ‘ope as ‘er parents ‘ud turn up an’ be sorry for the loss of ‘er — but never a sign of a soul! — an’ now she’s grow’d up she’s thorts in ‘er ‘ed which ain’t easy to unnerstand — for since Mister Jocelyn told ‘er the tale of ‘erself she’s not been the same like — she’s got suddin old!”
The afternoon was very peaceful and beautiful — the sun shone warmly over the smooth meadows of Briar Farm, and reddened the apples in the orchard yet a little more tenderly, flashing in flecks of gold on the “Glory” roses, and touching the wings of fluttering doves with arrowy silver gleams. No one looking at the fine old house, with its picturesque gables and latticed windows, would have thought that its last master of lawful lineage was dead and buried, and that the funeral had taken place that morning. Briar Farm, though more than three centuries old, seemed full of youthful life and promise — a vital fact, destined to outlast many more human lives than those which in the passing of three hundred years had already left their mark upon it, and it was strange and incredible to realise that the long chain of lineally descended male ancestors had broken at last, and that no remaining link survived to carry on the old tradition. Sadly and slowly Innocent walked across the stretches of warm clover-scented grass to the ancient tomb of the “Sieur Amadis” — and sat down beside it, not far from the place where so lately she had sat with Robin — what a change had come over her life since then! She watched the sun sinking towards the horizon in a mellow mist of orange-coloured radiance, — the day was drawing to an end — the fateful, wretched day which had seen the best friend she had ever known, and whom for years she had adored and revered as her own “father,” laid in the dust to perish among perishable things.
“I wish I had died instead of him,” she said, half aloud— “or else that I had never been born! Oh, dear ‘Sieur Amadis’! — you know how hard it is to live in the world unless some one wants you — unless some one loves you! — and no one wants me — no one loves me — except Robin!”
Solitary, and full of the heaviest sadness, she tried to think and to form plans — but her mind was tired, and she could come to no decisive resolution beyond the one all-convincing necessity — that of leaving Briar Farm. Of course she must go, — there was no other alternative. And now, thanks to Hugo Jocelyn’s forethought in giving her money for her bridal “pretties,” no financial difficulty stood in the way of her departure. She must go — but where? To begin with, she had no name. She would have to invent one for herself— “Yes!” she murmured— “I must invent a name — and make it famous!” Involuntarily she clenched her small hand as though she held some prize within its soft grasp. “Why not? Other people have done the same — I can but try! If I fail — !”
Her delicate fingers relaxed, — in her imagination she saw some coveted splendour slip from her hold, and her little face grew set and serious as though she had already suffered a whole life’s disillusion.
“I can but try,” she repeated— “something urges me on — something tells me I may succeed. And then — !”
Her eyes brightened slowly — a faint rose flushed her cheeks, — and with the sudden change of expression, she became almost beautiful. Herein lay her particular charm, — the rarest of all in women, — the passing of the lights and shadows of thought over features which responded swiftly and emotionally to the prompting and play of the mind.
“I should have to go,” she went on— “even if Dad were still alive. I could not — I cannot marry Robin! — I do not want to marry anybody. It is the common lot of women — why they should envy or desire it, I cannot think! To give one’s self up entirely to a man’s humours — to be glad of his caresses, and miserable when he is angry or tired — to bear his children and see them grow up and leave you for their own ‘betterment’ as they would call it — oh! — what an old, old drudging life! — a life of monotony, sickness, pain, and fatigue! — and nothing higher done than what animals can do! There are plenty of women in the world who like to stay on this level, I suppose — but I should not like it, — I could not live in this beautiful, wonderful world with no higher ambition than a sheep or a cow!”
At that moment she suddenly saw Priscilla running from the house across the meadow, and beckoning to her in evident haste and excitement. She got up at once and ran to meet her, flying across the grass with light airy feet as swiftly as Atalanta.
“What is it?” she cried, seeing Priscilla’s face, crimson with hurry and nervousness— “Is there some new trouble?”
Priscilla was breathless, and could scarcely speak.
“There’s a lady” — she presently gasped— “a lady to see you — from London — in the best parlour — she asked for Farmer Jocelyn’s adopted daughter named Innocent. And she gave me her card — here it is” — and Priscilla wiped her face and gasped again as Innocent took the card and read “Lady Maude Blythe,” — then gazed at Priscilla, wonderingly.
“Who can she be? — some one who knew Dad — ?”
“Bless you, child, he never knew lord nor lady!” replied Priscilla, recovering her breath somewhat— “No — it’s more likely one o’ they grand folks what likes to buy old furniture, an’ mebbe somebody’s told ‘er about Briar Farm things, an’ ‘ow they might p’raps be sold now the master’s gone—”
“But that would be very silly and wicked talk,” said Innocent. “Nothing will be sold — Robin would never allow it—”
“Well, come an’ see the lady,” and Priscilla hurried her along— “She said she wished to see you partikler. I told ‘er the master was dead, an’ onny buried this mornin’, an’ she smiled kind o’ pleasant like, an’ said she was sorry to have called on such an unfortunate day, but her business was important, an’ if you could see ‘er—”
“Is she young?”
“No, she’s not young — but she isn’t old,” replied Priscilla— “She’s wonderful good-looking an’ d
ressed beautiful! I never see such clothes cut out o’ blue serge! An’ she’s got a scent about her like our stillroom when we’re makin’ pot-purry bags for the linen.”
By this time they had reached the house, and Innocent went straight into the best parlour. Her unexpected and unknown visitor stood there near the window, looking out on the beds of flowers, but turned round as she entered. For a moment they confronted each other in silence, — Innocent gazing in mute astonishment and enquiry at the tall, graceful, self-possessed woman, who, evidently of the world, worldly, gazed at her in turn with a curious, almost quizzical interest. Presently she spoke in a low, sweet, yet cold voice.
“So you are Innocent!” she said.
The girl’s heart beat quickly, — something frightened her, though she knew not what.
“Yes,” she answered, simply— “I am Innocent. You wished to see me — ?”
“Yes — I wished to see you,” — and the lady quietly shut the window— “and I also wish to talk to you. In case anyone may be about listening, will you shut the door?”
With increasing nervousness and bewilderment, Innocent obeyed.
“You had my card, I think?” continued the lady, smiling ever so slightly— “I gave it to the servant—”
Innocent held it half crumpled in her hand.
“Yes,” she said, trying to rally her self-possession— “Lady Maude
Blythe—”
“Exactly! — you have quite a nice pronunciation! May I sit down?” and, without waiting for the required permission, Lady Blythe sank indolently into the old oaken arm-chair where Farmer Jocelyn had so long been accustomed to sit, and, taking out a cobweb of a handkerchief powerfully scented, passed it languorously across her lips and brow.
“You have had a very sad day of it, I fear!” she continued— “Deaths and funerals are such unpleasant affairs! But the farmer — Mr. Jocelyn — was not your father, was he?” The question was put with a repetition of the former slight, cold smile.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 810