Innocent : her fancy and his fact Part 25

"You're right there, Wixton," said Robin, sadly--"I know the place can never be the same without him. I shall do my best--but--"

"Ay, ye'll do your best," agreed Wixton, with a foreboding shake of his grizzled head--"but you're not a Jocelyn, an' your best'll be but a bad crutch, though there's Jocelyn blood in ye by ye'r mother's side.

Howsomever it's not the same as the male line, do what we will an' say what we like! It's not your fault, no, lad!"--this with a pitying look--"an' no one's blamin' ye for what can't be 'elped--but it's not a thing to be gotten over."

Robin's grave nod of acquiescence was more eloquent than speech.

Wixton dug his spade a little deeper into the pile of earth.

"If Farmer Jocelyn 'ad been a marryin' man, why, that would a' been the right thing," he went on--"He might a' had a fine strappin' son to come arter 'im, a real born-an'-bred Jocelyn--"

Robin listened with acute interest. Why did not Wixton mention Innocent? Did he know she was not a Jocelyn? He waited, and Wixton went on--

"But, ye see, 'e wouldn't have none o' that. An' he took the little gel as was left with 'im the night o' the great storm nigh eighteen years ago that blew down three of our biggest elms in the church-yard--"

"Did you know?" exclaimed Clifford, eagerly--"Did you see--?"

"I saw a man on 'orseback ride up to Briar Farm, 'oldin' a baby in front o' him with one hand, and the reins in t'other--an' he came out from the farm without the baby. Then one mornin' when Farmer Jocelyn was a-walkin' with the baby in the fields I said to 'im, secret-like--'That ain't your child!' an' he sez--'Ow do you know it ain't?' An' I sez--' Because I saw it come with a stranger'--an' he laughed an' said--'It may be mine for all that!' But I knew it worn't!

A nice little girl she is too,--Miss Innocent--poor soul! I'm downright sorry for 'er, for she ain't got many friends in this village."

"Why?" Robin asked, half mechanically.

"Why? Well, she's a bit too dainty--like in 'er ways for one thing--then there's gels who are arter YOU, Mister Clifford!--ay, ay, ye know they are!--sharp 'ussies, all of 'em!--an' they can't abide 'ER, for they thinks you're a-goin' to marry 'er!--Lord forgive me that I should be chitterin' 'ere about marryin' over a buryin'!--but that's the trouble--an' it's the trouble all the world over, wimmin wantin' a man, an' mad for their lives when they thinks another woman's arter 'im! Eh, eh! We should all get along better if there worn't no wimmin jealousies, but bein' men we've got to put up with 'em. Are ye goin'

now, Mister?--Well, the Lord love ye an' comfort ye!--ye'll never meet a finer man this side the next world than the one I'm puttin' a cold quilt on!"

Silently Clifford turned away, heavy-hearted and lost in perplexed thought. What was best to be done for Innocent? This was the chief question that presented itself to his mind. He could no longer deny the fact that her position was difficult--almost untenable. Nameless, and seemingly deserted by her kindred, if any such kindred still existed, she was absolutely alone in life, now that Hugo Jocelyn was no more. As he realised this to its fullest intensity, the deeper and more pa.s.sionate grew his love for her.

"If she would only marry me!" he said under his breath, as he walked home slowly from the church-yard--"It was Uncle Hugo's last wis.h.!.+"

Then across his brain flashed the memory of Ned Landon and his malignant intention--born of baffled desire and fierce jealousy--to tarnish the fair name of the girl he coveted,--then, his uncle's quixotic and costly way of ridding himself of such an enemy at any price. He understood now old Jocelyn's talk of his "bargain" on the last night of his life,-and what a futile bargain it was, after all!--for was not Jenny of the Mill-d.y.k.es fully informed of the reason why the bargain was made?--and she, the vilest-tongued woman in the whole neighbourhood, would take delight in spreading the story far and wide. Five Hundred Pounds paid down as "hush-money"!--so she would report it--thus, even if he married Innocent it would be under the shadow of a slur and slander. What was wisest to do under the circ.u.mstances he could not decide--and he entered the smiling garden of Briar Farm with the saddest expression on his face that anyone had ever seen there. Priscilla met him as he came towards the house.

"I thought ye'd never git here, Mister Robin," she said, anxiously--"Ye haven't forgot there's folks in the hall 'avin' their 'wake' feed an'

they'll be wantin' to speak wi' ye presently. Mister Bayliss, which is ye'r uncle's lawyer, 'e wants to see ye mighty partikler, an' there ain't no one to say nothin' to 'em, for the dear little Innocent, she's come back from the cold churchyard like a little image o' marble, an'

she's gone an' shut 'erself up in 'er own room, sayin' 'Ask Mister Robin to excuse me'--poor child!--she's fair wore out, that she is! An'

you come into the big 'all where there's the meat and the wine laid out, for funeral folk eats more than weddin' folk, bein' longer about it an' a bit solemner in gettin' of it down."

Robin looked at her with strained, haggard eyes.

"Priscilla," he said, huskily--"Death is a horrible thing!"

"Ay, that it is!" and Priscilla wiped the teardrops off her cheeks with a corner of her ap.r.o.n--"An' I've often thought it seems a silly kind o'

business to bring us into the world at all for no special reason 'cept to take us out of it again just as folks 'ave learned to know us a bit and find us useful. Howsomever, there's no arguin' wi' the Almighty, an' p'raps it's us as makes the worst o' death instead o' the best of it. Now you go into the great hall, Mr. Robin--you're wanted there."

He went, as desired,--and was received with a murmur of sympathy by those a.s.sembled--a gathering made up of the head men about the farm, and a few other personages less familiar to the village, but fairly well known to him, such as corn and cattle dealers from the neighbouring town who had for many years done business with Jocelyn in preference to any other farmer. These came forward and cordially shook hands with Robin, entering at once into conversation with him concerning his future intentions.

"We should like things to go on the same as if th' old man were alive,"

said one, a miller,--"We don't like changes after all these years. But whether you're up to it, my lad, or not, we don't know--and time'll prove--"

"Time WILL prove," answered Clifford, steadily. "You may rely upon it that Briar Farm will be worked on the same methods which my uncle practised and approved--and there will be no changes, except--the inevitable one"--and he sighed,--"the want of the true master's brain and hand."

"Eh well! You'll do your best, lad!--I'm sure of that!" and the miller grasped his hand warmly--"And we'll all stick by you! There's no farm like Briar Farm in the whole country--that's my opinion!--it gives the finest soil and the soundest crops to be got anywhere--you just manage it as Farmer Jocelyn managed it, with men's work, and you'll come to no harm! And, as I say, we'll all stick by you!"

Robin thanked him, and then moved slowly in and out among the other funeral guests, saying kindly things, and in his quiet, manly way creating a good impression among them, and making more friends than he himself was aware of. Presently Mr. Bayliss, a mild-looking man with round spectacles fixed very closely up against his eyes, approached him, beckoning him with one finger.

"When you're ready, Mr. Clifford," he said, "I should like to see you in the best parlour--and the young lady--I believe she is called Innocent?--yes, yes!--and the young lady also. Oh, there's no hurry--no hurry!--better wait till the guests have gone, as what I have to say concerns only yourself--and--er--yes--er, the young lady before mentioned. And also a--a"--here he pulled out a note-book from his pocket and studied it through his owl-like gla.s.ses--"yes!--er, yes!--a Miss Priscilla Priday--she must be present, if she can be found--I believe she is on the premises?"

"Priscilla is our housekeeper," said Robin--"and a faithful friend."

"Yes--I--er--thought so--a devoted friend," murmured Mr. Bayliss, meditatively--"and what a thing it is to have a devoted friend, Mr.

Clifford! Your uncle was a careful man!--very careful!--he knew whom to trust--he thoroughly knew! Yes--WE don't all know--but HE did!"

Robin made no comment. The murmuring talk of the funeral party went on, buzzing in his ears like the noise of an enormous swarm of bees--he watched men eating and drinking the good things Priscilla had provided for the "honour of the farm"--and then, on a sudden impulse he slipped out of the hall and upstairs to Innocent's room, where he knocked softly at the door. She opened it at once, and stood before him--her face white as a snowdrop, and her eyes heavy and strained with the weight of unshed tears.

"Dear," he said, gently--"you will be wanted downstairs in a few minutes--Mr. Bayliss wishes you to be present when he reads Uncle Hugo's will."

She made a little gesture of pain and dissent.

"I do not want to hear it," she said--"but I will come."

He looked at her with anxiety and tenderness.

"You have eaten nothing since early morning; you look so pale and weak--let me get you something--a gla.s.s of wine."

"No, thank you," she answered--"I could not touch a morsel--not just yet. Oh, Robin, it hurts me to hear all those voices in the great hall!--men eating and drinking there, as if he were still alive!--and they have only just laid him down in the cold earth--so cold and dark!"

She shuddered violently.

"I do not think it is right," she went on--"to allow people to love each other at all if death must separate them for ever. It seems only a cruelty and wickedness. Now that I have seen what death can do, I will never love anyone again!"

"No--I suppose you will not," he said, somewhat bitterly--"yet, you have never known what love is--you do not understand it."

She sighed, deeply.

"Perhaps not!" she said--"And I'm not sure that I want to understand it--not now. What love I had in my heart is all buried--with Dad and the roses. I am not the same girl any more--I feel a different creature--grown quite old!"

"You cannot feel older than I do," he replied--"but you do not think of me at all,--why should you? I never used to think you selfish, Innocent!--you have always been so careful and considerate of the feelings of others--yet now!--well!--are you not so much absorbed in your own grief as to be forgetful of mine? For mine is a double grief--a double loss--I have lost my uncle and best friend--and I shall lose you because you will not love me, though I love you with all my heart and only want to make you happy!"

Her sad eyes met his with a direct, half-reproachful gaze.

"You think me selfish?"

"No!--no, Innocent!--but--"

"I see!" she said--"You think I ought to sacrifice myself to you, and to Dad's last wish. You would expect me to spoil your life by marrying you unwillingly and without love--"

"I tell you you know nothing about love!" he interrupted her, impatiently.

"So you imagine," she answered quietly--"but I do know one thing--and it is that no one who really loves a person wishes to see that person, unhappy. To love anybody means that above all things in the world you desire to see the beloved one well and prosperous and full of gladness.

You cannot love me or you would not wish me to do a thing that would make me miserable. If I loved you, I would marry you and devote my life to yours--but I do not love you, and, therefore, I should only make you wretched if I became your wife. Do not let us talk of this any more--it tires me out!"