Innocent : her fancy and his fact Part 5

"No, Dad."

She gave the answer a little hesitatingly. She was thinking of Ned Landon. He caught the slight falter in her voice and looked at her suspiciously.

"Been quarrelling with Robin?"

"Dear Dad, no! We're the best of friends."

He loosened his hand from her clasp and patted her head with it.

"That's right! That's as it should be! Be friends with Robin, child! Be friends!--be lovers!"

She was silent. The after-glow warmed the tints of her hair to russet-gold and turned to a deeper pink the petals of the roses in the wreath she wore. He touched the blossoms and spoke with great gentleness.

"Did Robin crown thee?"

She looked up, smiling.

"No, it's Larry's wreath."

"Larry! Ay, poor Larry! A good lad--but he can eat for two and only work for one. 'Tis the way of men nowadays!"

Another pause ensued, and the western gold of the sky began to fade into misty grey.

"Dad," said the girl then, in a low tone--"Do tell me--what did the London doctor say?"

He lifted his head quickly, and his old eyes for a moment flashed as though suddenly illumined by a flame from within.

"Say! What should he say, la.s.s, but that I am old and must expect to die? It's natural enough--only I haven't thought about it. It's just that--I haven't thought about it!"

"Why should you think about it?" she asked, with quick tenderness--"You will not die yet--not for many years. You are not so very old.

And you are strong."

He patted her head again.

"Poor little wilding!" he said--"If you had your way I should live for ever, no doubt! But an' you were wise with modern wisdom, you would say I had already lived too long!"

For answer, she drew down his hand and kissed it.

"I do not want any modern wisdom," she said--"I am your little girl and I love you!"

A shadow flitted across his face and he moved uneasily. She looked up at him.

"You will not tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"All that the London doctor said."

He was silent for a minute's s.p.a.ce--then he answered.

"Yes, I will tell you, but not now. To-night after supper will be time enough. And then--"

"Yes--then?" she repeated, anxiously.

"Then you shall know--you will have to know--" Here he broke off abruptly. "Innocent!"

"Yes, Dad?"

"How old are you now?"

"Eighteen."

"Ay, so you are!" And he looked at her searchingly. "Quite a woman!

Time flies! You're old enough to learn--"

"I have always tried to learn," she said--"and I like studying things out of books--"

"Ay! But there are worse things in life than ever were written in books," he answered, wearily--"things that people hide away and are ashamed to speak of! Ay, poor wilding! Things that I've tried to keep from you as long as possible--but--time presses, and, I shall have to speak--"

She looked at him earnestly. Her face paled and her eyes grew dark and wondering.

"Have I done anything wrong?" she asked.

"You? No! Not you! You are not to blame, child! But you've heard the law set out in church on Sundays that 'The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children even unto the third and fourth generation.'

You've heard that?"

"Yes, Dad!"

"Ay!--and who dare say the fourth generation are to blame! Yet, though they are guiltless, they suffer most! No just G.o.d ever made such a law, though they say 'tis G.o.d speaking. _I_ say 'tis the devil!"

His voice grew harsh and loud, and finding his stick near his chair, he took hold of it and struck it against the ground to emphasise his words.

"I say 'tis the devil!"

The girl rose from her kneeling att.i.tude and put her arms gently round his shoulders.

"There, Dad!" she said soothingly,--"Don't worry! Church and church things seem to rub you up all the wrong way! Don't think about them!

Supper will be ready in a little while and after supper we'll have a long talk. And then you'll tell me what the doctor said."

His angry excitement subsided suddenly and his head sank on his breast.

"Ay! After supper. Then--then I'll tell you what the doctor said."

His speech faltered. He turned and looked out on the garden, full of luxuriant blossom, the colours of which were gradually merging into indistinguishable ma.s.ses under the darkening grey of the dusk.

She moved softly about the room, setting things straight, and lighting two candles in a pair of tall bra.s.s candlesticks which stood one on either side of a carved oak press. The room thus illumined showed itself to be a roughly-timbered apartment in the style of the earliest Tudor times, and all the furniture in it was of the same period. The thick gate-legged table--the curious chairs, picturesque, but uncomfortable--the two old dower chests--the quaint three-legged stools and upright settles, were a collection that would have been precious to the art dealer and curio hunter, as would the ma.s.sive eight-day clock with its grotesquely painted face, delineating not only the hours and days but the lunar months, and possessing a sonorous chime which just now struck eight with a boom as deep as that of a cathedral bell. The sound appeared to startle the old farmer with a kind of shock, for he rose from his chair and grasped his stick, looking about him as though for the moment uncertain of his bearings.

"How fast the hours go by!" he muttered, dreamily. "When we're young they don't count--but when we're old we know that every hour brings us nearer to the end-the end, the end of all! Another night closing in--and the last load cleared from the field--Innocent!"