Innocent : her fancy and his fact

by Marie Corelli

  CHAPTER III

  Returning to the room where he had sat alone before supper, he sankheavily into the armchair he had previously occupied. The window wasstill open, and the scent of roses stole in with every breath ofair,--a few stars sparkled in the sky, and a faint line of silver inthe east showed where the moon would shortly rise. He looked out indreamy silence, and for some minutes seemed too much absorbed inthought to notice the presence of Innocent, who had seated herself at asmall table near him, on which she had set a lit candle, and wasquietly sewing. She had forgotten that she still wore the wreath ofwild roses,--the fragile flowers were drooping and dying in her hair,and as she bent over her work and the candlelight illumined herdelicate profile, there was something almost sculptural in the shape ofthe leaves as they encircled her brow, making her look like a youngGreek nymph or goddess brought to life out of the poetic dreams of theelder world. She was troubled and anxious, but she tried not to letthis seem apparent. She knew from her life's experience of his ways andwhims that it was best to wait till the old man chose to speak, ratherthan urge him into talk before he was ready or willing. She glanced upfrom her sewing now and again and saw that he looked very pale andworn, and she felt that he suffered. Her tender young heart ached withlonging to comfort him, yet she knew not what she should say. So shesat quiet, as full of loving thoughts as a Madonna lily may be full ofthe dew of Heaven, yet mute as the angelic blossom itself. Presently hemoved restlessly, and turning in his chair looked at her intently. Thefixity of his gaze drew her like a magnet from her work and she putdown her sewing.

  "Do you want anything, Dad?"

  He rose, and began to fumble with the buttons of his smock.

  "Ay--just help me to get this off. The working day is over,--theworking clothes can go!"

  She was at his side instantly and with her light deft fingers soondisembarrassed him of the homely garment. When it was taken off anoticeable transformation was effected in his appearance. Clad in plaindark homespun, which was fashioned into a suit somewhat resembling thedoublet and hose of olden times, his tall thin figure had a distinctlyaristocratic look and bearing which was lacking when clothed in thelabourer's garb. Old as he was, there were traces of intellect and evenbeauty in his features,--his head, on which the thin white hair shonelike spun silver, was proudly set on his shoulders in that unmistakableline which indicates the power and the will to command; and as heunconsciously drew himself upright he looked more like some old hero ofa hundred battles than a farmer whose chief pride was the excellence ofhis crops and the prosperity of his farm managed by hand work only. Fordespite the jeers of his neighbours, who were never tired ofremonstrating with him for not "going with the times," Jocelyn had onefixed rule of farming, and this was that no modern machinery should beused on his lands. He was the best employer of labour for many and manya mile round, and the most generous as well as the most exactpaymaster, and though people asserted that there was no reasonableexplanation for it, nevertheless it annually happened that thehand-sown, hand-reaped crops of Briar Farm were finer and richer ingrain and quality, and of much better value than the machine-sown,machine-reaped crops of any other farm in the county or for that matterin the three counties adjoining. He stood now for a minute or twowatching Innocent as she looked carefully over his smock frock to seeif there were any buttons missing or anything to be done requiring theservices of her quick needle and thread,--then as she folded it and putit aside on a chair he said with a thrill of compassion in his voice:

  "Poor little child, thou hast eaten no supper! I saw thee playing withthe bread and touching no morsel. Art not well?"

  She looked up at him and tried to smile, but tears came into her eyesdespite her efforts to keep them back.

  "Dear Dad, I am only anxious," she murmured, tremulously. "You, too,have had nothing. Shall I fetch you a glass of the old wine? It will doyou good."

  He still bent his brows thoughtfully upon her.

  "Presently--presently--not now," he answered. "Come and sit by me atthe window and I'll tell you--I'll tell you what you must know. But seeyou, child, if you are going to cry or fret, you will be no help to meand I'll just hold my peace!"

  She drew a quick breath, and her face paled.

  "I will not cry," she said,--"I will not fret. I promise you, Dad!"

  She came close up to him as she spoke. He took her gently in his armsand kissed her.

  "That's a brave girl!" And holding her by the hand he drew her towardsthe open window--"Look out there! See how the stars shine! Always thesame, no matter what happens to us poor folk down here,--they twinkleas merrily over our graves as over our gardens,--and yet if we're tobelieve what we're taught nowadays, they're all worlds more or lesslike our own, full of living creatures that suffer and die likeourselves. It's a queer plan of the Almighty, to keep on makingwonderful and beautiful things just to destroy them! There seems nosense in it!"

  He sat down again in his chair, and she, obeying his gesture, brought alow stool to his feet and settled herself upon it, leaning against hisknee. Her face was upturned to his and the flickering light of the tallcandles quivering over it showed the wistful tender watchfulness of itsexpression--a look which seemed to trouble him, for he avoided her eyes.

  "You want to know what the London doctor said," he began. "Well, child,you'll not be any the better for knowing, but it's as I thought. I'vegot my death-warrant. Slowton was not sure about me,--but this man, illas he is himself, has had too much experience to make mistakes. There'sno cure for me. I may last out another twelve months--perhaps not solong--certainly not longer."

  He saw her cheeks grow white with the ashy whiteness of a sudden shock.Her eyes dilated with pain and fear, and a quick sigh escaped her, thenshe set her lips hard.

  "I don't believe it," she said, adding with stronger emphasis--"I WON'Tbelieve it!"

  He patted the small hand that rested on his knee.

  "You won't? Poor little girl, you must believe it!--and more than that,you must be prepared for it. Even a year's none too much for all thathas to be done,--'twill almost take me that time to look the thingsquare in the face and give up the farm for good."--Here he paused witha kind of horror at his own words--"Give up the farm!--My God! And forever! How strange it seems!"

  The tumult in her mind found sudden speech.

  "Dad, dear! Dad! It isn't true! Don't think it! Don't mind what thedoctor says. He's wrong--I'm sure he's wrong! You'll live for many andmany a happy year yet--oh yes, Dad, you will! I'm sure of it! You won'tdie, darling Dad! Why should you?"

  She broke off with a half-smothered sob.

  "Why should I?" he said, with a perplexed frown; "Ah!--that's more thanI can tell you! There's neither rhyme nor reason in it that I can see.But it's the rule of life that it should end in death. For some the endis swift--for some it's slow--some know when it's coming--somedon't,--the last are the happiest. I've been told, you see,--and it'sno use my fighting against the fact,--a year at the most, perhaps less,is the longest term I have of Briar Farm. Your eyes are wet--youpromised you wouldn't cry."

  She furtively dashed away the drops that were shining on her lashes.Then she forced a faint quivering smile.

  "I'm not crying, Dad," she said. "There's nothing to cry for," and shefondled his hand in her own--"The doctors are wrong. You're only alittle weak and run down--you'll be all right with rest andcare--and--and you shan't die! You shan't die! I won't let you."

  He drew a long breath and passed his hand across his forehead as thoughhe were puzzled or in pain.

  "That's foolish talk," he said, with some harshness; "You've gottrouble to meet, and you must meet it. I'm bound to show youtrouble--but I can show you a way out of it as well."

  He paused a moment,--a light wind outside the lattice swayed a branchof roses to and fro, shaking out their perfume as from a swung censer.

  "The first thing I must tell you," he went on, "is about yourself. It'stime you should know who you are."

  She looked up at him startled.


  "Who I am?" she repeated,--then as she saw the stern expression on hisface a sudden sense of fear ran through her nerves like the chill of anicy wind and she waited dumbly for his next word. He gripped her handhard in his own.

  "Now hear me out, child!" he said--"Let me speak on withoutinterruption, or I shall never get through the tale. Perhaps I ought tohave told you before, but I've put it off and put it off, thinking'twould be time enough when you and Robin were wed. You and Robin--youand Robin!--your marriage bells have rung through my brain many andmany a night for the past two years and never a bit nearer are you tothe end of your wooing, such fanciful children as you both are! Andyou're so long about it and I've so short a time before me that I'vemade up my mind it's best to let you have all the truth about yourselfbefore anything happens to me. All the truth about yourself--as far asI know it."

  He paused again. She was perfectly silent. She trembled alittle--wondering what she was going to hear. It must be somethingdreadful, she thought,--something for which she wasunprepared,--something that might, perhaps, like a sudden change in thecurrents of the air, create darkness where there had been sunshine,storm instead of calm. His grip on her hand was strong enough to hurther, but she was not conscious of it. She only wished he would tell herthe worst at once and quickly. The worst,--for she instinctively feltthere was no best.

  "It was eighteen years ago this very haymaking time," he went on, witha dreamy retrospective air as though he were talking to himself,--"Thelast load had been taken in. Supper was over. The men had gonehome,--Priscilla was clearing the great hall, when there came on asudden storm--just a flash of lightning--I can see it now, striking ablue fork across the windows--a clap of thunder--and then a regulardownpour of rain. Heavy rain, too,--buckets-full--for it washed theyard out and almost swamped the garden. I didn't think much aboutit,--the hay was hauled in dry, and that was all my concern. I stoodunder a shed in the yard and watched the rain falling in straightsheets out of a sky black as pitch--I could scarcely see my own hand ifI stretched it out before me, the night was so dark. All at once Iheard the quick gallop of a horse's hoofs some way off,--then the soundseemed to die away,--but presently I heard the hoofs coming at a slowsteady pace down our muddy old by-road--no one can gallop THAT, in anyweather. And almost before I knew how it came there, the horse wasstanding at the farmyard gate, with a man in the saddle carrying abundle in front of him. He was the handsomest fellow I ever saw, andwhen he dismounted and came towards me, and took off his cap in thepouring rain and smiled at me, I was fairly taken with his looks. Ithought he must be something of a king or other great personage by hisvery manner. 'Will you do me a kindness?' he said, as gently as youplease. 'This is a farm, I believe. I want to leave my little childhere in safe keeping for a night. She is such a baby,--I cannot carryher any further through this storm.' And he put aside the wrappings ofthe bundle he carried and showed me a small pale infant asleep. 'She'smotherless,' he added, 'and I'm taking her to my relatives. But I haveto ride some distance from here on very urgent business, and if youwill look after her for to-night I'll call for her to-morrow. Poorlittle innocent! She's hungry and fretful. I haven't anything to giveher and the storm looks like continuing. Will you let her stay withyou?' 'Certainly!' said I, without thinking a bit further about it.'Leave her here by all means. We'll see she gets all she wants.' Hegave me the child at once and said in a very soft voice: 'You are mostgenerous!--"verily I have not found so great a faith, no not inIsrael!" You're sure you don't mind?' 'Not at all!' I answeredhim,--'You'll come back for her to-morrow, of course.' He smiled andsaid--'Oh yes, of course! To-morrow! I'm really very much obliged toyou!' Then he seemed to think for a moment and put his hand in hispocket, but I stopped him--'No, sir,' I said, 'excuse me, but I don'twant any pay for giving a babe a night's shelter.' He looked at me verystraight with his big clear hazel eyes, and then shook hands with me.'You're an honest fellow,' he said,--and he stooped and kissed thechild he had put into my arms. 'I'm extremely sorry to trouble you, butthe storm is too much for this helpless little creature.' 'You yourselfare wet through,' I interrupted. 'That doesn't matter,' heanswered,--'for me nothing matters. Thank you a thousand times!Good-night!' The rain was coming down faster than ever and I steppedback into the shed, covering the child up so that the drifting wetshould not beat upon it. He came after me and kissed it again, saying'Good-night, poor little innocent, good-night!' three or four times.Then he went off quickly and sprang into his saddle and in the blur ofrain I saw horse and man turn away. He waved his hand once and hishandsome pale face gleamed upon me like that of a ghost in the storm.'Till to-morrow!' he called, and was gone. I took the child into thehouse and called Priscilla. She was always a rough one as you know,even in her younger days, and she at once laid her tongue to with awill and as far as she dared called me a fool for my pains. And so Iwas, for when I came to think of it the man was a stranger to me, and Ihad never asked him his name. It was just his handsome face and the wayhe had with him that had thrown me off my guard as it were; so I stoodand looked silly enough, I suppose, while Priscilla fussed about withthe baby, for it had wakened and was crying. Well!"--and Jocelyn heaveda short sigh--"That's about all! We never saw the man again, and thechild was never claimed; but every six months I received a couple ofbank-notes in an envelope bearing a different postmark each time, withthe words: 'For Innocent' written inside--"

  She uttered a quick, almost terrified exclamation, and drew her handaway from his.

  "Every six months for a steady twelve years on end," he went on,--"thenthe money suddenly stopped. Now you understand, don't you? YOU were thebabe that was left with me that stormy night; and you've been with meever since. But you're not MY child. I don't know whose child you are!"

  He stopped, looking at her.

  She had risen from her seat beside him and was standing up. She wastrembling violently, and her face seemed changed from the round andmobile softness of youth to the worn pallor and thinness of age. Hereyes were luminous with a hard and feverish brilliancy.

  "You--you don't know whose child I am!" she repeated,--"I am notyours--and you don't know--you don't know who I belong to! Oh, it hurtsme!--it hurts me, Dad! I can't realise it! I thought you were my owndear father!--and I loved you!--oh, how much I loved you!--yet you havedeceived me all along!"

  "I haven't deceived you," he answered, impatiently. "I've done all forthe best--I meant to tell you when you married Robin--"

  A flush of indignation flew over her cheeks.

  "Marry Robin!" she exclaimed--"How could I marry Robin? I'm nothing!I'm nobody! I have not even a name!"

  She covered her face with her hands and an uncontrollable sob brokefrom her.

  "Not even a name!" she murmured--"Not even a name!"

  With a sudden impulsive movement she knelt down in front of him like achild about to say its prayers.

  "Oh, help me, Dad!" she said, piteously--"Comfort me! Saysomething--anything! I feel so lost--so astray! All my life seemsgone!--I can't realise it! Yes, I know! You have been very kind,--allkindness, just as if I had been your own little girl. Oh, why did youtell me I was your own?--I was so proud to be your daughter--andnow--it's so hard--so hard! Only a few moments ago I was a happy girlwith a loving father as I thought--now I know I'm only a poor namelesscreature,--deserted by my parents and left on your hands. Oh, Dad dear!I've given you years of trouble!--I hope I've been good to you! It'snot my fault that I am what I am!"

  He laid his wrinkled hand on her bowed head.

  "Dear child, of course it's not your fault! That's what I've said allalong. You're innocent, like your name,--and you've been a blessing tome all your days,--the farm has been brighter for your living onit,--so you've no cause to worry me or yourself about what's past longago and can't be helped. No one knows your story but Priscilla,--no oneneed ever know."

  She sprang up from her kneeling attitude.

  "Priscilla!" she echoed--"She knew, and she never said a word!"

  "If she had, she'd
have got the sack," answered Jocelyn, bluntly. "Youwere brought up always as MY child."

  He broke off, startled by the tragic intensity of her look.

  "I want to know how that was," she said, slowly. "You told me my motherdied when I was born."

  He avoided her eyes.

  "Well, that was true, or so I suppose," he said. "The man who broughtyou said you were motherless. But I--I have never married."

  "Then how could you tell Robin--and everyone else about here that I wasyour daughter?"

  He grew suddenly angry.

  "Child, don't stare at me like that!" he exclaimed, with all an oldman's petulance. "It doesn't matter what I said--I had to let theneighbours think you were mine--"

  A light flashed in upon her, and she gave vent to a shuddering cry.

  "Dad! Oh, Dad!"

  Gripping both arms of his chair he raised himself into an uprightposture.

  "What now?" he demanded, almost fiercely--"What trouble are you goingto make of it?"

  "Oh, if it were only trouble," she exclaimed, forlornly. "It's farworse! You've branded me with shame! Oh, I understand now! I understandat last why the girls about here never make friends with me! Iunderstand why Robin seems to pity me so much! Oh, how shall I everlook people in the face again!"

  His fuzzy brows met in a heavy frown.

  "Little fool!" he said, roughly,--"What shame are you talking of? I seeno shame in laying claim to a child of my own, even though the claimhas no reality. Look at the thing squarely! Here comes a strange manwith a baby and leaves it on my hands. You know what a scandalous,gossiping little place this is,--and it was better to say at once thebaby was mine than leave it to the neighbours to say the same thing andthat I wouldn't acknowledge it. Not a soul about here would havebelieved the true story if I had told it to them. I've done everythingfor the best--I know I have. And there'll never be a word said if youmarry Robin."

  Her face had grown very white. She put up her hand to her head and herfingers touched the faded wreath of wild roses. She drew it off and letit drop to the ground.

  "I shall never marry Robin!" she said, with quiet firmness--"And I willnot be considered your illegitimate child any longer. It's cruel of youto have made me live on a lie!--yes, cruel!--though you've been so kindin other things. You don't know who my parents were--you've no right tothink they were not honest!"

  He stared at her amazed. For the first time in eighteen years he beganto see the folly of what he had thought his own special wisdom. Thisgirl, with her pale sad face and steadfast eyes, confronted him withthe calm reproachful air of an accusing angel.

  "What right have you?" she went on. "The man who brought me toyou,--poor wretched me!--if he was my father, may have been good andtrue. He said I was motherless; and he, or someone else, sent you moneyfor me till I was twelve. That did not look as if I was forgotten. Nowyou say the money has stopped--well!--my father may be dead." Her lipsquivered and a few tears rolled down her cheeks. "But there is nothingin all this that should make you think me basely born,--nothing thatshould have persuaded you to put shame upon me!"

  He was taken aback for a minute by her words and attitude--then heburst out angrily:

  "It's the old story, I see! Do a good action and it turns out a curse!Basely born! Of course you are basely born, if that's the way you putit! What man alive would leave his own lawful child at a strange farmoff the high-road and never claim it again? You're a fool, I tell you!This man who brought you to me was by his look and bearing some finegentleman or other who had just the one idea in his head--to get rid ofan encumbrance. And so he got rid of you--"

  "Don't go over the whole thing again!" she interrupted, with wearypatience-"-I was an encumbrance to him--I've been an encumbrance toyou. I'm sorry! But in no case had you the right to set a stigma on mewhich perhaps does not exist. That was wrong!"

  She paused a moment, then went on slowly:

  "I've been a burden on you for six years now,--it's six years, you say,since the money stopped. I wish I could do something in return for whatI've cost you all those six years,--I've tried to be useful."

  The pathos in her voice touched him to the quick.

  "Innocent!" he exclaimed, and held out his arms.

  She looked at him with a very pitiful smile and shook her head.

  "No! I can't do that! Not just yet! You see, it's all sounexpected--things have changed altogether in a moment. I can't feelquite the same--my heart seems so sore and cold."

  He leaned back in his chair again.

  "Ah, well, it is as I thought!" he said, irritably. "You're moreconcerned about yourself than about me. A few minutes ago you onlycared to know what the doctors thought of my illness, but now it'snothing to you that I shall be dead in a year. Your mind is set on yourown trouble, or what you choose to consider a trouble."

  She heard him like one in a dream. It seemed very strange to her thathe should have dealt her a blow and yet reproach her for feeling theforce of it.

  "I am sorry!" she said, patiently. "But this is the first time I haveknown real trouble--you forget that!--and you must forgive me if I amstupid about it. And if the doctors really believe you are to die in ayear I wish I could take your place, Dad!--I would rather be dead thanlive shamed. And there's nothing left for me now,--not even a name--"

  Here she paused and seemed to reflect.

  "Why am I called Innocent?"

  "Why? Because that's the name that was written on every slip of paperthat came with each six months' money," he answered, testily. "That'sthe only reason I know."

  "Was I baptised by that name?" she asked.

  He moved uneasily.

  "You were never baptised."

  "Never baptised!" She echoed the words despairingly,--and then wassilent for a minute's space. "Could you not have done that much forme?" she asked, plaintively, at last--"Would it have been impossible?"

  He was vaguely ashamed. Her eyes, pure as a young child's, were fixedupon him in appealing sorrow. He began to feel that he had done her agrievous wrong, though he had never entirely realised it till now. Heanswered her with some hesitation and an effort at excuse.

  "Not impossible--no,--maybe I could have baptised you myself if I hadthought about it. 'Tis but a sprinkle of water and 'In the Name of theFather, Son, and Holy Ghost.' But somehow I never worried my head--foras long as you were a baby I looked for the man who brought you dayafter day, and in my own mind left all that sort of business for him toattend to--and when he didn't come and you grew older, it fairlyslipped my remembrance altogether. I'm not fond of the Church or itsways,--and you've done as well without baptism as with it, surely.Innocent is a good name for you, and fits your case. For you'reinnocent of the faults of your parents whatever they were, and you'reinnocent of my blunders. You're free to make your own life pleasant ifyou'll only put a bright face on it and make the best of an awkwardbusiness."

  She was silent, standing before him like a little statuesque figure ofdesolation.

  "As for the tale I told the neighbours," he went on--"it was the bestthing I could think of. If I had said you were a child I had taken into adopt, not one of them would have believed me; 'twas a case oftelling one lie or t'other, the real truth being so queer and out ofthe common, so I chose the easiest. And it's been all right with you,my girl, whichever way you put it. There may be a few stuck-up younghuzzies in the village that aren't friendly to you, but you may take itthat it's more out of jealousy of Robin's liking for you than anythingelse. Robin loves you--you know he does; and all you've got to do is tomake him happy. Marry him, for the farm will be his when I'm dead, andit'll give me a bit of comfort to feel that you're settled down withhim in the old home. For then I know it'll go on just the same--justthe same--"

  His words trailed off brokenly. His head sank on his chest, and someslow tears made their difficult way out of his eyes and dropped on hissilver beard.

  She watched him with a certain grave compassion, but she did not atonce go, as she would usually have done,
to put her arms round his neckand console him. She seemed to herself removed miles away from him andfrom everything she had ever known. Just then there was a noise ofrough but cheery voices outside shouting "good-night" to each other,and she said in a quiet tone:

  "The men are away now. Is there anything you want before I go to bed?"

  With a sudden access of energy, which contrasted strangely with hisformer feebleness, he rose and confronted her.

  "No, there's nothing I want!" he said, in vehement tones--"Nothing butpeace and quietness! I've told you your story, and you take it ill. Butrecollect, girl, that if you consider any shame has been put on you,I've put equal shame on myself for your sake--I, Hugo Jocelyn,--againstwhom never a word has been said but this,--which is a lie--that mychild, mine!--was born out of wedlock! I suffered this against myselfsolely for your sake--I, who never wronged a woman in my life!--I, whonever loved but one woman, who died before I had the chance to marryher!--and I say and I swear I have sacrificed something of my name andreputation to you! So that you need not make trouble because you alsoshare in the sacrifice. Robin thinks you're my child, and therefore hiscousin,--and he counts nothing against you, for he knows that what theworld would count against you must be my fault and would be my fault,if the lie I started against myself was true. Marry Robin, I tellyou!--and if you care to make me happy, marry him before I die. Thenyou're safe out of all harm's way. If you DON'T marry him--"

  Her breath came and went quickly--she folded her hands across herbosom, trying to still the loud and rapid beating of her heart, but hereyes were very bright and steadfast.

  "Yes? What then?" she asked, calmly.

  "Then you must take the consequences," he said. "The farm and all Ihave is left to Robin,--he's my dead sister's son and my nearest livingkin--"

  "I know that," she said, simply, "and I'm glad he has everything. It'sright that it should be so. I shall not be in his way. You may be quitesure of that. But I shall not marry him."

  "You'll not marry him?" he repeated, and seemed about to give vent to atorrent of invective when she extended her hands clasped togetherappealingly.

  "Dad, don't be angry!--it only hurts you and it does no good! Justbefore supper you reminded me of what they say in Church that 'the sinsof the fathers should be visited on the children, even unto the thirdand fourth generation.' I will not visit the sin of my father andmother on anyone. If you will give me a little time I shall be able tounderstand everything more clearly, and perhaps bear it better. I wantto be quite by myself. I must try to see myself as I am,--unbaptised,nameless, forsaken! And if there is anything to be done with thiswretched little self of mine, it is I that must do it. With God'shelp!" She sighed, and her lips moved softly again in the last words,"With God's help!"

  He said nothing, and she waited a moment as if expecting him to speak.Then she moved to the table where she had been sitting and folded upher needlework.

  "Shall I get you some wine, Dad?" she asked presently in a quiet voice.

  "No!" he replied, curtly--"Priscilla can get it."

  "Then good-night!"

  Still standing erect he turned his head and looked at her.

  "Are you going?" he said. "Without your usual kiss?--your usualtenderness? Why should you change to me? Your own father--if he wasyour father--deserted you,--and I have been, a father to you in hisplace, wronging my own honourable name for your sake; am I to blame forthis? Be reasonable! The laws of man are one thing and the laws of Godare another,--and we have to make the best we can of ourselves betweenthe two. There's many a piece of wicked injustice in the world, butnothing more wicked than to set shame or blame on a child that's bornwithout permit of law or blessing of priest. For it's not the child'sfault,--it's brought into the world without its own consent,--and yetthe world fastens a slur upon it! That's downright brutal andsenseless!--for if there is any blame attached to the matter it shouldbe fastened on the parents, and not on the child. And that's what Ithought when you were left on my hands--I took the blame of you onmyself, and I was careful that you should be treated with everykindness and respect--mind you that! Respect! There's not a man on theplace that doesn't doff his cap to you; and you've been as my owndaughter always. You can't deny it! And more than that"--here hisstrong voice faltered--"I've loved you!--yes-I've loved you, littleInnocent--"

  She looked up in his face and saw it quivering with suppressed emotion,and the strange cold sense of aloofness that had numbed her sensessuddenly gave way like snow melting in the spring. In a moment she wasin his arms, weeping out her pent-up tears on his breast, and he,stroking her soft hair, soothed her with every tender and gentle wordhe could think of.

  "There, there!" he murmured, fondly. "Thou must look at it in this way,dear child! That if God deprived thee of one father he gave theeanother in his place! Make the best of that gift before it be takenfrom thee!"