Innocent : her fancy and his fact

by Marie Corelli

  CHAPTER X

  Upstairs, shut in her own little room with the door locked, Innocentopened the sealed packet. She found within it a letter and somebank-notes. With a sensitive pain which thrilled every nerve in herbody she unfolded the letter, written in Hugo Jocelyn's firm clearwriting--a writing she knew so well, and which bore no trace ofweakness or failing in the hand that guided the pen. How strange itwas, she thought, that the written words should look so living anddistinct when the writer was dead! Her head swam.--her eyes weredim--for a moment she could scarcely see--then the mist before herslowly dispersed and she read the first words, which made her heartswell and the tears rise in her aching throat.

  "MY LITTLE WILDING!--When you read this I shall be gone to thatwonderful world which all the clergymen tell us about, but which noneof them are in any great hurry to see for themselves. I hope--and Isometimes believe--such a world exists--and that perhaps it is a placewhere a man may sow seed and raise crops as well and as prosperously ason Briar Farm--however, I'm praying I may not be taken till I've seenyou 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 itwith the pearls that are, by my will, destined for you on yourmarriage-morning. I'm writing it, remember, on the same night I've toldyou all about yourself--the night of the day the doctor gave me mydeath-warrant. I may live a year,--I may live but a week,--it will behard if I may not live to see you married!--but God's will must bedone. The bank-notes folded in this letter make up four hundredpounds--and this money you can spend as you like--on your clothes forthe bridal, or on anything you fancy--I place no restriction on you asto 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 toRobin, 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--forthe world is hard on a woman left alone as you would be, were it notfor him. I give you my word that if I had any clue, however small, toyour real parentage, I would write down here for you all I know--but Iknow nothing more than I have told you. I have loved you as my ownchild and you have been the joy of my old days. May God bless you andgive you joy and peace in Briar Farm!--you and your children, and yourchildren's children! Amen!

  "Your 'Dad'

  "HUGO JOCELYN."

  She read this to the end, and then some tension in her brain seemed torelax, and she wept long and bitterly, her head bent down on the letterand her bright hair falling over it. Presently, checking her sobs, sherose, and looked about her in a kind of dream--the familiar little roomseemed to have suddenly become strange to her, and she thought she sawstanding in one corner a figure clad in armour,--its vizor was up,showing a sad pale face and melancholy eyes--the lips moved--and asighing murmur floated past her ears--"Mon coeur me soutien!" A coldterror seized her, and she trembled from head to foot--then the visionor hallucination vanished as swiftly and mysteriously as it hadappeared. Rallying her forces, she gradually mastered the overpoweringfear which for a moment had possessed her,--and folding up HugoJocelyn's last letter, she kissed it, and placed it in her bosom. Thebank-notes were four in number--each for one hundred pounds;--these sheput in an envelope, and shut them in the drawer containing her secretmanuscript.

  "Now the way is clear!" she said--"I can do what I like--I have mywings, and I can fly away! Oh Dad, dear Dad!--you would be so unhappyif you knew what I mean to do!--it would break your heart, Dad!--butyou have no heart to break now, poor Dad!--it is cold as stone!--itwill never beat any more! Mine is the heart that beats!--the heart thatburns, and aches, and hurts me!--ah!--how it hurts! And no one canunderstand--no one will ever care to understand!"

  She locked her manuscript-drawer--then went and bathed her eyes, whichsmarted with the tears she had shed. Looking at herself in the mirrorshe saw a pale plaintive little creature, without any freshness ofbeauty--all the vitality seemed gone out of her. Smoothing her ruffledhair, she twisted it up in a loose coil at the back of her head, andstudied with melancholy dislike and pain the heavy effect of her denseblack draperies against her delicate skin.

  "I shall do for anything now," she said--"No one will look at me, and Ishall pass quite unnoticed in a crowd. I'm glad I'm not a prettygirl--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--butPriscilla would not allow her to do anything in the way of what shecalled "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 therest o' the day an' night with Mr. Bayliss, as there's lots o' thingsto see to, an' 'e left you this little note"--here Priscilla produced asmall neatly folded paper from her apron pocke-t-"an' sez 'e--'Givethis to Miss Innocent`' 'e sez, 'an' she won't mind my bein' out o' theway--it'll be better for 'er to be quiet a bit with you'--an' so itwill, lovey, for sometimes a man about the 'ouse is a worrit an' aburden, 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 athis house for the night--there are many business matters we have to gointo together, and it is important for me to thoroughly understand theposition of my uncle's affairs. If I cannot manage to get backto-morrow, I will let you know. Robin."

  She heaved a sigh of intense relief. For twenty-four hours at least shewas free from love's importunity--she could be alone to think, and toplan. 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'llcome 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 toomuch o' that there blessed old figure!--why, what's 'e got to do withyou, my pretty?"

  "Nothing!" and the colour came to her pale cheeks for a moment, andthen fled back again--"He never had anything to do with me, really! ButI seem to know him."

  Priscilla gave a kind of melancholy snort--and the girl moved slowlyaway through the open door and beyond it, out among the radiantflowers. Her little figure in deep black was soon lost to sight, andafter watching her for a minute, Priscilla turned to her home-work withtears 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 athrush 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' 'eras a baby, 'opin' agin 'ope as 'er parents 'ud turn up an' be sorry forthe loss of 'er--but never a sign of a soul!--an' now she's grow'd upshe's thorts in 'er 'ed which ain't easy to unnerstand--for sinceMister Jocelyn told 'er the tale of 'erself she's not been the samelike--she's got suddin old!"

  The afternoon was very peaceful and beautiful--the sun shone warmlyover the smooth meadows of Briar Farm, and reddened the apples in theorchard yet a little more tenderly, flashing in flecks of gold on the"Glory" roses, and touching the wings of fluttering doves with arrowysilver gleams. No one looking at the fine old house, with itspicturesque gables and latticed windows, would have thought that itslast master of lawful lineage was dead and buried, and that the funeralhad taken place that morning. Briar Farm, though more than threecenturies old, seemed full of youthful life and promise--a vital fact,destined to outlast many more human lives than those which in thepassing of three hundred years had already left their mark upon it, andit was strange and incredible to realise that the long chain oflineally descended male ancestors had broken at last, and that noremaining link survived to carry on the old tradition. Sadly and slowlyInnocent walked across the stretches of warm clover-scented grass tothe ancient tomb of the "Sieur Amadis"--and sat down beside it, not farfrom 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 towardsthe horizon in a mellow mist of orange-coloured radiance,--the day wasdrawing to an end--the fateful, wretched day which had seen the bestfriend she had ever known, and whom for years she had adored andrevered as her own "father," laid in the dust to perish amongperishable things.

  "I wish I had died instead of him," she said, half aloud--"or else thatI had never been born! Oh, dear 'Sieur Amadis'!--you know how hard itis to live in the world unless some one wants you--unless some oneloves you!--and no one wants me--no one loves me--except Robin!"

  Solitary, and full of the heaviest sadness, she tried to think and toform plans--but her mind was tired, and she could come to no decisiveresolution beyond the one all-convincing necessity--that of leavingBriar Farm. Of course she must go,--there was no other alternative. Andnow, thanks to Hugo Jocelyn's forethought in giving her money for herbridal "pretties," no financial difficulty stood in the way of herdeparture. She must go--but where? To begin with, she had no name. Shewould have to invent one for herself--"Yes!" she murmured--"I mustinvent a name--and make it famous!" Involuntarily she clenched hersmall hand as though she held some prize within its soft grasp. "Whynot? Other people have done the same--I can but try! If I fail--!"

  Her delicate fingers relaxed,--in her imagination she saw some covetedsplendour slip from her hold, and her little face grew set and seriousas though she had already suffered a whole life's disillusion.

  "I can but try," she repeated--"something urges me on--something tellsme I may succeed. And then--!"

  Her eyes brightened slowly--a faint rose flushed her cheeks,--and withthe sudden change of expression, she became almost beautiful. Hereinlay her particular charm,--the rarest of all in women,--the passing ofthe lights and shadows of thought over features which responded swiftlyand emotionally to the prompting and play of the mind.

  "I should have to go," she went on--"even if Dad were still alive. Icould not--I cannot marry Robin!--I do not want to marry anybody. It isthe common lot of women--why they should envy or desire it, I cannotthink! To give one's self up entirely to a man's humours--to be glad ofhis caresses, and miserable when he is angry or tired--to bear hischildren 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 ofmonotony, sickness, pain, and fatigue!--and nothing higher done thanwhat animals can do! There are plenty of women in the world who like tostay on this level, I suppose--but I should not like it,--I could notlive in this beautiful, wonderful world with no higher ambition than asheep or a cow!"

  At that moment she suddenly saw Priscilla running from the house acrossthe meadow, and beckoning to her in evident haste and excitement. Shegot up at once and ran to meet her, flying across the grass with lightairy feet as swiftly as Atalanta.

  "What is it?" she cried, seeing Priscilla's face, crimson with hurryand 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--fromLondon--in the best parlour--she asked for Farmer Jocelyn's adopteddaughter named Innocent. And she gave me her card--here it is"--andPriscilla wiped her face and gasped again as Innocent took the card andread "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 grandfolks what likes to buy old furniture, an' mebbe somebody's told 'erabout Briar Farm things, an' 'ow they might p'raps be sold now themaster's gone--"

  "But that would be very silly and wicked talk," said Innocent. "Nothingwill be sold--Robin would never allow it--"

  "Well, come an' see the lady," and Priscilla hurried her along--"Shesaid 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 herbusiness was important, an' if you could see 'er--"

  "Is she young?"

  "No, she's not young--but she isn't old," replied Priscilla--"She'swonderful good-looking an' dressed beautiful! I never see such clothescut out o' blue serge! An' she's got a scent about her like ourstillroom when we're makin' pot-purry bags for the linen."

  By this time they had reached the house, and Innocent went straightinto the best parlour. Her unexpected and unknown visitor stood therenear the window, looking out on the beds of flowers, but turned roundas she entered. For a moment they confronted each other insilence,--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 sheknew 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--"andI also wish to talk to you. In case anyone may be aboutlistening, will you shut the door?"

  With increasing nervousness and bewilderment, Innocent obeyed.

  "You had my card, I think?" continued the lady, smiling ever soslightly--"I gave it to the servant--"

  Innocent held it half crumpled in her hand.

  "Yes," she said, trying to rally her self-possession--"Lady MaudeBlythe--"

  "Exactly!--you have quite a nice pronunciation! May I sit down?" and,without waiting for the required permission, Lady Blythe sankindolently into the old oaken arm-chair where Farmer Jocelyn had solong been accustomed to sit, and, taking out a cobweb of a handkerchiefpowerfully scented, passed it languorously across her lips and brow.

  "You have had a very sad day of it, I fear!" she continued--"Deaths andfunerals are such unpleasant affairs! But the farmer--Mr. Jocelyn--wasnot your father, was he?" The question was put with a repetition of theformer slight, cold smile.

  "No,"--and the girl looked at her wonderingly--"but he was better thanmy own father who deserted me!"

  "Dear me! Your own father deserted you! How shocking of him!" and LadyBlythe turned a pair of brilliant dark eyes full on the pale littleface confronting her--"And your mother?"

  "She deserted me, too."

  "What a reprehensible couple!" Here Lady Blythe extended a delicatelygloved hand towards her. "Come here and let me look at you!"

  But Innocent hesitated.

  "Excuse me," she said, with a quaint and simple dignity--"I do not knowyou. I cannot understand why you have come to see me--if you wouldexplain--"

  While she thus spoke Lady Blythe had surveyed her scrutinisinglythrough a gold-mounted lorgnon.

  "Quite a proud little person it is!" she remarked, and smiled--"Quiteproud! I suppose I really must explain! Only I do hope you will notmake a scene. Nothing is so unpleasant! And SUCH bad form! Please sitdown!"

  Innocent placed a chair close to the table so that she could lean herarm on that friendly board and steady her trembling little frame. Whenshe was seated, Lady Blythe again looked at her critically through thelorgnon. Then she continued--

  "Well, I must first tell you that I have always known yourhistory--such a romance, isn't it! You were brought here as a baby by aman on horseback'--and he left you with the good old farmer who hastaken care of you ever since. I am right? Yes!--I'm quite sure aboutit--because I knew the man--the curious sort of parentalLochinvar!--who got rid of you in such a curious way!"

  Innocent drew a sharp breath.

  "You knew him?"

  Lady Blythe gave a delicate little cough.

  "Yes--I knew him--rather well! I was quite a girl--and he was anartist--a rather famous one in his way--half French--and verygood-looking. Yes, he certainly was remarkably good-looking! We ranaway together--most absurd of us--but we did. Please don't look at melike that!--you remind me of Sara
Bernhardt in 'La Tosca'!"

  Innocent's eyes were indeed full of something like positive terror. Herheart beat violently--she felt a strange dread, and a foreboding thatchilled her very blood.

  "People often do that kind of thing--fall in love and run away,"continued Lady Blythe, placidly--"when they are young and silly. It isquite a delightful sensation, of course, but it doesn't last. Theydon't know the world--and they never calculate results. However, we hadquite a good time together. We went to Devon and Cornwall, and hepainted pictures and made love to me--and it was all very nice andpretty. Then, of course, trouble came, and we had to get out of it asbest we could--we were both tired of each other and quarrelleddreadfully, so we decided to give each other up. Only you were in theway!"

  Innocent rose, steadying herself with one hand against the table.

  "I!" she exclaimed, with a kind of sob in her throat.

  "Yes--you! Dear me,--how you stare! Don't you understand? I supposeyou've lived such a strange sort of hermit life down here that you knownothing. You were in the way--you, the baby!"

  "Do you mean--?"

  "Yes--I mean what you ought to have guessed at once--if you were not asstupid as an owl! I've told you I ran away with a man--I wouldn't marryhim, though he asked me to--I should have been tied up for life, and Ididn't want that--so we decided to separate. And he undertook to getrid of the baby--"

  "Me!" cried Innocent, wildly--"oh, dear God! It was me!"

  "Yes--it was you--but you needn't be tragic about it!" said LadyBlythe, calmly--"I think, on the whole, you were fortunatelyplaced--and I was told where you were--"

  "You were told?--oh, you were told!--and you never came! And you--youare--my MOTHER!"--and overpowered by the shock of emotion, the girlsank back on her chair, and burying her head in her hands, sobbedbitterly. Lady Blythe looked at her in meditative silence.

  "What a tiresome creature!" she murmured, under her breath--"Quiteundisciplined! No repose of manner--no style whatever! And apparentlyvery little sense! I think it's a pity I came,--a mistaken sense ofduty!"

  Aloud she said--

  "I hope you're not going to cry very long! Won't you get it over? Ithought you would be glad to know me--and I've come out of purekindness to you, simply because I heard your old farmer was dead. WhyPierce Armitage should have brought you to him I never couldimagine--except that once he was painting a picture in theneighbourhood and was rather taken with the history of this place--BriarFarm isn't it called? You'll make your eyes quite sore if yougo on crying like that! Yes--I am your mother--most unfortunately!--Ihoped you would never know it!--but now--as you are left quite alone inthe world, I have come to see what I can do for you."

  Innocent checked her sobs, and lifting her head looked straight intothe rather shallow bright eyes that regarded her with such cold andeasy scrutiny.

  "You can do nothing for me," she answered, in a low voice--"You neverhave done anything for me. If you are my mother, you are an unnaturalone!" And moved by a sudden, swift emotion, she stood up withindignation and scorn lighting every feature of her face. "I was inyour way at my birth--and you were glad to be rid of me. Why should youseek me now?"

  Lady Blythe glanced her over amusedly.

  "Really, you would do well on the stage!" she said--"If you weretaller, you would make your fortune with that tragic manner! It isquite wasted on me, I assure you! I've told you a very simplecommonplace truth--a thing that happens every day--a silly couple runaway together, madly in love, and deluded by the idea that love willlast--they get into trouble and have a child--naturally, as they arenot married, the child is in the way, and they get rid of it--somepeople would have killed it, you know! Your father was quite akind-hearted person--and his one idea was to place you where there wereno other children, and where you would have a chance of being takencare of. So he brought you to Briar Farm--and he told me where he hadleft you before he went away and died."

  "Died!" echoed the girl--"My father is dead?"

  "So I believe,"--and Lady Blythe stifled a slight yawn--"He was alwaysa rather reckless person--went out to paint pictures in all weathers,or to 'study effects' as he called it--how I hated his 'art' talk!--andI heard he died in Paris of influenza or pneumonia or something orother. But as I was married then, it didn't matter."

  Innocent's deep-set, sad eyes studied her "mother" with strangewistfulness.

  "Did you not love him?" she asked, pitifully.

  Lady Blythe laughed, lightly.

  "You odd girl! Of course I was quite crazy about him!--he was sohandsome--and very fascinating in his way--but he could be a terriblebore, and he had a very bad temper. I was thankful when we separated.But I have made my own private enquiries about you, from time totime--I always had rather a curiosity about you, as I have had no otherchildren. Won't you come and kiss me?"

  Innocent stood rigid.

  "I cannot!" she said.

  Lady Blythe flushed and bit her lips.

  "As you like!" she said, airily--"I don't mind!"

  The girl clasped her hands tightly together.

  "How can you ask me!" she said, in low, thrilling tones--"You who havelet me grow up without any knowledge of you!--you who had no shame inleaving me here to live on the charity of a stranger!--you who nevercared at all for the child you brought into the world!--can you imaginethat I could care--now?"

  "Well, really," smiled Lady Blythe--"I'm not sure that I have asked youto care! I have simply come here to tell you that you are not entirelyalone in the world, and that I, knowing myself to be yourmother--(although it happened so long ago I can hardly believe I wasever such a fool!)--am willing to do something for you--especially as Ihave no children by my second marriage. I will, in fact, 'adopt' you!"and she laughed--a pretty, musical laugh like a chime of little silverbells. "Lord Blythe will be delighted--he's a kind old person!"

  Innocent looked at her gravely and steadily.

  "Do you mean to say that you will own me?--name me?--acknowledge me asyour daughter--"

  "Why, certainly not!" and Lady Blythe's eyes flashed over her in colddisdain--"What are you thinking of? You are not legitimate--and youreally have no lawful name--besides, I'm not bound to do anything atall for you now you are old enough to earn your own living. But I'mquite a good-natured woman,--and as I have said already I have no otherchildren--and I'm willing to 'adopt' you, bring you out in society,give you pretty clothes, and marry you well if I can. But to own that Iever made such an idiot of myself as to have you at all is a little toomuch to ask!--Lord Blythe would never forgive me!"

  "So you would make me live a life of deception with you!" saidInnocent--"You would make me pretend to be what I am not--just as youpretend to be what you are not!--and yet you say I am your child! OhGod, save me from such a mother! Madam"--and she spoke in cold,deliberate accents--"you have lived all these years without children,save me whom you have ignored--and I, though nameless and illegitimate,now ignore you! I have no mother! I would not own you any more than youwould own me;--my shame in saying that such a woman is my mother wouldbe greater than yours in saying that I am your child! For the stigma ofmy birth is not my fault, but yours!--I am, as my father calledme--'innocent'!"

  Her breath came and went quickly--a crimson flush was on hercheeks--she looked transfigured--beautiful. Lady Blythe stared at herin wide-eyed disdain.

  "You are exceedingly rude and stupid," she said--"You talk like abadly-trained actress! And you are quite blind to your own interests.Now please remember that if you refuse the offer I make you, I shallnever trouble about you again--you will have to sink or swim--and youcan do nothing for yourself--without even a name--"

  "Have you never heard," interrupted Innocent, suddenly, "that it isquite possible to MAKE a name?"

  Her "mother" was for the moment startled--she looked so intellectuallystrong and inspired.

  "Have you never thought," she went on--"even you, in your strange lifeof hypocrisy--"

  "Hypocrisy!" exclaimed Lady Blythe--"How dare you say suc
h a thing!"

  "Of course it is hypocrisy," said the girl, resolutely--"You aremarried to a man who knows nothing of your past life--is not thathypocrisy? You are a great lady, no doubt--you have everything you wantin this world, except children--one child you had in me, and you let mebe taken from you--yet you would pretend to 'adopt' me though you knowI am your own! Is not that hypocrisy?"

  Lady Blythe for a moment tightened her lips in a line of decidedtemper--then she smiled ironically.

  "It is tact," she said--"and good manners. Society lives by certainconventions, and we must be careful not to outrage them. In your owninterests you should be glad to learn how to live suitably withoutoffence to others around you."

  Innocent looked at her with straight and relentless scorn.

  "I have done that," she answered--"so far. I shall continue to do it. Ido not want any help from you! I would rather die than owe youanything! Please understand this! You say I am your daughter, and Isuppose I must believe it--but the knowledge brings me sorrow andshame. And I must work my way out of this sorrow and shame,--somehow! Iwill do all I can to retrieve the damaged life you have given me. Inever knew my mother was alive--and now--I wish to forget it! If myfather lived, I would go to him--"

  "Would you indeed!" and Lady Blythe rose, shaking her elegant skirts,and preening herself like a bird preparing for flight--"I'm afraid youwould hardly receive a parental welcome! Fortunately for himself andfor me, he is dead,--so you are quite untrammelled by any latentnotions of filial duty. And you will never see me again after to-day!"

  "No?"--and the interrogation was put with the slightest inflection ofsatire--so fine as to be scarcely perceptible--but Lady Blythe caughtit, and flushed angrily.

  "Of course not!" she said--"Do you think you, in your position of amere farmer's girl, are likely to meet me in the greater world? You,without even a name--"

  "Would you have given me a name?" interposed the girl, calmly.

  "Of course! I should have invented one for you--

  "I can do that for myself," said Innocent, quietly--"and so you arerelieved from all trouble on my score. May I ask you to go now?"

  Lady Blythe stared at her.

  "Are you insolent, or only stupid?" she asked--"Do you realise what itis that I have told you--that I, Lady Blythe, wife of a peer, andmoving in the highest ranks of society, am willing to take charge ofyou, feed you, clothe you, bring you out and marry you well? Do youunderstand, and still refuse?"

  "I understand--and I still refuse," replied Innocent--"I would accept,if you owned me as your daughter to your husband and to all theworld--but as your 'adopted' child--as a lie under your roof--I refuseabsolutely and entirely! Are you astonished that I should wish to livetruly instead of falsely?"

  Lady Blythe gathered her priceless lace scarf round her elegantshoulders.

  "I begin to think it must have been all a bad dream!" she said, andlaughed softly--"My little affair with your father cannot have reallyhappened, and you cannot really be my child! I must consider it in thatlight! I feel I have done my part in the matter by coming here to seeyou and talk to you and make what I consider a very kind and reasonableproposition--you have refused it--and there is no more to be said." Shesettled her dainty hat more piquantly on her rich dark hair, and smiledagreeably. "Will you show me the way out? I left my motor-car on thehigh-road--my chauffeur did not care to bring it down your rather muddyback lane."

  Innocent said nothing--but merely opened the door and stood aside forher visitor to pass. A curious tightening at her heart oppressed her asshe thought that this elegant, self-possessed, exquisitely attiredcreature was actually her "mother!"--and she could have cried out withthe pain which was so hard to bear. Suddenly Lady Blythe came to anabrupt standstill.

  "You will not kiss me?" she said--"Not even for your father's sake?"

  With a quick sobbing catch in her breath, the girl looked up--her"mother" was a full head taller than she. She lifted her fair head--hereyes were full of tears. Her lips quivered--Lady Blythe stooped andkissed them lightly.

  "There!--be a good girl!" she said. "You have the most extraordinaryhigh-flown notions, and I think they will lead you into trouble!However, I'll give you one more chance--if at the end of this year youwould like to come to me, my offer to you still holds good. Afterthat--well!--as you yourself said, you will have no mother!"

  "I have never had one!" answered Innocent, in low chokedaccents--"And--I shall never have one!"

  Lady Blythe smiled--a cold, amused smile, and passed out through thehall into the garden.

  "What delightful flowers!" she exclaimed, in a sweet, singing voice,for the benefit of anyone who might be listening--"A perfect paradise!No wonder Briar Farm is so famous! It's perfectly charming! Is this theway? Thanks ever so much!" This, as Innocent opened the gate--"Let mesee!--I go up the old by-road?--yes?--and the main road joins it at thesummit?--No, pray don't trouble to come with me--I can find my carquite easily! Good-bye!"

  And picking up her dainty skirt with one ungloved hand, on which twodiamond rings shone like circlets of dew, she nodded, smiled, and wenther way--Innocent standing at the gate and watching her go with a kindof numbed patience as though she saw a figure in a dream vanishingslowly with the dawn of day. In truth she could hardly grasp the fullsignificance of what had happened--she did not feel, even remotely, theslightest attraction towards this suddenly declared "mother" ofhers--she could hardly believe the story. Yet she knew it must betrue,--no woman of title and position would thus acknowledge a stigmaon her own life without any cause for the confession. She stood at thegate still watching, though there was nothing now to watch, save thebending trees, and the flowering wild plants that fringed each side ofthe old by-road. Priscilla's voice calling her in a clear, yet loweredtone, startled her at last--she slowly shut the gate and turned inanswer.

  "Yes, dear? What is it?"

  Priscilla trotted out from under the porch, full of eager curiosity.

  "Has the lady gone?"

  "Yes."

  "What did she want with ye, dearie?"

  "Nothing very much!" and Innocent smiled--a strange, wistfulsmile--"Only just what you thought!--she wished to buy something fromBriar Farm--and I told her it was not to be sold!"