Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  “Yes.”

  “And perhaps” — went on Innocent— “you might ask him not to have the banns put up yet as we don’t want it known quite so soon—”

  “I’ll do all I can,” he replied, cheerily— “all I can to keep him quiet, and to make you happy! There! I can’t say more!”

  Her eyes shone upon him with a grateful tenderness.

  “You are very good, Robin!”

  He laughed.

  “Good! Not I! But I can’t bear to see you fret — if I had my way you should never know a moment’s trouble that I could keep from you. But I know I’m not a patch on your old stone knight who wrote such a lot about his ‘ideal’ — and yet went and married a country wench and had six children. Don’t frown, dear! Nothing will make me say he was romantic! Not a bit of it! He wrote a lot of romantic things, of course — but he didn’t mean half of them! — I’m sure he didn’t!”

  She coloured indignantly.

  “You say that because you know nothing about it,” she said— “You have not read his writings.”

  “No — and I’m not sure that I want to,” he answered, gaily. “Dear Innocent, you must remember that I was at Oxford — my dear old father and mother scraped and screwed every penny they could get to send me there — and I believe I acquitted myself pretty well — but one of the best things I learned was the general uselessness and vanity of the fellows that called themselves ‘literary.’ They chiefly went in for disparaging and despising everyone who did not agree with them and think just as they did. Mulish prigs, most of them!” and Robin laughed his gay and buoyant laugh once more— “They didn’t know that I was all the time comparing them with the honest type of farmer — the man who lives an outdoor life with God’s air blowing upon him, and the soil turned freshly beneath him! — I love books, too, in my way, but I love Nature better.”

  “And do not poets help you to understand Nature?” asked Innocent.

  “The best of them do — such as Shakespeare and Keats and Tennyson, — but they were of the past. The modern men make you almost despise Nature, — more’s the pity! They are always studying THEMSELVES, and analysing THEMSELVES, and pitying THEMSELVES — now I always say, the less of one’s self the better, in order to understand other people.”

  Innocent’s eyes regarded him with quiet admiration.

  “Yes, you are a thoroughly good boy,” she said— “I have told you so often. But — I’m not sure that I should always get on with anyone as good as you are!”

  She turned away then, and moved towards the house. As she went, she suddenly stopped and clapped her hands, calling:

  “Cupid! Cupid! Cu-COO-pid!”

  A flash of white wings glimmered in the sunset-light, and her pet dove flew to her, circling round and round till it dropped on her outstretched arm. She caught it to her bosom, kissing its soft head tenderly, and murmuring playful words to it. Robin watched her, as with this favourite bird-playmate she disappeared across the garden and into the house. Then he gave a gesture half of despair, half of resignation — and left the orchard.

  The sun sank, and the evening shadows began to steal slowly in their long darkening lines over the quiet fields, and yet Farmer Jocelyn had not yet returned. The women of the household grew anxious — Priscilla went to the door many times, looking up the tortuous by-road for the first glimpse of the expected returning vehicle — and Innocent stood in the garden near the porch, as watchful as a sentinel and as silent. At last the sound of trotting hoofs was heard in the far distance, and Robin, suddenly making his appearance from the stable-yard where he too had been waiting, called cheerily, —

  “Uncle at last! Here he comes!”

  Another few minutes and the mare’s head turned the corner — then the whole dog-cart came into view with Farmer Jocelyn driving it. But he was quite alone.

  Robin and Innocent exchanged surprised glances, but had no time to make any comment as old Hugo just then drove up and, throwing the reins to his nephew, alighted.

  “Aren’t you very late, Dad?” said Innocent then, going to meet him— “I was beginning to be quite anxious!”

  “Were you? Poor little one! I’m all right! I had business — I was kept longer than I expected—” Here he turned quickly to Robin— “Unharness, boy! — unharness! — and come in to supper!”

  “Where’s Landon?” asked Robin.

  “Landon? Oh, I’ve left him in the town.”

  He pulled off his driving-gloves, and unbuttoned his overcoat — then strode into the house. Innocent followed him — she was puzzled by his look and manner, and her heart beat with a vague sense of fear. There was something about the old man that was new and strange to her. She could not define it, but it filled her mind with a curious and inexplicable uneasiness. Priscilla, who was setting the dishes on the table in the room where the cloth was laid for supper, had the same uncomfortable impression when she saw him enter. His face was unusually pale and drawn, and the slight stoop of age in his otherwise upright figure seemed more pronounced than usual. He drew up his chair to the table and sat down, — then ruffling his fine white hair over his brow with one hand, looked round him with an evidently forced smile.

  “Anxious about me, were you, child?” he said, as Innocent took her place beside him. “Well, well! you need not have given me a thought! I — I was all right — all right! I made a bit of a bargain in the town — but the prices were high — and Landon—”

  He broke off suddenly and stared in front of him with strange fixed eyeballs.

  Innocent and Priscilla looked at one another in alarm. There was a moment’s tense stillness, — then Innocent said in rather a trembling voice —

  “Yes, Dad? You were saying something about Landon—”

  The stony glare faded from his eyes and he looked at her with a more natural expression.

  “Landon? Did I speak of him? Oh yes! — Landon met with some fellows he knew and decided to spend the evening with them — he asked me for a night off — and I gave it to him. Yes — I — I gave it to him.”

  Just then Robin entered.

  “Hullo!” he exclaimed, gaily— “At supper? Don’t begin without me! I say, Uncle, is Landon coming back to-night?”

  Jocelyn turned upon him sharply.

  “No!” he answered, in so fierce a tone that Robin stood amazed— “Why do you all keep on asking me about Landon? He loves drink more than life, and he’s having all he wants to-night. I’ve let him off work to-morrow.”

  Robin was silent for a moment out of sheer surprise.

  “Oh well, that’s all right, if you don’t mind,” he said, at last— “We’re pretty busy — but I daresay we can manage without him.”

  “I should think so!” and Hugo gave a short laugh of scorn— “Briar Farm would have come to a pretty pass if it could not get on without a man like Landon!”

  There was another silent pause.

  Priscilla gave an anxious side-glance at Innocent’s troubled face, and decided to relieve the tension by useful commonplace talk.

  “Well, Landon or no Landon, supper’s ready!” she said, briskly— “and it’s been waiting an hour at least. Say grace, Mister Jocelyn, and I’ll carve!”

  Jocelyn looked at her bewilderedly.

  “Say grace?” he queried— “what for?”

  Priscilla laughed loudly to cover the surprise she felt.

  “What for? Lor, Mister Jocelyn, if you don’t know I’m sure I don’t! For the beef and potatoes, I suppose, an’ all the stuff we eats— ‘for what we are going to receive—’”

  “Ah, yes! I remember— ‘May the Lord make us truly thankful!’” responded Jocelyn, closing his eyes for a second and then opening them again— “And I’ll tell you what, Priscilla! — there’s a deal more to be thankful for to-night than beef and potatoes! — a great deal more!”

  CHAPTER VII

  The supper was a very silent meal. Old Hugo was evidently not inclined to converse, — he ate his food quickly, almost raveno
usly, without seeming to be conscious that he was eating. Robin Clifford glanced at him now and again watchfully, and with some anxiety, — an uncomfortable idea that there was something wrong somewhere worried him, — moreover he was troubled by the latent feeling that presently his uncle would be sure to ask if all was “settled” between himself and Innocent. Strangely enough, however, the old man made no allusion to the subject. He seemed to have forgotten it, though it had been the chief matter on which he had laid so much stress that morning. Each minute Innocent expected him to turn upon her with the dreaded question — to which she would have had to reply untruly, according to the plan made between herself and Robin. But to her great surprise and relief he said nothing that conveyed the least hint of the wish he had so long cherished. He was irritable and drowsy, — now and again his head fell a little forward on his chest and his eyes closed as though in utter weariness. Seeing this, the practical Priscilla made haste to get the supper finished and cleared away.

  “You be off to bed, Mister Jocelyn,” she said,— “The sooner the better, for you look as tired as a lame dog that ‘as limped ‘ome twenty miles. You ain’t fit to be racketing about markets an’ drivin’ bargains.”

  “Who says I’m not?” he interrupted, sitting bolt upright and glaring fiercely at her— “I tell you I am! I can do business as well as any man — and drive a bargain-ah! I should think so indeed! — a hard-and-fast bargain! — not easy to get out of, I can tell you! — not easy to get out of! And it has cost me a pretty penny, too!”

  Robin Clifford glanced at him enquiringly.

  “How’s that?” he asked— “You generally make rather than spend!”

  Jocelyn gave a sudden loud laugh.

  “So I do, boy, so I do! But sometimes one has to spend to make! I’ve done both to-day — I’ve made and I’ve spent. And what I’ve spent is better than keeping it — and what I’ve made — ay! — what I’ve made — well! — it’s a bargain, and no one can say it isn’t a fair one!”

  He got up from the supper table and pushed away his chair.

  “I’ll go,” he said— “Priscilla’s right — I’m dog-tired and bed’s the best place for me.” He passed his hand over his forehead. “There’s a sort of buzzing in my brain like the noise of a cart-wheel — I want rest.” As he spoke Innocent came softly beside him and took his arm caressingly. He looked down upon her with a smile. “Yes, wilding, I want rest! We’ll have a long talk out tomorrow — you and I and Robin. Bless thee, child! Good-night!”

  He kissed her tenderly and held out one hand to Clifford, who cordially grasped it.

  “Good boy!” he said-”Be up early, for there’s much to do — and Landon won’t be home till late — no — not till late! Get on with the field work — for if the clouds mean anything we shall have rain.” He paused a moment and seemed to reflect, then repeated slowly— “Yes, lad! We shall have rain! — and wind, and storm! Be ready! — the fine weather’s breaking!”

  With that he went, walking slowly, and they heard him stumble once or twice as he went up the broad oak staircase to his bedroom. Priscilla put her head on one side, like a meditative crow, and listened. Then she heaved a sigh, smoothed down her apron and rolled up her eyes.

  “Well, if Mister Jocelyn worn’t as sober a man as any judge an’ jury,” she observed— “I should say ‘e’d bin drinkin’! But that ain’t it. Mr. Robin, there’s somethin’ gone wrong with ’im — an’ I don’t like it.”

  “Nor I,” said Innocent, in a trembling voice, suggestive of tears. “Oh, Robin, you surely noticed how strange he looked! I’m so afraid! I feel as if something dreadful was going to happen—”

  “Nonsense!” and Robin assumed an air of indifference which he was far from feeling— “Uncle Hugo is tired — I think he has been put out — you know he’s quick-tempered and easily irritated — he may have had some annoyance in the town—”

  “Ah! And where’s Landon?” put in Priscilla, with a dark nod— “That do beat me! Why ever the master should ‘ave let a man like that go on the loose for a night an’ a day is more than I can make out! It’s sort of tempting Providence — that it is!”

  Clifford flushed and turned aside. His fight with Landon was fresh in his mind — and he began to wonder whether he had done rightly in telling his uncle how it came about. But meeting Innocent’s anxious eyes, which mutely asked him for comfort, he answered —

  “Oh, well, there’s nothing very much in that, Priscilla! I daresay Landon wanted a holiday — he doesn’t ask for one often, and he’s kept fairly sober lately. Hadn’t we better be off to bed? Things will straighten out with the morning.”

  “Do you really think so?” Innocent sighed as she put the question.

  “Of course I think so!” answered Robin, cheerily. “We’re all tired, and can’t look on the bright side! Sound sleep is the best cure for the blues! Good-night, Innocent!”

  “Good-night!” she said, gently.

  “Good-night, Priscilla!”

  “Good-night, Mr. Robin. God bless ye!”

  He smiled, nodded kindly to them both, and left the room.

  “There’s a man for ye!” murmured Priscilla, admiringly, as he disappeared— “A tower of strength for a ‘usband, which the Lord knows is rare! Lovey, you’ll never do better!”

  But Innocent seemed not to hear. Her face was very pale, and her eyes had a strained wistful expression.

  “Dad looks very ill,” she said, slowly— “Priscilla, surely you noticed—”

  “Now, child, don’t you worry— ‘tain’t no use” — and Priscilla lit two bedroom candles, giving Innocent one— “You just go up to bed and think of nothing till the morning. Mister Jocelyn is dead beat and put out about something — precious ‘ungry too, for he ate his food as though he hadn’t ‘ad any all day. You couldn’t expect him to be pleasant if he was wore out.”

  Innocent said nothing more. She gave a parting glance round the room to assure herself that everything was tidy, windows bolted and all safe for the night, and for a fleeting moment the impression came over her that she would never see it look quite the same again. A faint cold tremor ran through her delicate little body — she felt lonely and afraid. Silently she followed Priscilla up the beautiful Tudor staircase to the first landing, where, moved by a tender, clinging impulse, she kissed her.

  “Good-night, you dear, kind Priscilla!” she said— “You’ve always been good to me!”

  “Bless you, my lovey!” answered Priscilla, with emotion— “Go and sleep with the angels, like the little angel you are yourself! And mind you think twice, and more than twice, before you say ‘No’ to Mr. Robin!”

  With a deprecatory shake of her head, and a faint smile, Innocent turned away, and passed through the curious tortuous little corridor that led to her own room. Once safely inside that quiet sanctum where the Sieur Amadis of long ago had “found peace,” she set her candle down on the oak table and remained standing by it for some moments, lost in thought. The pale glimmer of the single light was scarcely sufficient to disperse the shadows around her, but the lattice window was open and admitted a shaft of moonlight which shed a pearly radiance on her little figure, clothed in its simple white gown. Had any artist seen her thus, alone and absorbed in sorrowful musing, he might have taken her as a model of Psyche after her god had flown. She was weary and anxious — life had suddenly assumed for her a tragic aspect. Old Jocelyn’s manner had puzzled her — he was unlike himself, and she instinctively felt that he had some secret trouble on his mind. What could it be? she wondered. Not about herself and Robin — for were he as keen on “putting up the banns” as he had been in the morning he would not have allowed the matter to rest. He would have asked straight questions, and he would have expected plain answers, — and they would, in accordance with the secret understanding they had made with each other, have deceived him. Now there was no deception necessary — he seemed to have forgotten — at least for the present — his own dearest desire. With a sigh, half
of pain, half of relief, she seated herself at the table, and opening its one deep drawer with a little key which she always wore round her neck, she began to turn over her beloved pile of manuscript, and this occupied her for several minutes. Presently she looked up, her eyes growing brilliant with thought, and a smile on her lips.

  “I really think it might do!” she said, aloud— “I should not be afraid to try! Who knows what might happen? I can but fail — or succeed. If I fail, I shall have had my lesson — if I succeed—”

  She leaned her head on her two hands, ruffling up her pretty hair into soft golden-brown rings.

  “If I succeed! — ah! — if I do! Then I’ll pay back everything I owe to Dad and Briar Farm! — oh, no! I can never pay back my debt to Briar Farm! — that would be impossible! Why, the very fields and trees and flowers and birds have made me happy! — happier than I shall ever be after I have said good-bye to them all! — good-bye even to the Sieur Amadis!”

  Quick tears sprang to her eyes — and the tapering light of the candle looked blurred and dim.

  “Yes, after all,” she went on, still talking to the air, “it’s better and braver to try to do something in the world, rather than throw myself upon Robin, and be cowardly enough to take him for a husband when I don’t love him. Just for comfort and shelter and Briar Farm! It would be shameful. And I could not marry a man unless I loved him quite desperately! — I could not! I’m not sure that I like the idea of marriage at all, — it fastens a man and woman together for life, and the time might come when they would grow tired of each other. How cruel and wicked it would be to force them to endure each other’s company when they perhaps wished the width of the world between them! No — I don’t think I should care to be married — certainly not to Robin.”

  She put her manuscript by, and shut and locked the drawer containing it. Then she went to the open lattice window and looked out — and thought of the previous night, when Robin had swung himself up on the sill to talk to her, and they had been all unaware that Ned Landon was listening down below. A flush of anger heated her cheeks as she recalled this and all that Robin had told her of the unprepared attack Landon had made upon him and the ensuing fight between them. But now? Was it not very strange that Landon should apparently be in such high favour with Hugo Jocelyn that he had actually been allowed to stay in the market-town and enjoy a holiday, which for him only meant a bout of drunkenness? She could not understand it, and her perplexity increased the more she thought of it. Leaning far out over the window-sill, she gazed long and lovingly across the quiet stretches of meadowland, shining white in the showered splendour of the moon — the tall trees — the infinite and harmonious peace of the whole scene, — then, shutting the lattice, she pulled the curtains across it, and taking her lit candle, went to her secluded inner sleeping-chamber, where, in the small, quaintly carved four-poster bed, furnished with ancient tapestry and lavendered linen, and covered up under a quilt embroidered three centuries back by the useful fingers of the wife of Sieur Amadis de Jocelin, she soon fell into a sound and dreamless slumber.