Innocent : her fancy and his fact Part 14

There was something not quite natural in the tone of his voice, and she glanced up at him in a little surprise.

"Well, what are you wondering at?" he demanded, a trifle testily--"You need not open your eyes at me like that!"

She smiled faintly.

"Did I open my eyes, Dad?" she said--"I did not mean to be curious. I only thought--"

"You only thought what?" he asked, with sudden heat--"What did you think?"

"Oh, just about your being away all day in the town--you will be so tired--"

"Tired? Not I!--not when there's work to do and business to settle!" He rubbed his hands together with a kind of energetic expectancy. "Work to do and business to settle!" he repeated--"Yes, little girl! There's not much time before me, and I must leave everything in good order for you and Robin."

She dropped her head, and the expression of her face was hidden from him.

"You and Robin!" he said, again. "Ay, ay! Briar Farm will be in the best of care when I'm dead, and it'll thrive well with young love and hope to keep it going!" He came up to her and took one of her little hands in his own. "There, there!" he went on, patting it gently--"We'll think no more of trouble and folly and mistakes in life; it'll be all joy and peace for you, child! Take G.o.d's good blessing of an honest lad's love and be happy with it! And when I come home to-night,"--he paused and appeared to think for a moment--"yes!--when I come home, let me hear that it's all clear and straight between you--and we'll have the banns put up on Sunday!"

She said not a word in answer. Her hand slid pa.s.sively from his hold,--and she never looked up. He hesitated for a moment--then walked towards the door.

"You'll have all the day to yourself with Robin," he added, glancing back at her--"There'll be no spies about the place, and no one listening, as there was last night!"

She sprang up from her chair, moved at last by an impulse of indignation.

"Who was it?" she asked--"I said nothing wrong--and I do not care!--but who was it?"

A curious strained look came into old Hugo's eyes as he answered--

"Ned Landon."

She looked amazed,--then scared.

"Ned Landon?"

"Ay! Ned Landon. He hasn't the sweetest of tempers and he isn't always sober. He's a bit in the way sometimes,--ay, ay!--a bit in the way! But he's a good farm hand for all that,--and his word stands for something!

I'd rather he hadn't heard you and Robin talking last night--but what's done is done, and it's a mischief easy mended--"

"Why, what mischief can there be?" the girl demanded, her colour coming and going quickly--"And why should he have listened? It's a mean trick to spy upon others!"

He smiled indulgently.

"Of course it's a mean trick, child!--but there's a good many men--and women too--who are just made up of mean tricks and nothing more. They spend their lives in spying upon their neighbours and interfering in everybody's business. You'd soon find that out, my girl, if you lived in the big world that lies outside Briar Farm! Ay!--and that reminds me--" Here he came from the door back into the room again, and going to a quaint old upright oaken press that stood in one corner, he unlocked it and took out a roll of bank-notes. These he counted carefully over to himself, and folding them up put them away in his breast pocket.

"Now I'm ready!" he said--"Ready for all I've got to do! Good-bye, my wilding!" He approached her, and lifting her small face between his hands, kissed it tenderly. "Bless thee! No child of my own could be dearer than thou art! All I want now is to leave thee in safe and gentle keeping when I die. Think of this and be good to Robin!"

She trembled under his caress, and her heart was full of speechless sorrow. She longed to yield to his wishes,--she knew that if she did so she would give him happiness and greater resignation to the death which confronted him; and she also knew that if she could make up her mind to marry Robin Clifford she would have the best and the tenderest of husbands. And Briar Farm,--the beloved old home--would be hers!--her very own! Her children would inherit it and play about the fair and fruitful fields as she had done--they, too, could be taught to love the memory of the old knight, the Sieur Amadis de Jocelin--ah!--but surely it was the spirit of the Sieur Amadis himself that held her back and prevented her from doing his name and memory grievous wrong! She was not of his blood or race--she was nameless and illegitimate,--no good could come of her engrafting herself like a weed upon a branch of the old n.o.ble stock--the farm would cease to prosper.

So she thought and so she felt, in her dreamy imaginative way, and though she allowed old Hugo to leave her without vexing him by any decided opposition to his plans, she was more than ever firmly resolved to abide by her own interior sense of what was right and fitting. She heard the wheels of the dog-cart grating the gravel outside the garden gate, and an affectionate impulse moved her to go and see her "Dad"

off. As she made her appearance under the rose-covered porch of the farm-house door, she perceived Landon, who at once pulled off his cap with an elaborate and exaggerated show of respect.

"Good-morning, Miss Jocelyn!"

He emphasized the surname with a touch of malice. She coloured, but replied "Good-morning" with a sweet composure. He eyed her askance, but had no opportunity for more words, as old Hugo just then clambered up into the dog-cart, and took the reins of the rather skittish young mare which was harnessed to it.

"Come on, Landon!" he shouted, impatiently--"No time for farewells!"

Then, as Landon jumped up beside him, he smiled, seeing the soft, wistful face of the girl watching him from beneath a canopy of roses.

"Take care of the house while I'm gone!" he called to her;--"You'll find Robin in the orchard."

He laid the lightest flick of the whip on the mare's ears, and she trotted rapidly away.

Innocent stood a moment gazing after the retreating vehicle till it disappeared,--then she went slowly into the house. Robin was in the orchard, was he? Well!--he had plenty of work to do there, and she would not disturb him. She turned away from the suns.h.i.+ne and flowers and made her way upstairs to her own room. How quiet and reposeful it looked! It was a beloved shrine, full of sweet memories and dreams,--there would never be any room like it in the world for her, she well knew. Listlessly she sat down at the table, and turned over the pages of an old book she had been reading, but her eyes were not upon it.

"I wonder!" she said, half aloud--then paused.

The thought in her mind was too daring for utterance. She was picturing the possibility of going quietly away from Briar Farm all alone, and trying to make a name and career for herself through the one natural gift she fancied she might possess, a gift which nowadays is considered almost as common as it was once admired and rare. To be a poet and romancist,--a weaver of wonderful thoughts into musical language,--this seemed to her the highest of all attainment; the proudest emperor of the most powerful nation on earth was, to her mind, far less than Shakespeare,--and inferior to the simplest French lyrist of old time that ever wrote a "chanson d'amour." But the doubt in her mind was whether she, personally, had any thoughts worth expressing,--any ideas which the world might be the happier or the better for knowing and sharing? She drew a long breath,--the warm colour flushed her cheeks and then faded, leaving her very pale,--the whole outlook of her life was so barren of hope or promise that she dared not indulge in any dream of brighter days. On the face of it, there seemed no possible chance of leaving Briar Farm without some outside a.s.sistance--she had no money, and no means of obtaining any. Then,--even supposing she could get to London, she knew no one there,--she had no friends.

Sighing wearily, she opened a deep drawer in the table at which she sat, and took out a ma.n.u.script--every page of it so neatly written as to be almost like copper-plate--and set herself to reading it steadily.

There were enough written sheets to make a good-sized printed volume--and she read on for more than an hour. When she lifted her eyes at last they were eager and luminous.

"Perhaps," she half whispered--"perhaps there is something in it after all!--something just a little new and out of the ordinary--but--how shall I ever know!"

Putting the ma.n.u.script by with a lingering care, she went to the window and looked out. The peaceful scene was dear and familiar--and she already felt a premonition of the pain she would have to endure in leaving so sweet and safe a home. Her thoughts gradually recurred to the old trouble--Robin, and Robin's love for her,--Robin, who, if she married him, would spend his life gladly in the effort to make her happy,--where in the wide world would she find a better, truer-hearted man? And yet--a curious reluctance had held her back from him, even when she had believed herself to be the actual daughter of Hugo Jocelyn,--and now--now, when she knew she was nothing but a stray foundling, deserted by her own parents and left to the care of strangers, she considered it would be nothing short of shame and disgrace to him, were she to become his wife.

"I can always be his friend," she said to herself--"And if I once make him understand clearly how much better it is for us to be like brother and sister, he will see things in the right way. And when he marries I am sure to be fond of his wife and children--and--and--it will be ever so much happier for us all! I'll go and talk to him now."

She ran downstairs and out across the garden, and presently made a sudden appearance in the orchard--a little vision of white among the russet-coloured trees with their burden of reddening apples. Robin was there alone--he was busied in putting up a st.u.r.dy prop under one of the longer branches of a tree heavily laden with fruit. He saw her and smiled--but went on with his work.

"Are you very busy?" she asked, approaching him almost timidly.

"Just now, yes! In a moment, no! We shall lose this big bough in the next high wind if I don't take care."

She waited--watching the strength and dexterity of his hands and arms, and the movements of his light muscular figure. In a little while he had finished all he had to do--and turning to her said, laughingly--

"Now I am at your service! You look very serious!--grave as a little judge, and quite reproachful! What have I done?--or what has anybody done that you should almost frown at me on this bright sun-s.h.i.+ny morning?"

She smiled in response to his gay, questioning look.

"I'm sorry I have such a depressing aspect," she said--"I don't feel very happy, and I suppose my face shows it."

He was silent for a minute or two, watching her with a grave tenderness in his eyes.

By and by he spoke, gently--

"Come and stroll about a bit with me through the orchard,--it will cheer you to see the apples hanging in such rosy cl.u.s.ters among the grey-green leaves. Nothing prettier in all the world, I think!--and they are just ripening enough to be fragrant. Come, dear! Let us talk our troubles out!"

She walked by his side, mutely--and they moved slowly together under the warm scented boughs, through which the sunlight fell in broad streams of gold, making the interlacing shadows darker by contrast.

There was a painful throbbing in her throat,--the tension of struggling tears which strove for an outlet,--but gradually the sweet influences of the air and suns.h.i.+ne did good work in calming her nerves, and she was quite composed when Robin spoke again.

"You see, dear, I know quite well what is worrying you. I'm worried myself--and I'd better tell you all about it. Last night--" he paused.

She looked up at him, quickly.