Chapter I
The
old by–road went rambling down into a dell of deep green shadow. It
was a reprobate of a road,—a vagrant of the land,—having long ago
wandered out of straight and even courses and taken to meandering
aimlessly into many ruts and furrows under arching trees, which in
wet weather poured their weight of dripping rain upon it and made it
little more than a mud pool. Between straggling bushes of elder and
hazel, blackberry and thorn, it made its solitary shambling way, so
sunken into itself with long disuse that neither to the right nor to
the left of it could anything be seen of the surrounding country.
Hidden behind the intervening foliage on either hand were rich
pastures and ploughed fields, but with these the old road had nothing
in common. There were many things better suited to its nature, such
as the melodious notes of the birds which made their homes year after
year amid its bordering thickets, or the gathering together in
springtime of thousands of primroses, whose pale, small, elfin faces
peeped out from every mossy corner,—or the scent of secret violets
in the grass, filling the air with the delicate sweetness of a
breathing made warm by the April sun. Or when the thrill of summer
drew the wild roses running quickly from the earth skyward, twining
their stems together in fantastic arches and tufts of deep pink and
flush–white blossom, and the briony wreaths with their small bright
green stars swung pendent from over–shadowing boughs like garlands
for a sylvan festival. Or the thousands of tiny unassuming herbs
which grew up with the growing speargrass, bringing with them pungent
odours from the soil as from some deep–laid storehouse of precious
spices. These choice delights were the old by–road's peculiar
possession, and through a wild maze of beauty and fragrance it
strayed on with a careless awkwardness, getting more and more
involved in tangles of green,—till at last, recoiling abruptly as
it were upon its own steps, it stopped short at the entrance to a
cleared space in front of a farmyard. With this the old by–road had
evidently no sort of business whatever, and ended altogether, as it
were, with a rough shock of surprise at finding itself in such open
quarters. No arching trees or twining brambles were here,—it was a
wide, clean brick–paved place chiefly possessed by a goodly company
of promising fowls, and a huge cart–horse. The horse was tied to
his manger in an open shed, and munched and munched with all the
steadiness and goodwill of the sailor's wife who offended Macbeth's
first witch. Beyond the farmyard was the farmhouse itself,—a long,
low, timbered building with a broad tiled roof supported by huge
oaken rafters and crowned with many gables,—a building proudly
declaring itself as of the days of Elizabeth's yeomen, and bearing
about it the honourable marks of age and long stress of weather. No
such farmhouses are built nowadays, for life has become with us less
than a temporary thing,—a coin to be spent rapidly as soon as
gained, too valueless for any interest upon it to be sought or
desired. In olden times it was apparently not considered such cheap
currency. Men built their homes to last not only for their own
lifetime, but for the lifetime of their children and their children's
children; and the idea that their children's children might possibly
fail to appreciate the strenuousness and worth of their labours never
entered their simple brains.The
farmyard was terminated at its other end by a broad stone archway,
which showed as in a semi–circular frame the glint of scarlet
geraniums in the distance, and in the shadow cast by this embrasure
was the small unobtrusive figure of a girl. She stood idly watching
the hens pecking at their food and driving away their offspring from
every chance of sharing bit or sup with them,—and as she noted the
greedy triumph of the strong over the weak, the great over the small,
her brows drew together in a slight frown of something like scorn.
Yet hers was not a face that naturally expressed any of the unkind or
harsh emotions. It was soft and delicately featured, and its
rose–white tints were illumined by grave, deeply–set grey eyes
that were full of wistful and questioning pathos. In stature she was
below the middle height and slight of build, so that she seemed a
mere child at first sight, with nothing particularly attractive about
her except, perhaps, her hands. These were daintily shaped and
characteristic of inbred refinement, and as they hung listlessly at
her sides looked scarcely less white than the white cotton frock she
wore. She turned presently with a movement of impatience away from
the sight of the fussy and quarrelsome fowls, and looking up at the
quaint gables of the farmhouse uttered a low, caressing call. A white
dove flew down to her instantly, followed by another and yet another.
She smiled and extended her arms, and a whole flock of the birds came
fluttering about her in a whirl of wings, perching on her shoulders
and alighting at her feet. One that seemed to enjoy a position of
special favouritism, flew straight against her breast,—she caught
it and held it there. It remained with her quite contentedly, while
she stroked its velvety neck."Poor
Cupid!" she murmured. "You love me, don't you? Oh yes, ever
so much! Only you can't tell me so! I'm glad! You wouldn't be half so
sweet if you could!"She
kissed the bird's soft head, and still stroking it scattered all the
others around her by a slight gesture, and went, followed by a snowy
cloud of them, through the archway into the garden beyond. Here there
were flower–beds formally cut and arranged in the old–fashioned
Dutch manner, full of sweet–smelling old–fashioned things, such
as stocks and lupins, verbena and mignonette,—there were
box–borders and clumps of saxifrage, fuchsias, and geraniums,—and
roses that grew in every possible way that roses have ever grown, or
can ever grow. The farmhouse fronted fully on this garden, and a
magnificent "Glory" rose covered it from its deep black
oaken porch to its highest gable, wreathing it with hundreds of pale
golden balls of perfume. A real "old" rose it was, without
any doubt of its own intrinsic worth and sweetness,—a rose before
which the most highly trained hybrids might hang their heads for
shame or wither away with envy, for the air around it was wholly
perfumed with its honey–scented nectar, distilled from peaceful
years upon years of sunbeams and stainless dew. The girl, still
carrying her pet dove, walked slowly along the narrow gravelled paths
that encircled the flower–beds and box–borders, till, reaching a
low green door at the further end of the garden, she opened it and
passed through into a newly mown field, where several lads and men
were about busily employed in raking together the last swaths of a
full crop of hay and adding them to the last waggon which stood in
the centre of the ground, horseless, and piled to an almost toppling
height. One young fellow, with a crimson silk tie knotted about his
open shirt–collar, stood on top of the lofty fragrant load, fork in
hand, tossing the additional heaps together as they were thrown up to
him. The afternoon sun blazed burningly down on his uncovered head
and bare brown arms, and as he shook and turned the hay with untiring
energy, his movements were full of the easy grace and picturesqueness
which are often the unconscious endowment of those whose labour keeps
them daily in the fresh air. Occasional bursts of laughter and scraps
of rough song came from the others at work, and there was only one
absolutely quiet figure among them, that of an old man sitting on an
upturned barrel which had been but recently emptied of its
home–brewed beer, meditatively smoking a long clay pipe. He wore a
smock frock and straw hat, and under the brim of the straw hat, which
was well pulled down over his forehead, his filmy eyes gleamed with
an alert watchfulness. He seemed to be counting every morsel of hay
that was being added to the load and pricing it in his mind, but
there was no actual expression of either pleasure or interest on his
features. As the girl entered the field, and her gown made a gleam of
white on the grass, he turned his head and looked at her, puffing
hard at his pipe and watching her approach only a little less
narrowly than he watched the piling up of the hay. When she drew
sufficiently near him he spoke."Coming
to ride home on last load?"She
hesitated."I
don't know. I'm not sure," she answered."It'll
please Robin if you do," he said.A
little smile trembled on her lips. She bent her head over the dove
she held against her bosom."Why
should I please Robin?" she asked.His
dull eyes sparkled with a gleam of anger."Please
Robin, please ME," he said, sharply—"Please yourself,
please nobody.""I
do my best to please YOU, Dad!" she said, gently, yet with
emphasis.He
was silent, sucking at his pipe–stem. Just then a whistle struck
the air like the near note of a thrush. It came from the man on top
of the haywaggon. He had paused in his labour, and his face was
turned towards the old man and the girl. It was a handsome face,
lighted by a smile which seemed to have caught a reflex of the sun."All
ready, Uncle!" he shouted—"Ready and waiting!"The
old man drew his pipe from his mouth."There
you are!" he said, addressing the girl in a softer tone,—"He's
wanting you."She
moved away at once. As she went, the men who were raking in the last
sweepings of the hay stood aside for her to pass. One of them put a
ladder against the wheel of the waggon."Going
up, miss?" he asked, with a cheerful grin.She
smiled a response, but said nothing.The
young fellow on top of the load looked down. His blue eyes sparkled
merrily as he saw her."Are
you coming?" he called.She
glanced up."If
you like," she answered."If
I like!" he echoed, half–mockingly, half–tenderly; "You
know I like! Why, you've got that wretched bird with you!""He's
not a wretched bird," she said,—"He's a darling!""Well,
you can't climb up here hugging him like that! Let him go,—and then
I'll help you."For
all answer she ascended the ladder lightly without assistance, still
holding the dove, and in another minute was seated beside him."There!"
she said, as she settled herself comfortably down in the soft,
sweet–smelling hay. "Now you've got your wish, and I hope Dad
is happy.""Did
he tell you to come, or did you come of your own accord?" asked
the young man, with a touch of curiosity."He
told me, of course," she answered; "I should never have
come of my own accord."He
bit his lip vexedly. Turning away from her he called to the
haymakers:"That'll
do, boys! Fetch Roger, and haul in!"The
sun was nearing the western horizon and a deep apricot glow warmed
the mown field and the undulating foliage in the far distance. The
men began to scatter here and there, putting aside their long wooden
rakes, and two of them went off to bring Roger, the cart–horse,
from his shed."Uncle
Hugo!"The
old man, who still sat impassively on the beer–barrel, looked up."Ay!
What is it?""Are
you coming along with us?"Uncle
Hugo shook his head despondently."Why
not? It's the last load this year!""Ay!"
He lifted his straw hat and waved it in a kind of farewell salute
towards the waggon, repeating mechanically: "The last load! The
very last!"Then
there came a cessation of movement everywhere for the moment. It was
a kind of breathing pause in Nature's everlasting chorus,—a sudden
rest, as it seemed, in the very spaces of the air. The young man
threw himself down on the hay–load so that he faced the girl, who
sat quiet, caressing the dove she held. He was undeniably
good–looking, with an open nobility of feature which is uncommon
enough among well–born and carefully–nurtured specimens of the
human race, and is perhaps still more rarely to be found among those
whose lot in life is one of continuous hard manual labour. Just now
he looked singularly attractive, the more so, perhaps, because he was
unconscious of it. He stretched out one hand towards the girl and
touched the hem of her white frock."Are
you feeling kind?"Her
eyes lightened with a gleam of merriment."I
am always kind.""Not
to me! Not as kind as you are to that bird.""Oh,
poor Cupid! You're jealous of him!"He
moved a little nearer to her."Perhaps
I am!" And he spoke in a lower tone. "Perhaps I am,
Innocent! I grudge him the privilege of lying there on your dear
little white breast! I am envious when you kiss him! I want you to
kiss ME!"His
voice was tremulous,—he turned up his face audaciously.She
looked at him with a smile."I
will if you like!" she said. "I should think no more of
kissing you than of kissing Cupid!"He
drew back with a gesture of annoyance."I
wouldn't be kissed at all that way," he said, hotly."Why
not?""Because
it's not the right way. A bird is not a man!"She
laughed merrily."Nor
a man a bird, though he may have a bird's name!" she said. "Oh,
Robin, how clever you are!"He
leaned closer."Let
Cupid go!" he pleaded,—"I want to ride home on the last
load with you alone."Another
little peal of laughter escaped her."I
declare you think Cupid an actual person!" she said. "If
he'll go, he shall. But I think he'll stay."She
loosened her hold of the dove, which, released, gravely hopped up to
her shoulder and sat there pruning its wing. She glanced round at it."I
told you so!" she said,—"He's a fixture.""I
don't mind him so much up there," said Robin, and he ventured to
take one of her hands in his own,—"but he always has so much
of you; he nestles under your chin and is caressed by your sweet
lips,—he has all, and I have,—nothing!""You
have one hand," said Innocent, with demure gravity."But
no heart with it!" he said, wistfully. "Innocent, can you
never love me?"She
was silent, looking at him critically,—then she gave a little sigh."I'm
afraid not! But I have often thought about it.""You
have?"—and his eyes grew very tender."Oh
yes, often! You see, it isn't your fault at all. You are—well!"—here
she surveyed him with a whimsical air of admiration,—"you are
quite a beautiful man! You have a splendid figure and a good face,
and kind eyes and well–shaped feet and hands,—and I like the look
of you just now with that open collar and that gleam of sunlight in
your curly hair—and your throat is almost white, except for a touch
of sunburn, which is RATHER becoming!—especially with that crimson
silk tie! I suppose you put that tie on for effect, didn't you?"He
flushed, and laughed lightly."Naturally!
To please YOU!""Really?
How thoughtful of you! Well, you are charming,—and I shouldn't mind
kissing you at all. But it wouldn't be for love.""Wouldn't
it? What would it be for, then?"Her
face lightened up with the illumination of an inward mirth and
mischief."Only
because you look pretty!" she answered.He
threw aside her hand with an angry gesture of impatience."You
want to make a fool of me!" he said, petulantly."I'm
sure I don't! You are just lovely, and I tell you so. That is not
making a fool of you!""Yes,
it is! A man is never lovely. A woman may be.""Well,
I'm not," said Innocent, placidly. "That's why I admire the
loveliness of others.""You
are lovely to me," he declared, passionately.She
smiled. There was a touch of compassion in the smile."Poor
Robin!" she said.At
that moment the hidden goddess in her soul arose and asserted her
claim to beauty. A rare indefinable charm of exquisite tenderness and
fascination seemed to environ her small and delicate personality with
an atmosphere of resistless attraction. The man beside her felt it,
and his heart beat quickly with a thrilling hope of conquest."So
you pity me!" he said,—"Pity is akin to love.""But
kinsfolk seldom agree," she replied. "I only pity you
because you are foolish. No one but a very foolish fellow would think
ME lovely."He
raised himself a little and peered over the edge of the hay–load to
see if there was any sign of the men returning with Roger, but there
was no one in the field now except the venerable personage he called
Uncle Hugo, who was still smoking away his thoughts, as it were, in a
dream of tobacco. And he once more caught the hand he had just let go
and covered it with kisses."There!"
he said, lifting his head and showing an eager face lit by amorous
eyes. "Now you know how lovely you are to me! I should like to
kiss your mouth like that,—for you have the sweetest mouth in the
world! And you have the prettiest hair,—not raw gold which I
hate,—but soft brown, with delicious little sunbeams lost in
it,—and such a lot of it! I've seen it all down, remember! And your
eyes would draw the heart out of any man and send him anywhere,—yes,
Innocent!—anywhere,—to Heaven or to Hell!"She
coloured a little."That's
beautiful talk!" she said,—"It's like poetry, but it
isn't true!""It
is true!" he said, with fond insistence. "And I'll MAKE you
love me!""Ah,
no!" A look of the coldest scorn suddenly passed over her
features—"that's not possible. You could never MAKE me do
anything! And—it's rude of you to speak in such a way. Please let
go my hand!"He
dropped it instantly, and sprang erect."All
right! I'll leave you to yourself,—and Cupid!" Here he laughed
rather bitterly. "What made you give that bird such a name?""I
found it in a book," she answered,—"It's a name that was
given to the god of Love when he was a little boy.""I
know that! Please don't teach me my A.B.C.," said Robin,
half–sulkily.She
leaned back laughing, and singing softly:"Love was once a
little boy,Heigh–ho, Heigh–ho!Then 'twas sweet with
him to toy,Heigh–ho, Heigh–ho!"Her
eyes sparkled in the sun,—a tress of her hair, ruffled by the hay,
escaped and flew like a little web of sunbeams against her cheek. He
looked at her moodily."You
might go on with the song," he said,—"'Love is now a
little man—'""'And
a very naughty one!'" she hummed, with a mischievous upward
glance.Despite
his inward vexation, he smiled."Say
what you like, Cupid is a ridiculous name for a dove," he said."It
rhymes to stupid," she replied, demurely,—"And the rhyme
expresses the nature of the bird and—the god!""Pooh!
You think that clever!""I
don't! I never said a clever thing in my life. I shouldn't know how.
Everything clever has been written over and over again by people in
books.""Hang
books!" he exclaimed. "It's always books with you! I wish
we had never found that old chest of musty volumes in the panelled
room.""Do
you? Then you are sillier than I thought you were. The books taught
me all I know,—about love!""About
love! You don't know what love means!" he declared, trampling
the hay he stood upon with impatience. "You read and read, and
you get the queerest ideas into your head, and all the time the world
goes on in ways that are quite different from what YOU are thinking
about,—and lovers walk through the fields and lanes everywhere near
us every year, and you never appear to see them or to envy them—""Envy
them!" The girl opened her eyes wide. "Envy them! Oh,
Cupid, hear! Envy them! Why should I envy them? Who could envy Mr.
and Mrs. Pettigrew?""What
nonsense you talk!" he exclaimed,—"Mr. and Mrs. Pettigrew
are married folk, not lovers!""But
they were lovers once," she said,—"and only three years
ago. I remember them, walking through the lanes and fields as you
say, with arms round each other,—and Mrs. Pettigrew's hands were
always dreadfully red, and Mr. Pettigrew's fingers were always
dirty,—and they married very quickly,—and now they've got two
dreadful babies that scream all day and all night, and Mrs.
Pettigrew's hair is never tidy and Pettigrew himself—well, you know
what he does!—""Gets
drunk every night," interrupted Robin, crossly,—"I know!
And I suppose you think I'm another Pettigrew?""Oh
dear, no!" And she laughed with the heartiest merriment. "You
never could, you never would be a Pettigrew! But it all comes to the
same thing—love ends in marriage, doesn't it?""It
ought to," said Robin, sententiously."And
marriage ends—in Pettigrews!""Innocent!""Don't
say 'Innocent' in that reproachful way! It makes me feel quite
guilty! Now,—if you talk of names,—THERE'S a name to give a poor
girl,—Innocent! Nobody ever heard of such a name—""You're
wrong. There were thirteen Popes named Innocent between the years 402
and 1724," said Robin, promptly,—"and one of them,
Innocent the Eleventh, is a character in Browning's 'Ring and the
Book.'""Dear
me!" And her eyes flashed provocatively. "You astound me
with your wisdom, Robin! But all the same, I don't believe any girl
ever had such a name as Innocent, in spite of thirteen Popes. And
perhaps the Thirteen had other names?""They
had other baptismal names," he explained, with a learned air.
"For instance, Pope Innocent the Third was Cardinal Lothario
before he became Pope, and he wrote a book called 'De Contemptu Mundi
sive de Miseria Humanae Conditionis!'"She
looked at him as he uttered the sonorous sounding Latin, with a
comically respectful air of attention, and then laughed like a
child,—laughed till the tears came into her eyes."Oh
Robin, Robin!" she cried—"You are simply delicious! The
most enchanting boy! That crimson tie and that Latin! No wonder the
village girls adore you! 'De,'—what is it? 'Contemptu Mundi,' and
Misery Human Conditions! Poor Pope! He never sat on top of a hay–load
in his life I'm sure! But you see his name was Lothario,—not
Innocent.""His
baptismal name was Lothario," said Robin, severely.She
was suddenly silent."Well!
I suppose I
was baptised?" she queried, after a pause."I
suppose so.""I
wonder if I have any other name? I must ask Dad."Robin
looked at her curiously;—then his thoughts were diverted by the
sight of a squat stout woman in a brown spotted print gown and white
sunbonnet, who just then trotted briskly into the hay–field,
calling at the top of her voice:"Mister
Jocelyn! Mister Jocelyn! You're wanted!""There's
Priscilla calling Uncle in," he said, and making a hollow of his
hands he shouted:"Hullo,
Priscilla! What is it?"The
sunbonnet gave an upward jerk in his direction and the wearer
shrilled out:"Doctor's
come! Wantin' yer Uncle!"The
old man, who had been so long quietly seated on the upturned barrel,
now rose stiffly, and knocking out the ashes of his pipe turned
towards the farmhouse. But before he went he raised his straw hat
again and stood for a moment bareheaded in the roseate glory of the
sinking sun. Innocent sprang upright on the load of hay, and standing
almost at the very edge of it, shaded her eyes with one hand from the
strong light, and looked at him."Dad!"
she called—"Dad, shall I come?"He
turned his head towards her."No,
lass, no! Stay where you are, with Robin."He
walked slowly, and with evident feebleness, across the length of the
field which divided him from the farmhouse garden, and opening the
green gate leading thereto, disappeared. The sun–bonneted
individual called Priscilla walked or rather waddled towards the
hay–waggon, and setting her arms akimbo on her broad hips, looked
up with a grin at the young people on top."Well!
Ye're a fine couple up there! What are ye a–doin' of?""Never
mind what we're doing," said Robin, impatiently. "I say,
Priscilla, do you think Uncle Hugo is really ill?"Priscilla's
face, which was the colour of an ancient nutmeg, and almost as deeply
marked with contrasting lines of brown and yellow, showed no emotion."He
ain't hisself," she said, bluntly."No,"
said Innocent, seriously,—"I'm sure he isn't." Priscilla
jerked her sunbonnet a little further back, showing some tags of
dusty grey hair."He
ain't been hisself for this past year," she went on—"Mr.
Slowton, bein' only a kind of village physic–bottle, don't know
much, an' yer uncle ain't bin satisfied. Now there's another doctor
from London staying up 'ere for 'is own poor 'elth, and yer Uncle
said he'd like to 'ave 'is opinion,—so Mr. Slowton, bein' obligin'
though ignorant, 'as got 'im in to see yer Uncle, and there they both
is, in the best parlour, with special wine an' seedies on the table.""Oh,
it'll be all right!" said Robin, cheerfully,—"Uncle Hugo
is getting old, of course, and he's a bit fanciful."Priscilla
sniffed the air."Mebbe—and
mebbe not! What are you two waitin' for now?""For
the men to come back with Roger. Then we'll haul home.""You'll
'ave to wait a bit longer, I'm thinkin'," said Priscilla—"They's
all drinkin' beer in the yard now an' tappin' another barrel to drink
at when the waggon comes in. There's no animals on earth as ever
thirsty as men! Well, good luck t'ye! I must go, or there'll be a
smell of burnin' supper–cakes."She
settled her sunbonnet anew and trotted away,—looking rather like a
large spotted mushroom mysteriously set in motion and rolling, rather
than walking, off the field.When
she was gone, Innocent sat down again upon the hay, this time without
Cupid. He had flown off to join his mates on the farmhouse gables."Dad
is really not well," she said, thoughtfully; "I feel
anxious about him. If he were to die,—" At the mere thought
her eyes filled with tears. "He must die some day,"
answered Robin, gently,—"and he's old,—nigh on eighty.""Oh,
I don't want to remember that," she murmured. "It's the
cruellest part of life—that people should grow old, and die, and
pass away from us. What should I do without Dad? I should be all
alone, with no one in the world to care what becomes of me.""I
care!" he said, softly."Yes,
you care—just now"—she answered, with a sigh; "and it's
very kind of you. I wish I could care—in the way you want me
to—but—""Will
you try?" he pleaded."I
do try—really I do try hard," she said, with quite a piteous
earnestness,—"but I can't feel what isn't HERE,"—and
she pressed both hands on her breast—"I care more for Roger
the horse, and Cupid the dove, than I do for you! It's quite awful of
me—but there it is! I love—I simply adore"—and she threw
out her arms with an embracing gesture—"all the trees and
plants and birds!—and everything about the farm and the farmhouse
itself—it's just the sweetest home in the world! There's not a
brick or a stone in it that I would not want to kiss if I had to
leave it—but I never felt that way for you! And yet I like you
very, very much, Robin!—I wish I could see you married to some nice
girl, only I don't know one really nice enough.""Nor
do I!" he answered, with a laugh, "except yourself! But
never mind, dear!—we won't talk of it any more, just now at any
rate. I'm a patient sort of chap. I can wait!""How
long?" she queried, with a wondering glance."All
my life!" he answered, simply.A
silence fell between them. Some inward touch of embarrassment
troubled the girl, for the colour came and went flatteringly in her
soft cheeks and her eyes drooped under his fervent gaze. The glowing
light of the sky deepened, and the sun began to sink in a mist of
bright orange, which was reflected over all the visible landscape
with a warm and vivid glory. That strange sense of beauty and mystery
which thrills the air with the approach of evening, made all the
simple pastoral scene a dream of incommunicable loveliness,—and the
two youthful figures, throned on their high dais of golden–green
hay, might have passed for the rustic Adam and Eve of some newly
created Eden. They were both very quiet,—with the tense quietness
of hearts that are too full for speech. A joy in the present was
shadowed with a dim unconscious fear of the future in both their
thoughts,—though neither of them would have expressed their
feelings in this regard one to the other. A thrush warbled in a hedge
close by, and the doves on the farmhouse gables spread their white
wings to the late sunlight, cooing amorously. And again the man
spoke, with a gentle firmness:"All
my life I shall love you, Innocent! Whatever happens, remember that!
All my life!"